This morning I taught the upper class Sunday School and the audible crickets when I asked the children what they were thankful for or what was good in their lives were deafening. We were reading from Philippians 4:8, "Summing it all up, friends, I'd say you'll do best by filling your minds and meditating on things true, noble, reputable, authentic, compelling, gracious- the best, not the worst; the beautiful, not the ugly; things to praise, not things to curse." So, like any good teacher, I thought I'd pose a question to the kids. Of course, I underestimated the power of the Kenyan classroom on their minds: learn some new facts, answer when an adult asks you to recall the facts, and do not share your personal opinions. The crickets should have come as no surprise.
These kids certainly know how to be grateful; some of them just don't have practice at thinking openly and imaginatively with adults. So, I gave them a gratitude assignment for the week. But, as I reflect on this morning's devotional failure, I realize that I'm asking the children to do something that I desperately need to do for myself this week.
This world is full of hard and sad things. The news and social media are a constant reminder of this fact. Some of the relationships I witness and the stereotypes that I hear Kenyans say about themselves are sad and depressing to me. I want to reinforce worth in each person I meet. If I had a superpower, it would be to absorb people's pain and exchange it for something beautiful. But, this is the Lord's job, not mine. We're human and suffering comes with the territory. Unfortunately, it tends to take centre stage in our minds when we're going through it.
I realize that I haven't updated this blog since I sent out what felt like a desperate plea for prayer. Could this post be filled with the things that are hard here? Of course it could. I'm human and constantly processing. And, just like the average person, it seems like the hard things cloud my vision weekly, particularly because I'm processing this experience as a North American alone.
But, there are incredibly beautiful things that I need to meditate on because my weeks are growing short here and despite what my mind keeps telling me, there has been progress.
Let's start with school devotions. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, our school has a morning assembly. It has its routines and procedures: Grades 6, 7, and 8 take turns leading songs, prayer, and a scripture. I think this has become so habitual and second nature to the students that the content sometimes can lack helpful substance. Pretty much each person who leads it rattles off their scripture quickly, one class leader says some variation of, "Good morning, school. I have a few notes for you. Obey your teachers, do your homework, and stay disciplined", and a prayer is half-whispered/half-muttered before the class embarrassingly returns to their line in the crowd. A few weeks ago, one Grade 7 girl stepped forward to read her scripture for us and I can't remember if it was Romans 6:23 or 3:23 that she read, but it doesn't really matter which one it was because she only read the disheartening first part, "For the wages of sin is death." I was ready to quote the rest with her, "But the... (pause- silence) gift? of God? is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord?" No such luck- her class quickly shuffled off of the platform and took their place again in the crowd. I smirked to myself, "Nothing like a little hope to start off our week..."
The progress? Finally this Friday, one of the Grade 6 girls read a beautiful scripture about God's care and love for us. Not that everything is perfect and unforced in our morning assemblies. This Friday, one of the harshest teachers was lecturing students on doing better in their homework so that they could succeed on their final tests in the next few weeks. She ended her speech by saying, "Remember, I love you." One Grade 4 boy responded in rote: "I love you too" and then looked around shyly when he realized he was the only one. It was really cute and all the kids giggled. When the next teacher came up and gave his spiel, he also prompted, "Remember, I love you." When there was dead silence again, he repeated himself and the reluctant chorus was returned, "I love you too." I teased the teacher about forcing inauthentic responses from the kids and he laughed.
Things that are authentic and true are the completely unabashed ways children love you.
Now, it is true that children tend to be the most blunt and honest of our species. This week a little girl (that I've never met before) from another local school came up to me on the street and said, "Excuse me. A boy in my class says you are as fat as a pig."
Inner voice: "Excuse me, Rainman, that's neither true nor helpful. Pigs are not nearly as tall as me nor have the beautiful hips I have."
Outer voice: "Well, that's not a kind thing to say to a complete stranger. If someone tells you something that isn't kind, you should keep it to yourself or throw it away." She didn't have any clue how to respond to that and I wondered if maybe she didn't really know what she was saying to me, at least not in a North American context. Maybe pigs are pristine, beautiful, well-endowed godlike creatures here. No? Just let me have it.
But, the children I know in town, the ones I teach, can say the most promising and beautiful things. They sit in rapt attention when I tell them that they're valued and loved and created from the mind of God. Their eyes grow wide when I remind them that everyone in their class is created in the image of God and they have no right to hit, abuse, or belittle one of God's creations. They wave after me when I walk home and they pile in the bus. They run after me if they see me on a trail. And they tell me that maybe I won't go home soon. Maybe I'll stay forever.
Things that are gracious here are the way the children rally around Johnny, the 2nd grader with a physical disability. They laugh and play together, try to maneuver his wheelchair across the bumpy lawn or walk with him when he's practicing moving on his own. Our little girl with CF played catch with him for half an hour and giggled with him over his successes and failures.
Sometimes graciousness is the reminder to teachers that they are dealing with children created in the image of God. Sometimes, it's reminding them that it's not true that African children are unable to learn unless you hit them. Sometimes it's praying as hard as you can in the face of their anger and frustration and calling out more in them. And sometimes, God's graciousness is finding out that even though teachers will verbally cling to their "duty" to beat children that they are actually hitting the kids less and less often and some not at all anymore.
When I think about things that are noble and compelling in this season of life, my mind often is drawn back to Abba's House. I think my heart sometimes could burst when I think about how much I love those children and want to keep them forever. I'm my mother's daughter, so of course I don't have favourites. But, one little girl who tugs at my heart all the time is Grace. She is so happy-go-lucky, eager to please, and loving. Last week, she had her hair braided by one of the older girls in the children's home. I know it can be painful. When she wandered into the living room later that evening, tears rimmed her eyes without spilling. I called her over and held her in my lap. She would glance away into empty space, trying not to cry as I rubbed her back. Every time she looked over at me, she would smile reassuringly and then look away to deal with her pain in silence. I wish I could hold her forever and take away memories that are sad or absorb her physical pain. But, all I can do is sit with her and let her know that she's loved and held and not alone. She's changed so much in the year since I've met her. Her eyes don't always carry the weight of the world in them and she's a lot more confident and carefree than she was last summer. I know this is because she's surrounded by people who affirm who she is and make her feel like she's part of a family.
Benson is my other little shadow sometimes. He's such a tactile little boy and often I find his hand inching over to squeeze or rub my arm. Yesterday, he kneaded my leg while I explained a game that we were playing. It was funny and part of his love language, I think. This home is one of the only places I know where I don't tire from people needing me or touching me. It's unlike the year that I taught Kindergarten where my daily desire was to go home in silence and not be touched. My patience and energy were being required and tested and needed all day long during that teaching assignment. But, this is different. These are children who don't require much, but to whom I wish I could give the world.
And the adults that have become my friends and only support system in Kenya are found at this children's home nestled up in the hillside. This is my place of peace. On Saturday, in between teaching the children there and making mandazi with a few of my friends, I sat on the front porch, letting the rare sunshine warm my face and resolve. This has been a place of grace- somewhere where I get to see the values of Philippians 4:8 lived out. A place that gives me hope and encouragement because I see loving and patient adults pouring value into Kenyan children. My time left is dwindling. I'm ready to come home, but I don't know how to leave behind people that I love. So, I'm giving myself the same homework that I gave the children here this week. And, perhaps I'm not the only one who needs to be reminded to take stock of what is pure, lovely, and beautiful this week.
Sunday, 1 July 2018
Saturday, 9 June 2018
Lessons in Staying
It wasn't until I was around 30 years-old that I identified one of my core values as commitment. If I had been paying close attention to my history, I would have named it early on in life, somewhere around Grade 9 and volleyball practices. Now I know it's hard to imagine, given my affinity for sweat and muscle cramps now, but at one time exercise and I were not the best of friends. As a child, the only things that could motivate me out of doors and away from a good book were friends, a body of water, my imagination, or parental compulsion. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that my primary reason for playing volleyball throughout high school was that it involved hanging out with most of my girlfriends after school or for road trips. And it also fulfilled my other great love in life: being part of a team. But, it came at great personal cost- physical activity. Running lines after school was not exactly my idea of a good time and every night after practice I'd drag my heaving lungs and tired body home crying and swearing to myself that I wasn't coming back tomorrow. The irksome thing was that my desire not to quit was greater than my disdain for exercise and burning lungs.
I'm not a quitter. If I say I'll do something, I usually will put aside my own personal comfort or desires in order to accomplish it. This has sometimes been to the detriment of my health and wellbeing when I overcommit to things. But, these last few weeks, I've been grateful that God hard-wired me this way.
I think before I came to Kenya, I had a naive view of living overseas and doing missions. I knew some things may be uncomfortable or lonely, but I never thought I'd have the urge to leave. I'm only here for 5 months and, logically, I can constantly remind myself of that but it's funny the things the mind can tell us when we keep hitting the same brick wall. That personal brick wall has been the differences in classroom management and discipline between home and here. Even though it has recently been outlawed to beat a child in school, it is still a common practice in most schools here. I found this out my first few weeks here, but since I had never seen a child being hit, I thought perhaps our teachers didn't do it.
But three weeks ago, I began to see the evidence of children who are struck in schools. I could hear children crying and protesting and began having conversations on alternatives to striking them. I saw the way the children treated each other, their aggression, sneakiness, and lack of unity as they are all too happy when someone else suffers a blow and not them. Unfortunately, I'm all-too-familiar with this kind of behaviour. I know the lack of character that can be developed when children are disciplined too harshly, instead of being discipled. And listening to the sound of children crying, being called names, and a stick hitting the soft flesh of palms several times throughout the day is my own personal form of hell.
