Sometime in October, I discovered a huge plot of land behind my 5-plex. Once a garden, I found it overgrown, desperately in need of a good weeding. What I also found was a pumpkin, medium in size and growing.

I wasn’t about to let such a magnificent piece of land go unused, so I hired a gardener, bought some seeds and what was once overgrown now sports a banana tree, tomatoes, carrots, sweet potatoes, celery, basil, turnips, onions, passion fruit, papaya, and rosemary. And of course, a growing pumpkin.

On December 20, after two months of waiting for the first ripe product of my new hobby, I found myself staring at a very ripe, very yummy looking green pumpkin, roughly as wide as my toaster and slightly shorter than my coffee maker.

My interaction with cooking pumpkins had always been limited to that which came in a can, usually with an easy, do-it-yourself recipe on the back.

So, now what?

Thanks to the help of Ree Drummond, my favorite Pioneer Woman, and some helpful hints from a few neighbors, I set forth on a brand new adventure: turning this massive squash into what I know and love without the help of Libby.

First, I found the largest knife I owned. Then I proceeded, over the course of ten minutes, to maneuver it to get nice little pieces.

This was really the kitchen’s way of determining the strength in my triceps and pectorals. Yes, cutting pumpkins is the kitchen’s push-up workout.

Who needs P90X when you have a fresh pumpkin?

Once I had sufficiently proven my strength to my kitchen appliances, I stuck the pans in the oven and let the pumpkin pieces roast.

In the meantime, I played a game of I SPY. That is, I spy with my little eye…a pumpkin seed!

Because, if you’re going to go to all that work for fresh pumpkin puree, you might as well have some pepitas to go alone with it!

After roasting the pumpkin pieces to a nice yellowy-orange color with browned edges, I pulled the pans out of the oven and let my creation cool.

At this point, all I did was peel the orange bits from the green exterior, throw it into a food processor and bam! I now have six cups of pumpkin puree sitting in my freezer. Oh… the possibilities!

As for the pepitas…. well, I ate them all before I could snap a picture. YUM!

And so, after 2 months of patience and 2 hours of preparation (which included an upper body work out and a game of Where’s Waldo?), the pumpkin food baking and cooking binge can commence.

Might I repeat…Oh! The possibilities!!!

I have read the story of David and Goliath more times than I can remember. I read it in my beginners’ bible as a child, I acted it out as a middle school student, and I reread it as a high school student. Each time I read the story, I discover something new about it.

Yesterday was no exception.

Monday marked the beginning of the Christmas field meting for the missionaries of World Gospel Mission Kenya. While I do not belong to the mission, I ventured out to Turi with the rest of the crew to work with the junior high school students while their parents attended and participated in the business meetings. And for devotions yesterday, this is precisely the story on which we focused.

Just like me, many of my junior high school students had read and reread this story. And like I had, they had always thought David’s confidence and courage in the Lord a no brainer. Why wouldn’t you trust God? Of course you should. That is, until I turned the challenge onto them.

Goliath doesn’t always come in the form of a nine and a half foot threatening Philistine giant dressed in bronze carrying a javelin. Sometimes there are aspects of this life that seem simply insurmountable and that leave us shaking in our boots, terrified. For my students, it’s peer pressure, it’s conflict, it’s discerning right from wrong, it’s watching time pass too quickly, it’s understanding how to hear God. For their fearless leader, it’s no different. And for all of us who once believed the Israelites cowardly, we found ourselves in the same position.

“What about these things terrify you?” I asked them.

“The fact that I don’t know how to overcome them,” one said.

Bingo.

I am not a pastor. I can’t even say I have studied enough scripture to be any sort of authority on the matter. As  reread this story with these students, I realized that the fear that so strongly struck the Israelites came from themselves. Because those Israelite soldiers did not know how to fight. They were realizing their limits, limits set by a giant. Their limits scared them. My limits, my inability scares me. And it seems to also scare my eight middle school students.

And that is where David differs from all of us. Yes, he is a bit cheeky, waltzing onto the battlefield, talking story with the soldiers and then the king. But his confidence comes not from himself. It is in the Lord Himself, David finds his will to defeat Goliath, and with only five stones at that.

