Life Center Foursquare Church

Soweto Slum

We traipse into Soweto slum through garbage, heaps of gagging smells, then cross a bridge over a stream of raw sewage. I spot a group of boys playing on a bald hill. Sliding down the steep incline on their dusty butts employs certain survival instincts that they abandon to chase after us calling, HOW ARE YOU HOW ARE YOU HOW ARE YOU HOW ARE YOU?, a tortuous chorus like bird-chatter. The question follows us like shadow.

Smiling children are everywhere, they chase after us like the ubiquitous flies. The air is humid and heavy with the smell of sewage. After a visit with the happy and brave pastor who works here, we arrange ourselves in groups of 3 0r 4 and disperse to knock on doors, basically invite ourselves in on the passport of being American. In the quiet gracious way of all Kenyans, we are not only allowed poke our paleness inside (which makes me feel like a voyeur), but we are ushered onto the best of the few seats. The room? About like a walk-in closet. But Kenyans value relationship. I hope that is what I am doing, the relationship thing. Conversation is hard. How is this different from staring?

Men are missing. They are not working; they are dead—from AIDS. Women sit on the street or in homes talking in small groups. Seemingly idle. But they universally ask for prayer for jobs, work, employment. The throng of children who still follow us stand at the doorways watching and waiting for us to stand before revving up the chant, the unanswerable pester, HOWAREYOUHOWAREYOUHOWAREYOU?

Laundry seems to be one thing the women do—everywhere lines of clean clothes hanging in the stench. I consider how the damp swelter is permeating my hair and clothes. Certain people collect buckets of raw sewage from each family as a kind of employment. Dump it in the small river. Clean redefined.

My faith tries to find a clean spot to sit down, thumb and first finger pressed on the tear ducts. My prayers are repetitious and fragile. Giving all that I have will only be a drop in the sea. I recall Psalm 41—Blessed is he who considers the poor… . I am embarrassed by my apparent blessings. And almost as if in refute of my self-pity I hear in my head verses from John where Jesus declares, "I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry… —a small hope intercedes, that for this day gifts of bread and a Bible are a good thing.

Everywhere giggling children are having fun, children wanting to touch our hands--a sign of respect. Our gifts are bread and Bibles. I somehow expected to be delivering simple round crusty loaves, but no, it’s bagged white bread, sliced thin. They love it.

Adiedo Village

They want to talk to us, but don't know English. But they all know the words, AMEN and HALLELUIA. The essentials. We have a rival of smiles.

Children caring for children--it is not burdensome to them, it's just what needs to be done. We pass out more sliced white bread. I watch a little girl of no more than 5 tear hers in half, passing to the sister she carries on her back the larger portion.

In Kenya it is an honor and privilege to go to school. Kids wear their worn and threadbare uniforms proudly. Dirt floors, meager wood benches, a complete lack of resources. David Opap went to school here and had to break every new pencil in half to share with someone, yet he was accepted into college in MN and received both bachelors and masters degrees. Oh the pencils! We brought a whole suitcase of pencils. Such a small thing that was exactly right. How often do you get to bring a gift that is exactly right?

Speaking of gifts, we brought along reading glasses to give to those who might need them. We had the villagers either thread needles or read to determine the necessary strength of lenses. One old mama tried on several and then, then after staring at her book for many minutes, looked up nearly in disbelief saying, I can read my Bible again. Another younger woman tried on several successively stronger lenses, finally saying she wanted to try the strongest ones, those black framed ones over there. We couldn’t imagine this young mother having eyes that bad. Turns out, after finding a pair of glasses in the lowest power in black frame, that what she actually needed was a fashion statement. Oh honey, I love you for that. I so understand!

The Hospital

A hospital. Those who should not wait, tarry too long in coming. My camera intrudes like a knife. Makes permanent both hope and despair. Doctors and nurses smile and work hard, doing what they can with nothing and with God. We are not expected to wring our hands at the want. Here they cheerfully do what they can, dutiful stewards, diligent servants, in an imperfect world. They trust the spirit for the lack. Give a cup of cool water to those expecting to die. Not perfect grace, grace perfected.

We are here to pray. I tend to pray by beseeching and begging God for healing. Peter said, such as I have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and walk. Then Peter took the man by the hand and yanked him up. Never even prayed a prayer. Just yanked Him up. Gutsy. Can I do that? Should I do that? I wish I could stop thinking about myself long enough to try. Kenyans pray with so much more authority than I do. Their faith is front and center. Their prayers are loud and bold.

Hospital Essentials: respect. In the hospital everyone is given respect. Prayer. Everyone wants prayer—even the Muslim man. I thought to mention only God as I prayed for him. I knowingly left the word Jesus out of it (trying to be all things to all people). I dodged around in my brain amidst the prayer trying to catch wind of the Holy Spirit, trying to be conscious of the authority given me, then, In Jesus name… I punctuate the prayer. It couldn’t be helped or stopped. Lord, what does this mean? To him? To me?

The Orphanage

Babies are here only up to age three—if there is any family at all. At three they can be given back, usually to be cared for by other children.

These babies don’t cuddle easily, as if they know we are leaving and are resisting that disappointment. The older ones grab at our pants and hands, trying to get a hold on us. Desperate longing not just for unconditional love, but undying love. Most of their mamas have died from AIDS.

One of the older boys, who is three, had been taken back in by family members and then returned shortly after. Too hard they said. I watch this boy try to get close to Joe. It is so easy to play with the one they call Barak Obama. He responds in familiar ways. His father visits weekly and soon will bring him home. Ashy skin, ringworm in his hair, this other boy is thin and a little wobbly. Many in our group mistake him for a girl because of the unfortunate flowered shirt he wears. His neediness sticks to you unnaturally, feels like a boatload of baggage. I watch Joe sit on the ground while all the toddlers crawl over and around him. The thin boy maneuvers over to Joe’s shoulder. He stares intently at Joe until Joe finally takes notice. For the briefest of moments they are caught together while the boy’s eyes insist, please please choose me and Joe’s careful look saying, I’m sorry, so sorry, that’s not why I am here. All that was understood and misunderstood in that moment makes me cry still.

End Notes

Bearing witness. How very little my psyche has had to do with bringing people together from the far corners of the earth for this moment (of finding water). I had no voice affecting the endless engineering or the delays. Email or phone calls—I am unimportant and ignorant in that conversation. And yet here I am with the honor of bearing witness to God’s miraculous power, this great throb of water bursting out of the red African dirt. I am the teller of the story.

God has moved heaven and circumstance for us in so many ways. No one can deny that driving into the village that bright sunny morning and bearing witness to the drill rig spraying water was miraculous. And there is no substitute for friendships found and forged. But what I remember most from the whole trip—after sad orphanages and abysmal hospitals, being dangerously stuck in the mud, after watching faith touch the poor even though my manner of praying was more paltry than I hoped, after discovering my testimony is my brightest torch— above all the good and terrible of these last weeks, what I remember now are thigh-high grasses waving over rolling hills, the umbrella and thorn of acacia trees standing alone here and there, sky as big as Montana with thunderheads that rumble in the deepest blues and violet, and the hiss of breeze around my ears. This is not just being surrounded by beauty, but actually hearing that language in my ears, the rocks, the grass, the sky crying out in chorus: Holy Holy Holy is the Lord God Almighty. Holy is the Lord. I heard that song and I knew all the words. It awes me to the core. Makes me feel like Moses with his shining face. Something about being face to face with the Lord. Though perhaps my face isn’t shining on the outside, it still is inside.

I lift up my eyes to the hills. Where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth (Psalm 121:1)