The thing is, I like my coworkers. I can see the effective and good things they are doing in their classrooms. I enjoy talking with them and learning more about their culture. But I detest this aspect of their teaching practice and for the last week I've wanted to leave. Not just leave the school, but come back home to people who share more of my values, to my freedom and autonomy, to a classroom that is familiar in its joys and frustrations.
When I reached my lowest point this week, I texted my sister and got the most helpful reply anyone could have given me. God put the words in her mouth that I needed most then. They weren't words of comfort and understanding and they weren't harsh either. They were words of purpose. She reminded me that God had equipped me with what I needed for this season of my life, that it made sense to want to run from it, but this was the time to dig in deeper. She reminded me of the story of Esther. And it gave me the encouragement and empowerment to once again step back, invite God into this lonely, frustrating place and let him use me. I'm here for a reason and- not to go all Christy Huddleston on you- I would have given up if it weren't for the children: "I came here to teach, but everyday they show me that I'm here to learn."
I think the greatest thing that God has been teaching me the last three weeks is to live in the tension between loving people and hating what they do. That tension is, at times, uncomfortable because it involves not pulling away when you want to most. I had been so confident walking into week 4 that I was finally acclimating and connecting, but when things began to go awry, I allowed my distress and disappointment to get in the way. As the well-known maxim goes: You can't control everything that happens to you, but you can control how you react to it. And my reaction mid-week wasn't great. I finally had lost my patience with the same conversations and no change and I told a coworker who was joking about hitting the children to make them smile for a music performance that I was done. It needed to stop and it was making me want to leave. Then I left as soon as the bell rang, took the long way, and cried on my walk home. I asked God to please intervene.
And I ugly cried when I got home. I hate confrontation and that was the most confrontational that I usually get with people outside of my family. I was proud of finally being direct, but angry and dealing with shame at not just being able to grit my teeth and speak lovingly and gently when I was most frustrated. I felt my humanity acutely. But after I was done with my pity-party, I plugged in my phone and the first thing that popped up was a text from a stranger. She's a teacher in town who had been asked by two of my acquaintances to get in touch with me. In good melodramatic Jennifer fashion, I flopped back on my bed and cried tears of gratitude. God's timing is so perfect. I've been trying for weeks to connect with an ex-pat and to no avail. I knew that He was taking care of me, just like He has throughout this entire experience.
Maybe I'm here to encourage the teachers and maybe it's just the students I'm here to encourage. Maybe my mantra to them to not touch each others' bodies without permission will translate to treating their and others' bodies with respect. Perhaps all they will remember was one strange mzungu who told them that their stories mattered. And perhaps they'll never remember me, but hopefully I will be one quiet voice in the students' minds years from now that tells them that they are lovingly created and perfectly loved. After all, if I leave here without being the hands and feet of God, then why am I here?
So, this weekend I've taken a reprieve from overcommitment and have committed to rest and prayer and reading. I've listened to sermons that pointed me to my purpose. And I've had the privilege of finding free WIFI, drinking good coffee, and pouring my heart out through the written word once again.
Although the following portion from a sermon I listened to today is a bit out of context, I found myself applying it to my experiences of late. Hopefully it will offer you some encouragement too: "That's essentially the offence/the stumbling block of the gospel: to humble yourself before God...Paul writes that... the Gospel will be a stumbling block to people. But what he advocates and argues in this text [1 Corinthians11], as well as in many other texts...is outside of the stumbling block or offence of the gospel, if you can remove an obstacle, then do whatever you can to remove that obstacle so that others might see Jesus more clearly. Why would they see Jesus more clearly? In you removing obstacles? Because, in doing that, you are preferring one another. And isn't that what the gospel is all about? Jesus coming down- not out of self-preference- but out of preference for you and for me and for our world and preferring the needs of us sinners over Himself...It [means] dying to self. It [means] having to do some work. It means having to do something that you're not comfortable doing. It means having to be generous when you don't feel like being generous. It means having to kill a comfort area of your life that you don't want to get rid of. And, yet again, why on earth is that a good thing for you and for the gospel? Because that's exactly what Jesus did for us. The whole beauty, the whole goodness of the gospel is that He removed every single obstacle to Himself, except for one. The one thing that got us here in the first place; that is, the issue of pride. Of choosing self as god over Him" (Clint Nelson).
Feeling ungenerous: Check.
Tired: Check.
Uncomfortable: Check.
Feeling utterly human and in need of God's grace: Check.
I guess that means I'm in the right place. So, if you think of me this week, please pray. I have some digging in and staying to do.
I'm not a quitter. If I say I'll do something, I usually will put aside my own personal comfort or desires in order to accomplish it. This has sometimes been to the detriment of my health and wellbeing when I overcommit to things. But, these last few weeks, I've been grateful that God hard-wired me this way.
I think before I came to Kenya, I had a naive view of living overseas and doing missions. I knew some things may be uncomfortable or lonely, but I never thought I'd have the urge to leave. I'm only here for 5 months and, logically, I can constantly remind myself of that but it's funny the things the mind can tell us when we keep hitting the same brick wall. That personal brick wall has been the differences in classroom management and discipline between home and here. Even though it has recently been outlawed to beat a child in school, it is still a common practice in most schools here. I found this out my first few weeks here, but since I had never seen a child being hit, I thought perhaps our teachers didn't do it.
But three weeks ago, I began to see the evidence of children who are struck in schools. I could hear children crying and protesting and began having conversations on alternatives to striking them. I saw the way the children treated each other, their aggression, sneakiness, and lack of unity as they are all too happy when someone else suffers a blow and not them. Unfortunately, I'm all-too-familiar with this kind of behaviour. I know the lack of character that can be developed when children are disciplined too harshly, instead of being discipled. And listening to the sound of children crying, being called names, and a stick hitting the soft flesh of palms several times throughout the day is my own personal form of hell.
The thing is, I like my coworkers. I can see the effective and good things they are doing in their classrooms. I enjoy talking with them and learning more about their culture. But I detest this aspect of their teaching practice and for the last week I've wanted to leave. Not just leave the school, but come back home to people who share more of my values, to my freedom and autonomy, to a classroom that is familiar in its joys and frustrations.
When I reached my lowest point this week, I texted my sister and got the most helpful reply anyone could have given me. God put the words in her mouth that I needed most then. They weren't words of comfort and understanding and they weren't harsh either. They were words of purpose. She reminded me that God had equipped me with what I needed for this season of my life, that it made sense to want to run from it, but this was the time to dig in deeper. She reminded me of the story of Esther. And it gave me the encouragement and empowerment to once again step back, invite God into this lonely, frustrating place and let him use me. I'm here for a reason and- not to go all Christy Huddleston on you- I would have given up if it weren't for the children: "I came here to teach, but everyday they show me that I'm here to learn."
I think the greatest thing that God has been teaching me the last three weeks is to live in the tension between loving people and hating what they do. That tension is, at times, uncomfortable because it involves not pulling away when you want to most. I had been so confident walking into week 4 that I was finally acclimating and connecting, but when things began to go awry, I allowed my distress and disappointment to get in the way. As the well-known maxim goes: You can't control everything that happens to you, but you can control how you react to it. And my reaction mid-week wasn't great. I finally had lost my patience with the same conversations and no change and I told a coworker who was joking about hitting the children to make them smile for a music performance that I was done. It needed to stop and it was making me want to leave. Then I left as soon as the bell rang, took the long way, and cried on my walk home. I asked God to please intervene.
And I ugly cried when I got home. I hate confrontation and that was the most confrontational that I usually get with people outside of my family. I was proud of finally being direct, but angry and dealing with shame at not just being able to grit my teeth and speak lovingly and gently when I was most frustrated. I felt my humanity acutely. But after I was done with my pity-party, I plugged in my phone and the first thing that popped up was a text from a stranger. She's a teacher in town who had been asked by two of my acquaintances to get in touch with me. In good melodramatic Jennifer fashion, I flopped back on my bed and cried tears of gratitude. God's timing is so perfect. I've been trying for weeks to connect with an ex-pat and to no avail. I knew that He was taking care of me, just like He has throughout this entire experience.
Maybe I'm here to encourage the teachers and maybe it's just the students I'm here to encourage. Maybe my mantra to them to not touch each others' bodies without permission will translate to treating their and others' bodies with respect. Perhaps all they will remember was one strange mzungu who told them that their stories mattered. And perhaps they'll never remember me, but hopefully I will be one quiet voice in the students' minds years from now that tells them that they are lovingly created and perfectly loved. After all, if I leave here without being the hands and feet of God, then why am I here?
So, this weekend I've taken a reprieve from overcommitment and have committed to rest and prayer and reading. I've listened to sermons that pointed me to my purpose. And I've had the privilege of finding free WIFI, drinking good coffee, and pouring my heart out through the written word once again.