“So it seems,” I told them, “overcoming these challenges starts first with strengthening our relationship in Him, in turn finding our confidence in Him alone.”

Then I gave each of them five stones.

“These five stones represent the five commitments you are going to make this year to deepening your relationship in Christ. What are they going to be?”

What is your Goliath?

What five stones are you going to use to overcome him?

Every year, I look forward to the first Sunday of Advent. It signals the beginning of the most wonderful time of the year, to quote the famous 1963 Christmas song written by Edward Pola and George Wyles. It is the season of Christmas lights. Of turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy. It is the season of shopping, of decorating, of traveling.

This year, however, my Advent and my Christmas will be different. It will be Kenyan.

This is not the first time, I will admit, that this fact has occurred to me. In fact, it has been gnawing at me. But in these weeks of attempting to fend off creeping bitterness and disappointment, God has started to open my eyes to the ways that Christmas transcends geography, climate and sociology. I think I always knew this. It is only now I am beginning to understand it.

Hence begins my translation of Christmas.

The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son and they will call Him Emmanuel, God with us. Isaiah 7:14

I am a little embarrassed to admit just how much I love American Christmas materialism. I am positively giddy when I see a beautifully decorated tree, a fabulous display of Christmas lights, an immaculate bow on a present. Let’s not even get into Peppermint Mochas and Soy Lattes at Starbucks. And if it snows? Forget dignity. I am outside in a heartbeat skipping, jumping and singing, “Let it Snow!” at the top of my lungs.

Between the climate and infrastructure, Bomet is generally devoid of such Christmas season hallmarks.

As much as I love living and working in this country, it doesn’t come without its challenges, its frustrations, and its tears.

Training staff in screening for cervical cancer

When you work at a Hospital in rural Kenya, you are busy. Everyone is busy. Everyone is stretched thin, attempting to do jobs that five people might do in the States. Everyone is prioritizing. On a daily basis, therefore, I am not only faced with my own mile- long to-do list, but I am also faced with ensuring that all tasks done in collaboration with busy departments are completed and that another request hasn’t jumped me in the priority queue. In the midst of juggling your interests with the interests of everyone else, all while trying to accomplish 4,000 tasks, I have more than once found myself tangled. Tangled, stuck and exhausted, wondering how I am going to ensure the highest quality of care, the appeasement of my co-workers and the maintenance of my own sanity.

Amid this crazy chicken dance, the emotional backdrop of suffering, of death, of abandonment elicits a profound vulnerability and sense of helplessness. When the six-year old daughter of a beloved house helper suddenly dies or the beloved wife of an orphanage director unexpectedly suffers a stroke, I am left wondering what I can do. How I can alleviate the grief that I see. I can’t.

When a newborn baby is wrapped in a blanket and abandoned in a pit latrine only to be found barely alive by her grandfather, I am left dumbfounded, wondering what maternal predicament could provoke such a response. I am simply left wondering how I can help this orphaned child. I can’t.

I can’t.

It is this inability, this constant search for strength and motivation

These women always remind of the strength we find in Christ

that engenders Christmas spirit. Because no matter how many times I get home exhausted wanting to stomp my feet in frustration and despite the many times I attempt to bear the weight of the sadness that surrounds me, God is with us. It is through Christ, I can do all things. It is in Christ that I rejoice in suffering. It is in Christ that I find rest- the physical, emotional, and spiritual rest that rejuvenates, that motivates and that truly infuses all ordained tasks with purpose.

Christmas is the season of Love. God is with us.

Emmanuel, come. Oh come, oh come, Emmanuel. Ransom captive hearts that grieve, that mourn, that suffer.

Rejoice! Emmanuel has come and will forever Be.

A few months before I came to Kenya, a friend and mentor of mine told me to take pictures of everything because soon enough everything unfamiliar would become normal. I didn’t believe my friend.

Then soon enough happened.

I went to Bomet yesterday to get passport photos and as I smiled in front of a tacky background of palm trees, I realized that this normal trip to Bomet most certainly wasn’t normal. And as I waited for my passport photos to be printed, I started to wonder…where else has abnormal become normal?

