What Do You Have For Me, God?

That's the question several friends have encouraged me to pray, and so I've tried. This past weekend I had the sweet gift of a cross-Colorado drive. The real reason for the trip was visiting with a dear friend, but Brett also encouraged me to think of it as major processing time -- perhaps the only time I'd get before I depart on October 7. (He's so wise, my husband. So glad he's willing to send me away to ensure my heart is where it should be before this trip. Love him.)

Anyway, I literally drove into the fiery sunset... and then on into the night, on an unfamiliar road with many hairpin turns. I was crawling up Independence Pass, singing and praying through the blind curves until I crested and began the descent.

Okay, this is sounding corny, but it all felt so apropos. Starting out with hints of beauty, finding myself in unfamiliar territory, plunged into a deeper darkness than I expected -- I felt like I was driving through the last 10 years of my life.

It had been far too long since I had such extended time to converse with God -- something I have avoided by choice, admittedly. It was precious and I knew it, so my main focus was on that big question, "What do you have for me, God?"

Because I turned 30 last year, I had already been asking that question. I haven't received any tangible answers, but Kenya is a new context and I'm trying to go expectantly. These past few weeks in particular have been filled with more frustration than peace -- why am I here, what do you want me to do, God? Will my purpose and calling be revealed on this trip?

That's what I'm really praying for, I guess. To explore this niggling idea -- that my giftings could be in answer to the challenge of opening people's eyes to how God wants us to work in His world. I remember having that initial thought in high school, when I was discovering the power of my own voice. I could be a writer, I thought. But I knew then that it would be scary and hard and personal, and so I pushed it away.

Then in my last semester of college I read an article about the Rwandan genocide for a political science class. I'm still haunted by the power of the story the author chose to tell, the way she framed the larger issue (how could this happen?) with the stories of the people on the ground. And a small voice inside of me said, I want to do that. I want to write in this way, to open people's eyes. There are stories that need to be told. 

I heard that voice again five years ago when I read a book by Tracy Kidder, a journalist whose brilliant long-form storytelling style easily transported me to central Haiti, where Dr. Paul Farmer set up a clinic to combat drug-resistant tuberculosis. Along the way, he learned that misunderstanding the culture and tradition of others is a more of a threat than the communicable disease. I finished the book (called Mountains Beyond Mountains, check it out) and immediately reread it, savoring the way the words leapt at me, standing out like beads of sweat in the humid Haitian air. And that little voice whispered again, you can do this too, you know.

This is already a terribly long post, but I'm processing through it all. I think with my job at Mission of Mercy, I've heard that voice over and over again. And as hopeful as I am that I could be used in such a way, I'm also terrified. I can't ignore the pull in my soul, but can I really do it?

Right now, Sara Groves' song "Add to the Beauty" is my theme song, one I sang at full tilt on that drive through the turning aspen last weekend. I guess it's more of a prayer than a theme song, because this is what I want so desperately to do.

We come with beautiful secrets
We come with purposes written on our hearts, written on our souls
We come to every new morning
With possibilities only we can hold, that only we can hold

Redemption comes in strange place, small spaces
Calling out the best of who we are

And I want to add to the beauty
To tell a better story
I want to shine with the light
That's burning up inside

It comes in small inspirations
It brings redemption to life and work
To our lives and our work

It comes in loving community
It comes in helping a soul find it's worth
Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces
Calling out the best of who we are

And I want to add to the beauty
To tell a better story
I want to shine with the light
That's burning up inside

This is grace, an invitation to be beautiful
This is grace, an invitation

Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces
Calling out our best

And I want to add to the beauty
To tell a better story
I want to shine with the light
That's burning up inside

Paradigm Shift



Now you may be thinking (judging by the title) that I'm talking about how going to Kenya is going to change the way I view the world.

I fully expect it to... but not in the way you might think.