Although the following portion from a sermon I listened to today is a bit out of context, I found myself applying it to my experiences of late. Hopefully it will offer you some encouragement too: "That's essentially the offence/the stumbling block of the gospel: to humble yourself before God...Paul writes that... the Gospel will be a stumbling block to people. But what he advocates and argues in this text [1 Corinthians11], as well as in many other texts...is outside of the stumbling block or offence of the gospel, if you can remove an obstacle, then do whatever you can to remove that obstacle so that others might see Jesus more clearly. Why would they see Jesus more clearly? In you removing obstacles? Because, in doing that, you are preferring one another. And isn't that what the gospel is all about? Jesus coming down- not out of self-preference- but out of preference for you and for me and for our world and preferring the needs of us sinners over Himself...It [means] dying to self. It [means] having to do some work. It means having to do something that you're not comfortable doing. It means having to be generous when you don't feel like being generous. It means having to kill a comfort area of your life that you don't want to get rid of. And, yet again, why on earth is that a good thing for you and for the gospel? Because that's exactly what Jesus did for us. The whole beauty, the whole goodness of the gospel is that He removed every single obstacle to Himself, except for one. The one thing that got us here in the first place; that is, the issue of pride. Of choosing self as god over Him" (Clint Nelson).
Feeling ungenerous: Check.
Tired: Check.
Uncomfortable: Check.
Feeling utterly human and in need of God's grace: Check.
I guess that means I'm in the right place. So, if you think of me this week, please pray. I have some digging in and staying to do.
Sunday, 20 May 2018
Helping Without Hurting Part 1
I am the queen of the quick fix. Whether it has been health, projects, work, house-cleaning, my aim is to do get it done quickly and thoroughly. Unfortunately, these two things are often not mutually exclusive.
I have also been called well-intentioned many a time. I once had a coworker say, after becoming frustrated with me for taking (what I thought was my delegated task) into my own hands: "I've realized, after some reflection, that you're very well-meaning." While I'm glad he saw my heart behind my service, we all know the highway to hell that this habit proverbially builds.
So, what does a compassionate, servant-hearted, typical Robinson want to do when she's thrown in the midst of a developing country, people who continuously tell her they want to come to Canada, and financial problems that seem insurmountable? She listens. And she says things like, "I really hope that happens too. I'm praying for you."
And why, you may ask, does she not immediately dole out cash to every single problem she sees and hears? Because she's reading through a book called, "When Helping Hurts" and she's reflecting on her own brokenness as a white North American and realizing that throwing a quick band-aid fix on others' problems isn't actually going to be part of the solution.
Yes, her skin may crawl, sitting and listening to stories of people who give away everything, go without food, and help those who can't meet their basic needs. But, she's learning something in the process: money has caused far more complex problems around the world when it has been valued as the saviour or thrown at a problem without any research.
Since being in Kenya, there are three things people will commonly say to me: "Welcome to Kenya. My name is ________ and you are very welcome here. I really want to go to Canada." If it doesn't happen in the first three sentences, it comes up in conversation very quickly. I have actually only one friend who has never mentioned this to me and I'm a bit in awe of him for it. I often feel immobilized when hearing this, because my gosh, am I ever aware of what a privilege it is to be able to travel, live, and volunteer overseas. I had absolutely nothing to do with where I was born in the world, the opportunities that have come across my lap, and even this sabbatical offered to me. It is the sheer grace of God that I have had the opportunities I have had and my hope is to be a good steward of them. But, my heart also yearns to create these opportunities for other people.
I want my friends, who live their whole lives serving their local community and giving away what they are blessed with, to be able to travel and see more of the world. I want them to make connections and travel to places where they can tell their stories so that we who have been blessed with material wealth and opportunity can live a little simpler and be part of creating dreams for others. I want my students here to be able to accomplish the dream of seeing other lands and studying overseas. I want my possibilities to be their possibilities. I want my friends who go without food in order to fill other bellies to have enough for themselves and the others they help.
But, I am realizing as I read through "When Helping Hurts" that I have a deeply-ingrained needs-based view of missions and poverty alleviation. According to Corbett and Fikkert, "the goal [of poverty alleviation] is to see people restored to being what God created them to be: people who understand that they are created in the image of God with the gifts, abilities, and capacity to make decisions and to effect change in the world around them; and people who steward their lives, communities, resources, and relationships in order to bring glory to God. These things tend to happen in highly relational, process-focused ministries more than in impersonal product-focused ministries."
I've recently faced the fact that I’m such a product-oriented person. I'm a Robinson, after all. We're hard workers. We're notorious for our work ethics, production, and accomplishments. We pride ourselves in them. Yet, God has drawn me into more relational avenues the last few years, slowly stripping off my obsession with busyness and productivity in order to give me rest and right relationship with Him, myself, and others. In the last two years, it's made me a better, teacher, friend, daughter, sister etc. And, I still have so much to learn. It is, after all, a process.
So, for now, as I pray about what God is teaching me in these 5 months, how He wants me to live back in Canada, and what future role I will have in missions, I'm creating new habits. Instead of going out and buying a new outfit for a newborn, I am crocheting her clothes, making her family a meal, and visiting her in the hospital. Instead of making a monthly commitment to support 5 ministries at a time over here, I'm giving slowly, praying, and asking God how I can continue long-term support and relationship with these ministries. Instead of buying a bunch of new supplies for the school, I'm bringing in a few things that help, but mostly encouraging and building up the teachers in their practice. And, the head teacher is so good at reigning me in and using resources that they already have, in order to put the school’s money toward things we really need.
I am reminded daily of how able, skilled, and hardworking East Africans are. Like I've said in the past, the people at Abba's House take anything they're given and turn it into so much more: their cows give the compound milk and the extra is sold to neighbours; their well not only supplies clean water to them, but also to people in the local community; their land doesn't sit idle, but is used to produce food for the children and provides jobs for locals. With some more time dedicated to building relationships, supporting local teachers and friends as they seek solutions to their problems, and recognizing the assets already readily available in each person I meet, I hope to avoid my default toward paternalism.
Perhaps my greatest contribution to the needs around me can be informing those of you back home of the incredible organizations I have found/have connection with over here. If you’re like me and you’re trying to find a way to be a good steward of your resources or if you want to be involved in global work, whether up close or from afar, may I suggest reading “When Helping Hurts” and praying about what role God is drawing you into first? If you’re interested in researching some incredible organizations, check out the following websites and read about the hearts of those who started them. I dare you not to be moved:
The children’s home I often visit (my home away from home):
http://lovingindeed.com/abbashouse/
The wheelchair distribution I was part of (friends of mine started this organization and I love the advocacy and training they do):
http://fathersheartmobility.org/
This is a friend’s ministry in Uganda. He’s got big plans and passion for his local community.
https://www.acts4uganda.org/
I have also been called well-intentioned many a time. I once had a coworker say, after becoming frustrated with me for taking (what I thought was my delegated task) into my own hands: "I've realized, after some reflection, that you're very well-meaning." While I'm glad he saw my heart behind my service, we all know the highway to hell that this habit proverbially builds.
So, what does a compassionate, servant-hearted, typical Robinson want to do when she's thrown in the midst of a developing country, people who continuously tell her they want to come to Canada, and financial problems that seem insurmountable? She listens. And she says things like, "I really hope that happens too. I'm praying for you."
And why, you may ask, does she not immediately dole out cash to every single problem she sees and hears? Because she's reading through a book called, "When Helping Hurts" and she's reflecting on her own brokenness as a white North American and realizing that throwing a quick band-aid fix on others' problems isn't actually going to be part of the solution.
Yes, her skin may crawl, sitting and listening to stories of people who give away everything, go without food, and help those who can't meet their basic needs. But, she's learning something in the process: money has caused far more complex problems around the world when it has been valued as the saviour or thrown at a problem without any research.
Since being in Kenya, there are three things people will commonly say to me: "Welcome to Kenya. My name is ________ and you are very welcome here. I really want to go to Canada." If it doesn't happen in the first three sentences, it comes up in conversation very quickly. I have actually only one friend who has never mentioned this to me and I'm a bit in awe of him for it. I often feel immobilized when hearing this, because my gosh, am I ever aware of what a privilege it is to be able to travel, live, and volunteer overseas. I had absolutely nothing to do with where I was born in the world, the opportunities that have come across my lap, and even this sabbatical offered to me. It is the sheer grace of God that I have had the opportunities I have had and my hope is to be a good steward of them. But, my heart also yearns to create these opportunities for other people.
I want my friends, who live their whole lives serving their local community and giving away what they are blessed with, to be able to travel and see more of the world. I want them to make connections and travel to places where they can tell their stories so that we who have been blessed with material wealth and opportunity can live a little simpler and be part of creating dreams for others. I want my students here to be able to accomplish the dream of seeing other lands and studying overseas. I want my possibilities to be their possibilities. I want my friends who go without food in order to fill other bellies to have enough for themselves and the others they help.
But, I am realizing as I read through "When Helping Hurts" that I have a deeply-ingrained needs-based view of missions and poverty alleviation. According to Corbett and Fikkert, "the goal [of poverty alleviation] is to see people restored to being what God created them to be: people who understand that they are created in the image of God with the gifts, abilities, and capacity to make decisions and to effect change in the world around them; and people who steward their lives, communities, resources, and relationships in order to bring glory to God. These things tend to happen in highly relational, process-focused ministries more than in impersonal product-focused ministries."
I've recently faced the fact that I’m such a product-oriented person. I'm a Robinson, after all. We're hard workers. We're notorious for our work ethics, production, and accomplishments. We pride ourselves in them. Yet, God has drawn me into more relational avenues the last few years, slowly stripping off my obsession with busyness and productivity in order to give me rest and right relationship with Him, myself, and others. In the last two years, it's made me a better, teacher, friend, daughter, sister etc. And, I still have so much to learn. It is, after all, a process.
So, for now, as I pray about what God is teaching me in these 5 months, how He wants me to live back in Canada, and what future role I will have in missions, I'm creating new habits. Instead of going out and buying a new outfit for a newborn, I am crocheting her clothes, making her family a meal, and visiting her in the hospital. Instead of making a monthly commitment to support 5 ministries at a time over here, I'm giving slowly, praying, and asking God how I can continue long-term support and relationship with these ministries. Instead of buying a bunch of new supplies for the school, I'm bringing in a few things that help, but mostly encouraging and building up the teachers in their practice. And, the head teacher is so good at reigning me in and using resources that they already have, in order to put the school’s money toward things we really need.
I am reminded daily of how able, skilled, and hardworking East Africans are. Like I've said in the past, the people at Abba's House take anything they're given and turn it into so much more: their cows give the compound milk and the extra is sold to neighbours; their well not only supplies clean water to them, but also to people in the local community; their land doesn't sit idle, but is used to produce food for the children and provides jobs for locals. With some more time dedicated to building relationships, supporting local teachers and friends as they seek solutions to their problems, and recognizing the assets already readily available in each person I meet, I hope to avoid my default toward paternalism.
Perhaps my greatest contribution to the needs around me can be informing those of you back home of the incredible organizations I have found/have connection with over here. If you’re like me and you’re trying to find a way to be a good steward of your resources or if you want to be involved in global work, whether up close or from afar, may I suggest reading “When Helping Hurts” and praying about what role God is drawing you into first? If you’re interested in researching some incredible organizations, check out the following websites and read about the hearts of those who started them. I dare you not to be moved:
The children’s home I often visit (my home away from home):
http://lovingindeed.com/abbashouse/
The wheelchair distribution I was part of (friends of mine started this organization and I love the advocacy and training they do):
http://fathersheartmobility.org/
This is a friend’s ministry in Uganda. He’s got big plans and passion for his local community.
https://www.acts4uganda.org/
Sunday, 6 May 2018
Same Teacher; Slightly Different Classroom
Well, I've just completed my first week of officially teaching in a Kenyan classroom and it seems as though I've experienced a month's worth of activity. Acclimating to a new culture and trying to do something that should be second nature to me now is harder than I expected.
In this week's episode of things that would never happen in Canada: One of the first questions that the students asked me when I met them was if I beat children? I quickly recovered from shock and informed them that we don't discipline that way in Canada. Their eyes seemed to alight with glee when they found out that discipline in my classroom came more in the form of training and talking through a problem. Even the teachers stared aghast at me when I told them that we don't strike children in Canada. "So, how do you punish them?"
"Well, I go over my classroom expectations at the beginning of the year and then I just look at them when they're not following a rule. And I keep looking at them until they change their behaviour. If that doesn't work, we have a private conversation in which I remind them of the class expectations, we discuss the fact that they're not complying, we talk about the root cause of their actions, and then we make a plan to follow the rules. Students know they are not welcome in my classroom if they can't follow the rules and they just usually choose to obey. If they do something that is really damaging to school property or to another student, we work through a program called restorative justice, where they have to make a plan with the teacher for how to right the wrong that they've created. If it's done well, they learn the consequences of actions not only to themselves, but to others."
I watched as their incredulous looks turned into smirks aimed at each other. I could imagine the glaring thought bubbles above their heads, "Sure, Mzungu. You try that for a week and see how well it works here."
And to be honest, I'm not sure yet how it will work here. When an entire system of discipline, family structure, and society is different, I don't know how well another culture's expectations will fit. But, I've tried this system for half a week and I will tell you that I'm working with remarkably well-behaved children who know how to self-regulate. Their smiles in class and even the serious demeanour they adopt when I make them redo an assignment that they've failed to bring to class seem to be outward expressions of acceptance. But, this is only the first week and I have much yet to learn.
When I think of classroom discipline, I think back to what "Little Women" taught me as a preteen: if you hit and humiliate a child, they will only grow up learning to hit and humiliate others. Taking time to talk through an issue, get to the heart of our nature and why we choose to disobey, and then being given the grace to try again or to learn from our mistakes and feel the consequences is sometimes tedious and so hard, but so effective. I know the stress level of being a teacher. No matter what culture we teach in, we navigate stress factors, time constraints, exhaustion, and differing personalities all day long. It's easy to be human and resort to anger, impatience, and quick reactions. But being a teacher hasn't given me the luxury of just reacting the way I want to in the moment. It's given me parameters to put my emotions aside and deal with the human in the moment. Has it always been easy? Have I always been successful? Certainly not. I'm human too. But, I don't have the luxury of really messing up because my livelihood depends on my learning self-control. So, perhaps introducing a different type of classroom management is something I can contribute to this experience.
Another hurdle I was jumping through this week was food. I had a lot of looks of curiosity and disbelief as I brought my lunch to school this week. I didn't realize that lunch is prepared for the teachers and they asked me several times this week if everyone was wealthy enough in Canada to bring their own lunch each day. That was a curve ball I hadn't expected. Here, I thought bringing a peanut butter sandwich each day was meagre fare compared to the big bowls of rice and stew given out to teachers, but I quickly realized that it was privilege to be able to afford peanut butter, jam, bread, fruit, and vegetables every day. Even discussions about free education and children who couldn't always afford meals everyday quickly turned into the comment, "Yeah, but you can't compare poverty in Canada to poverty here." And they were right. I can't. Poverty takes different shapes and forms in different parts of the world. But, like any good Pentecostal missionary, I have brought my copy of "When Helping Hurts" with me to Kenya and I am slowly working my way through it, recognizing the brokenness that I came from in my society and trying to serve brokenness here without doing more damage than good.
On an entirely different note, do you remember the Hugh Grant storyline in "Love, Actually"? You know the secretary that he falls in love with and everyone says she has the biggest rear end in the world? Grant is surprised and offended for her and only sees her beauty. Well, I'm the secretary and Hugh Grant. Every time someone mentions my size, I find myself wanting to protect this obviously beautiful creature. Trust me, I've seen the chiropractic X-rays. God gave me a very well-arranged skeleton. I'm just trying to figure out how to reduce some of the exterior packaging. This week's unexpected conversation went like this:
Teacher (watching me unpack my leftover vegetables and put them in some hot water with noodles): "So you eat a lot of vegetables?"
Me (smiling): Yes. I eat meat a couple of times a week, but mostly vegetables.
Teacher (Looking at my bowl and up at me several times with an indescribable expression on her face): "So, how are you so energetic and...Huuuge (she actually drew out the word) if you only eat vegetables?"
Me (slowly breathing in and smiling to myself): "I think it's how I have eaten at home. I eat more processed foods and I eat on the run back home. I've actually lost weight though. I know it's hard to imagine. And, I've been exercising."
As much as some of these conversations may offend me or test my patience, the truth is they're not meant as an offence. And, I couldn't bear to own up to the real truth anyway. Why am I so slowly losing weight? Why do I eat so little, but am still overweight? How do you explain to someone who just gets enough to eat that back home food was like a drug? It was my earliest drug because it was the only thing readily available to me. Since I was a child, I would drown my pain in food. It was the only thing that numbed my emotions and helped me cope with some painful things happening in my life. How do I explain that even after going through therapy and Freedom Session, it is still the thing that I have to consciously be aware of not abusing? How do I explain that people in my culture tend to drown their pain or emotions or stress in alcohol, relationships, sex, exercise, perfectionism, materialism, workaholism, T.V., drugs, and all manner of other things? Maybe that happens here too. I just don't know what the socially acceptable version of it is. How do I explain that, though I have taken so many steps to add healthy behaviours into my life, my body is slowly changing? How do I explain that since coming to Kenya I can't fall back on food as a drug of choice because I see little children and some adults eat exactly what they need or can get? Even snacking has been virtually eliminated because I can't bring myself to consume treats that I know the kids aren't getting. It's much more black-and-white here. I chickened out, though. I gave my excuses. Perhaps, I'll work up the courage to share the truth in the near future.
I wish everyone could get a few months outside of their context, in a developing country, to see not only what privileges we take for granted all the time, but to really allow God to make lasting change. I hope, with everything within me, that the changes I've made here will stick. That I won't forget the feelings of these days: the loneliness, the joy, the awkward awareness of privilege, the deep desire to advocate, and the ebbs and flows of being yourself in a place that challenges you.
I realize that this post is more serious than my typical humour-driven/sarcastic writing style. Perhaps I'm writing closer to events than I did in my last post. Since I'm a teacher and an eternal optimist, I will open-face sandwich the end of this post. Let me tell you about the beautiful things this week.
Children at the school actually love what I'm teaching them. I'm getting to teach basic French again and I'm loving the review for myself, forming French words and teaching them neat tricks to form their words as well. I'm hearing from parents that they're loving the lessons and I'm just loving the experience of being in the classroom with children who are eager to learn.
I saw my first baboons this week, guys! And, none of them have tried to challenge me for my lunch yet. Actually, I haven't met with a baboon on my walks to school, so I'm silently thanking the Lord for that. But, the other day as my students were writing their compositions in English 6 and a thunderstorm shook the building, I saw a gathering of baboons across the field. They had taken over the benches that the janitor and cooks left empty when the rain started pouring. As the storm picked up, a troop of baboons migrated across the field, fortunately not seeking refuge in my classroom.