When I asked to go on the trip, I actually asked to go to Asia. I was being my ueber-practical self and had analyzed the content we had in house -- photos, videos, stories, etc. -- and felt that Asia both had the strongest connection to the ministry yet the weakest consistency of content. So I wrote up a basic presentation, went to my boss, and straight-up asked.

And instead of Asia, my boss offered up Kenya.

That wasn't an option I had anticipated.

Having seen others go on the trip, it also wasn't something I wanted to turn down.

A quick history of the trip: it's called Women's Circle of Caring because two women were blown away by the beauty of the Maasai people as well as their needs. Because the Maasai are pastoralists (animal herders) the men take their livestock further and further out in search of good grassland and water, something increasingly difficult in this time of extended drought in the Horn of Africa. This means the women and children are fending for themselves and doing an admirable job. We have much to learn from them.

Yet we (Mission of Mercy) were also able to meet some of their needs for a clean water well and even (through a very generous donor who happens to be going on my trip) a simple building to be used as the community center, project building, and church.

This is third year for Women's Circle of Caring to go to the Emarti Maasai region. I am most eager to see how they respond when they see many of the women from previous trips have returned -- last year, when they recognized some of the women, the Maasai villagers burst into tears. They were convinced that we wouldn't come back. I think they may better understand our commitment now, and I am eager to see what God does with it.

But because I had mentally prepared for an Asia trip, I had to evaluate my goals. Were they the same? Quite simply, I wanted to meet the women and the children, to witness how their lives have changed because of the project, to see the pure joy in their faith.

In terms of Kenya, I really wanted to focus on this rather than the fact that I was the youngest person on this trip. (And by youngest, I mean by more than 20 years.)

I couldn't quite get over that bit. I tried to have a sense of humor about it, but the truth is I was nervous. It went beyond how I would deal with a dozen post-menopausal women in tank tops and capris when even in the heat of central Africa I'd be in a scarf and probably a fleece. How would we relate? Most of them had been to Africa before, even to this very project in Kenya, and I -- the Mission of Mercy employee -- was a newbie.

I didn't like that idea.

But I realized that I had a chose to make here. I could continue to dwell on the age differences, or I could look at it as an opportunity. You see, I've always been the oldest. Oldest child, oldest in my group of friends. I was an RA in college, choosing to take on a level of responsibility while others had the typical college experience. I've always been the mother hen.

So while I fully expect to have my mind blown by Kenya and the women and children of the Maasai, the first paradigm to fall will be of my own making. I can anticipate the awkwardness, or I can relish the opportunity to be the baby for once in my life. I'm starting to learn more about the women on my trip -- as scary as it is for me to be the inexperienced one, these women are risking things in a whole new way. They could stay content in their current situations, but instead they are choosing to venture out and learn and serve.

I hope to learn a lot from the Maasai women, but I think I have a lot to learn from my fellow trippers, too.

The Long Journey There

How did I end up going to Kenya?

I was reminded last night that it started so many years ago --  last night God led several friends to speak truth into my heart using verses He had given to me almost a decade ago, perched on a rock in the only rainstorm Colorado Springs experienced in the dangerously dry summer of 2002.

Since that day -- when God smacked me over the head with His unchanging love and a hope for a different future -- I have wandered around a strange wilderness of fear, loathing, doubt, depression. I have found the truest friends and lost many more.

But now I feel I'm coming out of it. And I am praying that going to Kenya will cement that. I've worked at Mission of Mercy for nearly 3 years, and in so many ways I'm amazed to see how God aligned everything from a Political Science and English degree to a growing passion for justice issues to bring me to a job as a writer for an international organization seeking to change the lives of children.

Yet those three years have been hard, mostly because I've been writing from the depths of my imaginative heart about something I've wanted -- but feared -- seeing: what poverty does to a child, and what little it takes to change their lives when the body of Christ recognizes the call.

SO at the suggestion of a coworker and friend, I want to write about my expectations. And then, when I get back, I can see just what God was doing in my heart. So here goes...