My final source of joy was the last day of school. I was able to participate in field games with my students and other teachers. Sport really is the universal language. It doesn't matter how many things I struggled with this week, nothing can change my mood as quickly as the doubled-over hysterical laughter that comes from a teacher half my height trying to tackle me or the competitive war call of a goalkeeper psyching out an opponent. It was so good to move and work with a team and feel my endorphins kick in. And, I was able to see some of my coworkers in a new light, to laugh and have fun with them.
Getting to see the familiar faces at the children's home and wrap all my favourite people in a hug filled my heart after a busy week. I'm grateful for a place that now gets to be my home away from home and for people who feel like family. They listen to my stories and laugh with me and I feel God's grace abundantly recharging me once again.
In this week's episode of things that would never happen in Canada: One of the first questions that the students asked me when I met them was if I beat children? I quickly recovered from shock and informed them that we don't discipline that way in Canada. Their eyes seemed to alight with glee when they found out that discipline in my classroom came more in the form of training and talking through a problem. Even the teachers stared aghast at me when I told them that we don't strike children in Canada. "So, how do you punish them?"
"Well, I go over my classroom expectations at the beginning of the year and then I just look at them when they're not following a rule. And I keep looking at them until they change their behaviour. If that doesn't work, we have a private conversation in which I remind them of the class expectations, we discuss the fact that they're not complying, we talk about the root cause of their actions, and then we make a plan to follow the rules. Students know they are not welcome in my classroom if they can't follow the rules and they just usually choose to obey. If they do something that is really damaging to school property or to another student, we work through a program called restorative justice, where they have to make a plan with the teacher for how to right the wrong that they've created. If it's done well, they learn the consequences of actions not only to themselves, but to others."
I watched as their incredulous looks turned into smirks aimed at each other. I could imagine the glaring thought bubbles above their heads, "Sure, Mzungu. You try that for a week and see how well it works here."
And to be honest, I'm not sure yet how it will work here. When an entire system of discipline, family structure, and society is different, I don't know how well another culture's expectations will fit. But, I've tried this system for half a week and I will tell you that I'm working with remarkably well-behaved children who know how to self-regulate. Their smiles in class and even the serious demeanour they adopt when I make them redo an assignment that they've failed to bring to class seem to be outward expressions of acceptance. But, this is only the first week and I have much yet to learn.
When I think of classroom discipline, I think back to what "Little Women" taught me as a preteen: if you hit and humiliate a child, they will only grow up learning to hit and humiliate others. Taking time to talk through an issue, get to the heart of our nature and why we choose to disobey, and then being given the grace to try again or to learn from our mistakes and feel the consequences is sometimes tedious and so hard, but so effective. I know the stress level of being a teacher. No matter what culture we teach in, we navigate stress factors, time constraints, exhaustion, and differing personalities all day long. It's easy to be human and resort to anger, impatience, and quick reactions. But being a teacher hasn't given me the luxury of just reacting the way I want to in the moment. It's given me parameters to put my emotions aside and deal with the human in the moment. Has it always been easy? Have I always been successful? Certainly not. I'm human too. But, I don't have the luxury of really messing up because my livelihood depends on my learning self-control. So, perhaps introducing a different type of classroom management is something I can contribute to this experience.
Another hurdle I was jumping through this week was food. I had a lot of looks of curiosity and disbelief as I brought my lunch to school this week. I didn't realize that lunch is prepared for the teachers and they asked me several times this week if everyone was wealthy enough in Canada to bring their own lunch each day. That was a curve ball I hadn't expected. Here, I thought bringing a peanut butter sandwich each day was meagre fare compared to the big bowls of rice and stew given out to teachers, but I quickly realized that it was privilege to be able to afford peanut butter, jam, bread, fruit, and vegetables every day. Even discussions about free education and children who couldn't always afford meals everyday quickly turned into the comment, "Yeah, but you can't compare poverty in Canada to poverty here." And they were right. I can't. Poverty takes different shapes and forms in different parts of the world. But, like any good Pentecostal missionary, I have brought my copy of "When Helping Hurts" with me to Kenya and I am slowly working my way through it, recognizing the brokenness that I came from in my society and trying to serve brokenness here without doing more damage than good.
On an entirely different note, do you remember the Hugh Grant storyline in "Love, Actually"? You know the secretary that he falls in love with and everyone says she has the biggest rear end in the world? Grant is surprised and offended for her and only sees her beauty. Well, I'm the secretary and Hugh Grant. Every time someone mentions my size, I find myself wanting to protect this obviously beautiful creature. Trust me, I've seen the chiropractic X-rays. God gave me a very well-arranged skeleton. I'm just trying to figure out how to reduce some of the exterior packaging. This week's unexpected conversation went like this:
Teacher (watching me unpack my leftover vegetables and put them in some hot water with noodles): "So you eat a lot of vegetables?"
Me (smiling): Yes. I eat meat a couple of times a week, but mostly vegetables.
Teacher (Looking at my bowl and up at me several times with an indescribable expression on her face): "So, how are you so energetic and...Huuuge (she actually drew out the word) if you only eat vegetables?"
Me (slowly breathing in and smiling to myself): "I think it's how I have eaten at home. I eat more processed foods and I eat on the run back home. I've actually lost weight though. I know it's hard to imagine. And, I've been exercising."
As much as some of these conversations may offend me or test my patience, the truth is they're not meant as an offence. And, I couldn't bear to own up to the real truth anyway. Why am I so slowly losing weight? Why do I eat so little, but am still overweight? How do you explain to someone who just gets enough to eat that back home food was like a drug? It was my earliest drug because it was the only thing readily available to me. Since I was a child, I would drown my pain in food. It was the only thing that numbed my emotions and helped me cope with some painful things happening in my life. How do I explain that even after going through therapy and Freedom Session, it is still the thing that I have to consciously be aware of not abusing? How do I explain that people in my culture tend to drown their pain or emotions or stress in alcohol, relationships, sex, exercise, perfectionism, materialism, workaholism, T.V., drugs, and all manner of other things? Maybe that happens here too. I just don't know what the socially acceptable version of it is. How do I explain that, though I have taken so many steps to add healthy behaviours into my life, my body is slowly changing? How do I explain that since coming to Kenya I can't fall back on food as a drug of choice because I see little children and some adults eat exactly what they need or can get? Even snacking has been virtually eliminated because I can't bring myself to consume treats that I know the kids aren't getting. It's much more black-and-white here. I chickened out, though. I gave my excuses. Perhaps, I'll work up the courage to share the truth in the near future.
I wish everyone could get a few months outside of their context, in a developing country, to see not only what privileges we take for granted all the time, but to really allow God to make lasting change. I hope, with everything within me, that the changes I've made here will stick. That I won't forget the feelings of these days: the loneliness, the joy, the awkward awareness of privilege, the deep desire to advocate, and the ebbs and flows of being yourself in a place that challenges you.
I realize that this post is more serious than my typical humour-driven/sarcastic writing style. Perhaps I'm writing closer to events than I did in my last post. Since I'm a teacher and an eternal optimist, I will open-face sandwich the end of this post. Let me tell you about the beautiful things this week.
Children at the school actually love what I'm teaching them. I'm getting to teach basic French again and I'm loving the review for myself, forming French words and teaching them neat tricks to form their words as well. I'm hearing from parents that they're loving the lessons and I'm just loving the experience of being in the classroom with children who are eager to learn.
I saw my first baboons this week, guys! And, none of them have tried to challenge me for my lunch yet. Actually, I haven't met with a baboon on my walks to school, so I'm silently thanking the Lord for that. But, the other day as my students were writing their compositions in English 6 and a thunderstorm shook the building, I saw a gathering of baboons across the field. They had taken over the benches that the janitor and cooks left empty when the rain started pouring. As the storm picked up, a troop of baboons migrated across the field, fortunately not seeking refuge in my classroom.
My final source of joy was the last day of school. I was able to participate in field games with my students and other teachers. Sport really is the universal language. It doesn't matter how many things I struggled with this week, nothing can change my mood as quickly as the doubled-over hysterical laughter that comes from a teacher half my height trying to tackle me or the competitive war call of a goalkeeper psyching out an opponent. It was so good to move and work with a team and feel my endorphins kick in. And, I was able to see some of my coworkers in a new light, to laugh and have fun with them.
Getting to see the familiar faces at the children's home and wrap all my favourite people in a hug filled my heart after a busy week. I'm grateful for a place that now gets to be my home away from home and for people who feel like family. They listen to my stories and laugh with me and I feel God's grace abundantly recharging me once again.
Friday, 27 April 2018
Lessons in Acclimation
Have you ever felt like the first day of a journey sets the tone for the entire adventure itself? Well, if you could have been a fly on the wall for my third connecting flight from home to Kenya, you would have discovered, dear reader, that these several months will be a test of my mettle. If you know me well, you'll hear the story one day, but suffice it to say, I was fairly certain the Lord was either testing me or I was being Punk'd. Either way, I think I breathed a sigh of relief as I was enveloped in the arms of the pastor's wife, Margaret, upon exiting the airport.
Today marks one month in East Africa. There are so many things to share and yet if you could see the sweet monotony of my everyday life, perhaps you would think this blog post will be short. However, brevity is not my middle name and one must never underestimate how well I use my powers of imagination. In order to retain your full attention, I've decided to just share with you what I've learned as I've been riding the wave of acclimation.
My first few days in Kenya were less of a slow integration and more of a diving into the deep end. No sooner had the contents of my suitcase hit the cupboard than I agreed to preach at a ladies' conference that first Saturday. I have never preached before in my life, but the confidence people place in my "far-reaching" teaching abilities is astounding. This is supposed to be an adventure, so I knew I must try.
As I tried to wrap my head around how I would have something valuable to share with women in a different culture and with different societal expectations, I visited my sister school in town. Again, people's confidence in me was great and I found myself agreeing to teach Math, English, French, and Music. I'll let you guess which of those subjects I've never taught and which ones I haven't taught in 6 years. As I stood before the entire student body, whispers of "mzungu" (white person) filled the air. I thought I'd go for the direct approach in introducing myself: "Hi, I'm Teacher Jennifer. Yes, I AM very tall and yes, we do have sun in Canada. I just don't get to see it very often." There, I had dealt with the elephant in the room. Oh, not so fast, Jennifer. The head teacher spoke after me, reviewing the key points of my introduction, but adding his own flair:
"So, Teacher Jennifer is very (stretching his hand high in the air)..."
The children responded with gusto, "Tall".
"And your head teacher is very (lowering his hand significantly)..."
"Short!"
"And Teacher Jennifer is very (widening the gap between his hands)..."
The children responded only too eagerly, "Fat!" Well, I guess I'm not in Canada anymore.
It actually was a very positive introduction to the school and I've been looking forward, with nervous anticipation, to starting there next week.
Saturday approached quickly and after fervent prayers, I had settled on speaking about Mary and Martha. It seemed appropriate with Sunday being Easter. After some research, I decided to speak about the concept of Martha's work being good, but Mary doing what the Lord called "better". I encouraged the women to prioritize and cling to their first love and as I prayed for them at the end of the talk, I was moved by God's deep love for them. After the conference, we shared a meal together and I had a few great conversations. One person told me that I spoke like the mother of three children, which I think is the equivalent of, "You were a wise and confident speaker." I'll tell myself that for now.
Speaking of being a mother, I continue to fascinate people by the fact that I am 33 years-old, childless, and unmarried. Their looks of chagrin are often quickly replaced by the calm assurance that I possibly still have a good 12 birthing years left in me. It's actually been a great opportunity to speak confidently about how God gives us all seasons in our life and while, yes, that is something that I still want to happen, I'm learning to be content and make the most of the time He's given me. It tends to be an answer people respond well to.
Perhaps it is this topic that I will camp on for a while for herein lies the bulk of my lessons in acclimating.
Dear reader, I will confess that I have been at times ungrateful and self-pitying over the fact that I quickly have lost my practical means of independence, am often surrounded by people, and don't have the depth of "recharging" time that I enjoy back home. I have felt alone and lonely at times and have desperately wanted a hug. The latter problem is something that God continues to graciously take care of as he invites me to lean into him in my loneliness. But the first problem took me longer to solve.
Last week, I had the amazing opportunity to travel to Uganda and visit my missionary friends, Adrienne and Francis. I'd wanted to see their wheelchair distribution for so long and this was finally my chance. I brought Margaret along with me and we both experienced the great trek across Kenya by bus. It was interesting for her to see a new culture and language herself, to watch others often sharing their jokes and stories and longing to decipher the meaning of the words. I felt a new kinship with her as she experienced what I had been experiencing in Kenya. Fortunately, people often speak English too and one even spoke her language, so she had an opportunity to be loved and cared for that week.
Spending time with people close to my own age deeply filled part of that loneliness, but I was still slowly processing all that I was hearing and seeing. I began to see a new layer to my privilege and felt gratitude, guilt, and sadness all at once. As I heard my new friends share their stories of trying to lead missionary lives and find partners, I realized that my education, independence, and career were all deep sources of privilege. In Canada, I never have to wonder if someone will love me or not for my wealth. I never have to worry that I didn't go to the right university. I don't even have to worry about finding someone to take care of me. My choices in a life partner get to be for love. I get to choose someone who truly sees my worth and I, theirs. I get to make enough money to take care of myself. I don't have to be in a relationship for convenience, safety, or security. I'm not considered ridiculous (in most Canadian circles) for being my age and single. That's not a privilege that some people get to enjoy.
As I spoke with my friend who hears painful stories and watches people crawl in the dust for a wheelchair each month, I felt my heart beat with purpose. I was given the opportunity to share my story as a sister to two people with disabilities during one of the training sessions. I was able to advocate. It rekindled a passion that had been ignited many years ago. Exchanging stories with my new friends and seeing the incredible things they're doing to restore brokeness, to fight for the disenfranchised opened my eyes to a little more of what God is doing in me throughout these next several months. I told one friend a couple of days ago that this trip to Uganda was the evidence of things hoped for.
As we returned to the children's home in Kenya and 30 kids poured out of the house to greet us, I wrapped them each in a hug. This has slowly become my home and being around these children fills my heart with purpose. I feel right now as I did last summer. If all I ever do with my life is make children feel safe and loved and worthy, I can't imagine anything better than that. I don't know in what capacity God will use that desire, but for the month of April it's manifested itself in teaching thirty 2-20 year-olds, playing games, singing songs, dancing, baking a cake in an outdoor oven, having important conversations, and teaching crochet patterns to 8 kids at a time. There have been eager faces springing over my shoulders to be part of my video calls home, little ones huddled around me, cancelling out all personal space as they try to teach me key Swahili phrases, my skin being rubbed and my hair being played with, and children calling my name just to smile at me. I can't put into words the beauty of their smiles or how difficult their lives have been to end up in this children's home. All I can say is I feel grateful to have this time with them.
Today marks one month in East Africa. There are so many things to share and yet if you could see the sweet monotony of my everyday life, perhaps you would think this blog post will be short. However, brevity is not my middle name and one must never underestimate how well I use my powers of imagination. In order to retain your full attention, I've decided to just share with you what I've learned as I've been riding the wave of acclimation.
My first few days in Kenya were less of a slow integration and more of a diving into the deep end. No sooner had the contents of my suitcase hit the cupboard than I agreed to preach at a ladies' conference that first Saturday. I have never preached before in my life, but the confidence people place in my "far-reaching" teaching abilities is astounding. This is supposed to be an adventure, so I knew I must try.
As I tried to wrap my head around how I would have something valuable to share with women in a different culture and with different societal expectations, I visited my sister school in town. Again, people's confidence in me was great and I found myself agreeing to teach Math, English, French, and Music. I'll let you guess which of those subjects I've never taught and which ones I haven't taught in 6 years. As I stood before the entire student body, whispers of "mzungu" (white person) filled the air. I thought I'd go for the direct approach in introducing myself: "Hi, I'm Teacher Jennifer. Yes, I AM very tall and yes, we do have sun in Canada. I just don't get to see it very often." There, I had dealt with the elephant in the room. Oh, not so fast, Jennifer. The head teacher spoke after me, reviewing the key points of my introduction, but adding his own flair:
"So, Teacher Jennifer is very (stretching his hand high in the air)..."
The children responded with gusto, "Tall".
"And your head teacher is very (lowering his hand significantly)..."
"Short!"
"And Teacher Jennifer is very (widening the gap between his hands)..."
The children responded only too eagerly, "Fat!" Well, I guess I'm not in Canada anymore.
It actually was a very positive introduction to the school and I've been looking forward, with nervous anticipation, to starting there next week.
Saturday approached quickly and after fervent prayers, I had settled on speaking about Mary and Martha. It seemed appropriate with Sunday being Easter. After some research, I decided to speak about the concept of Martha's work being good, but Mary doing what the Lord called "better". I encouraged the women to prioritize and cling to their first love and as I prayed for them at the end of the talk, I was moved by God's deep love for them. After the conference, we shared a meal together and I had a few great conversations. One person told me that I spoke like the mother of three children, which I think is the equivalent of, "You were a wise and confident speaker." I'll tell myself that for now.
Speaking of being a mother, I continue to fascinate people by the fact that I am 33 years-old, childless, and unmarried. Their looks of chagrin are often quickly replaced by the calm assurance that I possibly still have a good 12 birthing years left in me. It's actually been a great opportunity to speak confidently about how God gives us all seasons in our life and while, yes, that is something that I still want to happen, I'm learning to be content and make the most of the time He's given me. It tends to be an answer people respond well to.
Perhaps it is this topic that I will camp on for a while for herein lies the bulk of my lessons in acclimating.
Dear reader, I will confess that I have been at times ungrateful and self-pitying over the fact that I quickly have lost my practical means of independence, am often surrounded by people, and don't have the depth of "recharging" time that I enjoy back home. I have felt alone and lonely at times and have desperately wanted a hug. The latter problem is something that God continues to graciously take care of as he invites me to lean into him in my loneliness. But the first problem took me longer to solve.
Last week, I had the amazing opportunity to travel to Uganda and visit my missionary friends, Adrienne and Francis. I'd wanted to see their wheelchair distribution for so long and this was finally my chance. I brought Margaret along with me and we both experienced the great trek across Kenya by bus. It was interesting for her to see a new culture and language herself, to watch others often sharing their jokes and stories and longing to decipher the meaning of the words. I felt a new kinship with her as she experienced what I had been experiencing in Kenya. Fortunately, people often speak English too and one even spoke her language, so she had an opportunity to be loved and cared for that week.
Spending time with people close to my own age deeply filled part of that loneliness, but I was still slowly processing all that I was hearing and seeing. I began to see a new layer to my privilege and felt gratitude, guilt, and sadness all at once. As I heard my new friends share their stories of trying to lead missionary lives and find partners, I realized that my education, independence, and career were all deep sources of privilege. In Canada, I never have to wonder if someone will love me or not for my wealth. I never have to worry that I didn't go to the right university. I don't even have to worry about finding someone to take care of me. My choices in a life partner get to be for love. I get to choose someone who truly sees my worth and I, theirs. I get to make enough money to take care of myself. I don't have to be in a relationship for convenience, safety, or security. I'm not considered ridiculous (in most Canadian circles) for being my age and single. That's not a privilege that some people get to enjoy.
As I spoke with my friend who hears painful stories and watches people crawl in the dust for a wheelchair each month, I felt my heart beat with purpose. I was given the opportunity to share my story as a sister to two people with disabilities during one of the training sessions. I was able to advocate. It rekindled a passion that had been ignited many years ago. Exchanging stories with my new friends and seeing the incredible things they're doing to restore brokeness, to fight for the disenfranchised opened my eyes to a little more of what God is doing in me throughout these next several months. I told one friend a couple of days ago that this trip to Uganda was the evidence of things hoped for.
As we returned to the children's home in Kenya and 30 kids poured out of the house to greet us, I wrapped them each in a hug. This has slowly become my home and being around these children fills my heart with purpose. I feel right now as I did last summer. If all I ever do with my life is make children feel safe and loved and worthy, I can't imagine anything better than that. I don't know in what capacity God will use that desire, but for the month of April it's manifested itself in teaching thirty 2-20 year-olds, playing games, singing songs, dancing, baking a cake in an outdoor oven, having important conversations, and teaching crochet patterns to 8 kids at a time. There have been eager faces springing over my shoulders to be part of my video calls home, little ones huddled around me, cancelling out all personal space as they try to teach me key Swahili phrases, my skin being rubbed and my hair being played with, and children calling my name just to smile at me. I can't put into words the beauty of their smiles or how difficult their lives have been to end up in this children's home. All I can say is I feel grateful to have this time with them.
Sunday, 15 October 2017
Lessons in Grief
My way of processing emotional things is often through writing. There are several entries I wrote this year that were never published. So, I decided to post them now as a documentation of my grief process. Maybe it will be helpful to others who are going through their own grief journeys or maybe it will just give more insight into my peculiar mind...
To Make A Wretch His Treasure- December 18, 2016
These words have echoed in my mind since we sang them in church recently. I am that wretch. I feel tired and wretched and so aware of what I have and what I lack at this point in the year. 2016, brimming with hope and happiness this time last year, has brought some heartbreak that I could not have imagined. Thanksgiving weekend my first sibling/ foster brother Daniel wound up in the hospital with pneumonia. A day later we were talking options and decided to intubate him. Two days later, he was gone. TWO DAYS LATER...he was GONE. It still seems surreal to write this. Call me naive, but I could never have imagined that he would go that quickly. I'm used to our foster siblings being in the hospital for weeks at a stretch and making a full recovery. Despite Daniel's condition, I sort of thought we would have more notice before he went. I fully knew that 31 was 30 years longer than he was expected to live. Since his life had always been marked by miracle, I just was not prepared. Add on top of this the emotions of talking about options and being the one to sign off on those options and you find the current version of myself on December 18th.
I still can't believe he's gone. Christmas is fast approaching and I don't know how to take the nuances of one less person at our house this week. I suppose, in reality, it won't be one less person because we will inevitably invite more people than last year, but there will be a very real hole in my heart...
Brokenness- January 14, 2017
Five days from now it will be Daniel's 32nd birthday, a birthday he will never reach. That sentence shouldn't stun me, but it does...continually.
Every time I hear his name or speak it myself, I feel an aching in my throat and nose, tears burning the back of my eyes.
I don't know why it surprises me. He was never meant to live longer than a year. The fact that he lived 31 years was entirely a miracle, but it shook me to my core.
Perhaps it is that I have learned in my 30's to grieve things properly and in their time. Perhaps I am acutely aware of the utter normalcy that the loss of life is. Perhaps it was the weight of the responsibilities surrounding his death: putting him on life support, taking him off, and witnessing his passing. All I know is that he is gone and that it hurts.
3 months later, it hurts.
So, this Thursday, I will celebrate and I will grieve. I will recognize my pain as part of the process and it will hurt and I will once again give it to God.
I will see hope in the fullness of life around me- in the comfort of friends who have walked with me in my pain and sorrow and in the laughter of nieces and nephews. I will find love in the company of brothers and sisters who are still here with me and who I have grown to like as much as I love them. I will find joy in the reminder that Daniel is experiencing life like he never knew before. He is surrounded by perfect love and wants for nothing.
And, I will remember that this is part of the journey; that to feel is one of the greatest privileges of life, therefore, it should not be tossed aside. I will remember that I am human and in need of grace constantly.
A year later- Oct. 15, 2017
Today I went back to the hospital where Daniel passed away. It was an unexpected visit initiated by my sister's frantic texting. My foster sister was in the hospital. She is actually doing fine, but as I drove to the same hospital that we said goodbye to Daniel, my thoughts surprised me: Not again...not this close to losing him...I can't handle losing another sibling so soon. Notice how much of this was about me? Not her suffering, not her pain, but mine.
I was struck on Friday (as I visited Daniel's gravesite) by the thought that my sadness that day had everything to do with my grief and loss and nothing to do with his gain. He is only experiencing joy and peace, mobility and freedom. It's so strange to feel the dichotomy of joy for him and sadness for me. I'm aware once again what a gift it is to feel everything in the midst of loss.
And I pondered how his life itself was a gift to me. He was so limited in his body and mind and so simple and authentic in his feelings. If a room was tense or someone was angry or sad around him, he'd cry. If it was joyful, he'd laugh and giggle. The truly precious moments were when he broke tension with a laugh. You couldn't keep a straight face over a Daniel giggle. It was loud and then quiet; exuberant, then secretive, almost like a private joke.
*A video from his last birthday*
I was given the gift from a young age of not taking everything so seriously and delighting in simple sounds, smells, and feelings like Daniel did. I think this privilege I feel can probably be summed up in a few lines that are on his headstone: "Your life was the miracle that God let us witness".
While this year has been a difficult one of walking through grief intentionally, it has been a very present one. I'm grateful for the process and aware that it continues to be a nuanced journey. Today hurts less than a few months ago and definitely less than a year ago. This year has passed by quickly in retrospect, but it didn't feel that way in the process. Unlike previous years, months passed by in a natural way. Time didn't seem to be escaping me and I'm so incredibly grateful for that.
My church has been preaching on gratitude lately and something that one of the pastors said has been resonating with me this last week. She recently walked through a difficult time in her life and some of the observations she made speak powerfully to what God has been teaching me this year:
"We attach His goodness to pleasant outcomes. We attach His goodness with things working out in our favour. God is not good because we have a pain-free life. We are not blessed because things are working well for us. See, God is good because whatever we walk through, God comes near. He lavishes grace upon us. He sustains us. He strengthens us. He grows us. He enlarges our heart. That is why God is good."
I know that part of His grace for me this year is that I wasn't able to drown my pain in my usual comforts or avoidance techniques. His grace actively pursued me this year. And, while my eyes still sting when someone asks me about Daniel or I talk about his passing, I am able to say I'm grateful because my grief has not happened alone. My hand is being held through it.
To Make A Wretch His Treasure- December 18, 2016
These words have echoed in my mind since we sang them in church recently. I am that wretch. I feel tired and wretched and so aware of what I have and what I lack at this point in the year. 2016, brimming with hope and happiness this time last year, has brought some heartbreak that I could not have imagined. Thanksgiving weekend my first sibling/ foster brother Daniel wound up in the hospital with pneumonia. A day later we were talking options and decided to intubate him. Two days later, he was gone. TWO DAYS LATER...he was GONE. It still seems surreal to write this. Call me naive, but I could never have imagined that he would go that quickly. I'm used to our foster siblings being in the hospital for weeks at a stretch and making a full recovery. Despite Daniel's condition, I sort of thought we would have more notice before he went. I fully knew that 31 was 30 years longer than he was expected to live. Since his life had always been marked by miracle, I just was not prepared. Add on top of this the emotions of talking about options and being the one to sign off on those options and you find the current version of myself on December 18th.
I still can't believe he's gone. Christmas is fast approaching and I don't know how to take the nuances of one less person at our house this week. I suppose, in reality, it won't be one less person because we will inevitably invite more people than last year, but there will be a very real hole in my heart...
Brokenness- January 14, 2017
Five days from now it will be Daniel's 32nd birthday, a birthday he will never reach. That sentence shouldn't stun me, but it does...continually.
Every time I hear his name or speak it myself, I feel an aching in my throat and nose, tears burning the back of my eyes.
I don't know why it surprises me. He was never meant to live longer than a year. The fact that he lived 31 years was entirely a miracle, but it shook me to my core.
Perhaps it is that I have learned in my 30's to grieve things properly and in their time. Perhaps I am acutely aware of the utter normalcy that the loss of life is. Perhaps it was the weight of the responsibilities surrounding his death: putting him on life support, taking him off, and witnessing his passing. All I know is that he is gone and that it hurts.
3 months later, it hurts.
So, this Thursday, I will celebrate and I will grieve. I will recognize my pain as part of the process and it will hurt and I will once again give it to God.
I will see hope in the fullness of life around me- in the comfort of friends who have walked with me in my pain and sorrow and in the laughter of nieces and nephews. I will find love in the company of brothers and sisters who are still here with me and who I have grown to like as much as I love them. I will find joy in the reminder that Daniel is experiencing life like he never knew before. He is surrounded by perfect love and wants for nothing.
And, I will remember that this is part of the journey; that to feel is one of the greatest privileges of life, therefore, it should not be tossed aside. I will remember that I am human and in need of grace constantly.
A year later- Oct. 15, 2017
Today I went back to the hospital where Daniel passed away. It was an unexpected visit initiated by my sister's frantic texting. My foster sister was in the hospital. She is actually doing fine, but as I drove to the same hospital that we said goodbye to Daniel, my thoughts surprised me: Not again...not this close to losing him...I can't handle losing another sibling so soon. Notice how much of this was about me? Not her suffering, not her pain, but mine.
I was struck on Friday (as I visited Daniel's gravesite) by the thought that my sadness that day had everything to do with my grief and loss and nothing to do with his gain. He is only experiencing joy and peace, mobility and freedom. It's so strange to feel the dichotomy of joy for him and sadness for me. I'm aware once again what a gift it is to feel everything in the midst of loss.
And I pondered how his life itself was a gift to me. He was so limited in his body and mind and so simple and authentic in his feelings. If a room was tense or someone was angry or sad around him, he'd cry. If it was joyful, he'd laugh and giggle. The truly precious moments were when he broke tension with a laugh. You couldn't keep a straight face over a Daniel giggle. It was loud and then quiet; exuberant, then secretive, almost like a private joke.
I was given the gift from a young age of not taking everything so seriously and delighting in simple sounds, smells, and feelings like Daniel did. I think this privilege I feel can probably be summed up in a few lines that are on his headstone: "Your life was the miracle that God let us witness".
My church has been preaching on gratitude lately and something that one of the pastors said has been resonating with me this last week. She recently walked through a difficult time in her life and some of the observations she made speak powerfully to what God has been teaching me this year:
"We attach His goodness to pleasant outcomes. We attach His goodness with things working out in our favour. God is not good because we have a pain-free life. We are not blessed because things are working well for us. See, God is good because whatever we walk through, God comes near. He lavishes grace upon us. He sustains us. He strengthens us. He grows us. He enlarges our heart. That is why God is good."
Monday, 9 May 2016
Oh, What a Beautiful Morning!
This song is deeply entrenched in my mind this morning. It has looped over and over as I strolled to the town's bakery and back. Can I just pause and tell you what a deeply satisfying sentence that is? The aesthetic side of me has always wanted to know what it is like to live in a little town where you know all of the shopkeepers and birds serenade you as you stroll to the town bakery or flower shop. Well, reality is somewhat like the Disney interpretation.
I lay in bed until nearly 11 this morning, watching Scandal and generally mapping out , in my head, what I would do first. My stomach started creeping up near the top of my priority list, as its grumblings told me I would be semi-productive or totally angry if I didn't appease it. So, throwing my schedule to the wind, I threw together a semi-chic, small town girl Saturday morning outfit and put on the coffee (because my roommate works for the best coffee roasters in the Lower Mainland and I have a free pound of it burning a hole in my cupboard). As I glided down my steps and through my gate, I realized that I was sporting scary bedhead and a blank canvas on my face. My roommate's mother would be aghast. She tells her daughter to take care of her ABC's (always be cute) before leaving the house and I've barely taken care of A and B. Shrugging off my chagrin at sporting People of Wal-Mart hair in the cutest town in the world, I carried on my merry way toward breakfast.
Halfway down the road, I had already drunk in the hazy morning sky, the colourful running groups stretching by the trail, and several families wheeling buggies by me. The romantic side of me was inwardly exploding with glee and I just wanted to dance and twirl my way down the sidewalk. In fact, a well-placed bench would have quickly become one of my props. A Gershwin score was running its melodies through my mind.
I can not even make this up, but as I passed the local antique shop, a buggy started rolling away from a dad who had his back to it and I reached out and stopped it before it continued its course for the road. It fit so perfectly into my 'beginning-of-the-best-love-story-or-meet-cute-ever' morning. As I stepped into the bakery, I drank in the lightly powdered, flaky pastries, and hugged my arms to myself as I waited in line. I probably looked a scary disaster, grinning like a deeply contented mad woman on a mission for her delicious glutinous breakfast.
Musing over my walk, the reality began to play out and a smile curved my lips. In reality, a 12 pack of beer at the front end of the stroller is probably what caused it to start rolling away from the dad. Truthfully, in all of my single glory this morning, I couldn't remember fancy words like 'stroller' or 'buggy' and I quickly stopped it with my foot as I called out, "Excuse me, your thingy is rolling away". No word of a lie- that is what I said. Anyway, I picked up my delicious breakfast, walked confidently out the door, and proceeded toward home.
The Gershwin Score never left me and, as it played out in my imagination, I began to realize that mornings like this are full of romance for me. It's not the conventional romance of fairy tales and Nicholas Sparks books. It's deeper than that; it is my heart full. It reminds me of a quote from Friday Night Lights, of all things. Full hearts, clear eyes, can't lose. That's how I feel this morning. My heart is full and it is because of the notion that I am dearly and deeply loved. No matter what I face, I am never alone. And I never have been.
This morning, as I lay in bed, I realized that somewhere deep in my subconscious I felt like I had overcome the worst things that I may face in the first 20 years of my life. I somehow had imagined that I may have smooth sailing from here. I know that there are no guarantees in life, and yet I thought that I would never again face pain or trauma like I had in my past. What a strange paradox I am sometimes. Realistic and yet an eternal optimist. The truth is, I know that I have no guarantees in life other than a Creator who loves me, is everything to me, and guides me through this life. I'm not assured any absence of pain or suffering, but I am promised that He is here with me through it all. I trust that life will turn out better in the next 30 years because I know Him in a way I didn't as a child. I will never again have to face loneliness, betrayal, or suffering alone. No matter what happens to me or my loved ones, He is always my constant. And that assurance feeds a part deep within my soul that no other human could ever touch.
Therefore, with full heart and clear eyes, I strolled the rest of the way home knowing that I couldn't lose; that the very definition of losing had changed so much since I've met Him.
I lay in bed until nearly 11 this morning, watching Scandal and generally mapping out , in my head, what I would do first. My stomach started creeping up near the top of my priority list, as its grumblings told me I would be semi-productive or totally angry if I didn't appease it. So, throwing my schedule to the wind, I threw together a semi-chic, small town girl Saturday morning outfit and put on the coffee (because my roommate works for the best coffee roasters in the Lower Mainland and I have a free pound of it burning a hole in my cupboard). As I glided down my steps and through my gate, I realized that I was sporting scary bedhead and a blank canvas on my face. My roommate's mother would be aghast. She tells her daughter to take care of her ABC's (always be cute) before leaving the house and I've barely taken care of A and B. Shrugging off my chagrin at sporting People of Wal-Mart hair in the cutest town in the world, I carried on my merry way toward breakfast.
Halfway down the road, I had already drunk in the hazy morning sky, the colourful running groups stretching by the trail, and several families wheeling buggies by me. The romantic side of me was inwardly exploding with glee and I just wanted to dance and twirl my way down the sidewalk. In fact, a well-placed bench would have quickly become one of my props. A Gershwin score was running its melodies through my mind.
I can not even make this up, but as I passed the local antique shop, a buggy started rolling away from a dad who had his back to it and I reached out and stopped it before it continued its course for the road. It fit so perfectly into my 'beginning-of-the-best-love-story-or-meet-cute-ever' morning. As I stepped into the bakery, I drank in the lightly powdered, flaky pastries, and hugged my arms to myself as I waited in line. I probably looked a scary disaster, grinning like a deeply contented mad woman on a mission for her delicious glutinous breakfast.
Musing over my walk, the reality began to play out and a smile curved my lips. In reality, a 12 pack of beer at the front end of the stroller is probably what caused it to start rolling away from the dad. Truthfully, in all of my single glory this morning, I couldn't remember fancy words like 'stroller' or 'buggy' and I quickly stopped it with my foot as I called out, "Excuse me, your thingy is rolling away". No word of a lie- that is what I said. Anyway, I picked up my delicious breakfast, walked confidently out the door, and proceeded toward home.
The Gershwin Score never left me and, as it played out in my imagination, I began to realize that mornings like this are full of romance for me. It's not the conventional romance of fairy tales and Nicholas Sparks books. It's deeper than that; it is my heart full. It reminds me of a quote from Friday Night Lights, of all things. Full hearts, clear eyes, can't lose. That's how I feel this morning. My heart is full and it is because of the notion that I am dearly and deeply loved. No matter what I face, I am never alone. And I never have been.
This morning, as I lay in bed, I realized that somewhere deep in my subconscious I felt like I had overcome the worst things that I may face in the first 20 years of my life. I somehow had imagined that I may have smooth sailing from here. I know that there are no guarantees in life, and yet I thought that I would never again face pain or trauma like I had in my past. What a strange paradox I am sometimes. Realistic and yet an eternal optimist. The truth is, I know that I have no guarantees in life other than a Creator who loves me, is everything to me, and guides me through this life. I'm not assured any absence of pain or suffering, but I am promised that He is here with me through it all. I trust that life will turn out better in the next 30 years because I know Him in a way I didn't as a child. I will never again have to face loneliness, betrayal, or suffering alone. No matter what happens to me or my loved ones, He is always my constant. And that assurance feeds a part deep within my soul that no other human could ever touch.
Therefore, with full heart and clear eyes, I strolled the rest of the way home knowing that I couldn't lose; that the very definition of losing had changed so much since I've met Him.
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