Speaking Medical.

I am not a doctor. But living at a hospital for two and a half months has made me fluent in medical. Because doctors don’t just speak medical at the hospital or even at the office….

8:00 pm. The Bemms House. This pedatrician, you will remember, is the father of the 3 cutest Kenyan toddlers on the compound- Shadrach, Ellie, and Esther. Earlier in the day, all three toddlers ate Craisins. At 7:45 pm, Amy and I were sitting on the couch and Dr. Bemm was getting the little guys ready for bed. He had just taken them out of their bath when all the sudden we hear, “OH SHADRACH! GROSS.” It seemed the Craisins were making their move. As Dr. Bemm rushed Shadrach to the bathroom due to a serious case of “poop- poops” (that’s the medical term), we heard, “Shadrach. You have a gastrocolic reflex for a reason. You eat. You poop. Then you take a bath!” Note to self: Never feed your toddler craisins and start gastrocolic reflex training early.

Case in point. I always talk about my reflexes. Don’t you?

Persistent Interaction with Toddlers.

Oh how far I have come since my first day with Ennee. I’m a regular with Shaddy, Etter, and Ennee and I think they are starting to get to know me….

(As I walk into the Bemm house)
Shadrach: No.
Carolyn: Hi, Shaddy!
Shadrach: No.
Amy: Shaddy, look who it is!
(Shadrach starts picking his nose)

I mean, they don’t try to get my attention as much as they try to get Amy’s….

(In the high chair, Ellie is adjacent to Esther)
Ellie (in increasing decibel levels): Mama. Mamaa! MAmaa! MAMA! MAMAAAAAA!
Amy: Yes, Ellie?
Ellie (pointing to Esther): Etter.

But sometimes there are those small moments whenI feel loved….

Carolyn (looking at Ellie): Hi
Ellie: Hi.
Carolyn raises her eyebrows
Ellie raises her eyebrows
Carolyn puffs out her cheeks
Ellie puffs out her cheeks
Carolyn glances to the left
Ellie glances to the left.

I like to think of it as a secret language.

Food. Food Eating and Food Shopping.

New York Times printed an article about American school lunches and the vegetable standard. There is apparently a battle in Congress about just how much tomato paste counts as a serving of vegetables. Tomato paste. See for yourself…

Food, I will admit, is a very normal part of everyday life for everyone, everywhere. But the type of food, the source of food and the preparation of food….

Before coming here, I really enjoyed preprepared foods. I’ll have a Grande Half Caf Soy Latte. I’d like a salad with spinach, tomatoes, no eggs, and chickpeas. Honey Whole Wheat with Honey Almond, please. Just a Diet Coke would be great. Let’s go for McDonald’s ice cream.

Here in Kenya, the closest thing I have to prepared food, besides the hospital restaurant, is our local grocery store, Radiant Supermarket. To newcomers, it is a dark, dank, dusty sort of place that always seems to be out of your favorite soda. But to the seasoned ex-pat who has become accustomed to shopping at the local market for fresh produce, struggling to communicate, and being baffled that a bag of carrots only costs 20 shillings (that’s roughly 25 cents), Radiant is like the Mecca of packaged food. Sprite. Digestive Biscuits. Margarine. PROCESSED SUGAR. Sometimes you can even buy Nescafe. The cashier speaks English. Win.

In all reality, though, my entire concept of food has changed and I only realized this fact when I heard that the US government was arguing over tomato paste. Not only can I get a variety of produce locally and very inexpensively, but I have started a garden in my back yard (picture pending). I am the proud owner of bananas, papayas, sweet potatoes, pumpkins, celery, spinach and Sukuma Wiki (a kale like plant), a collection soon to include tomatoes, passion fruit, and green peppers. So to hear that my fellow Americans consider tomato paste, the pizza topping, a vegetable, I can’t help but be flabbergasted and confused by such nutritional standards.

Stay tuned for Part 2….

At 3cm long and 2.5 cm wide, this small epithelium lined muscle tunnel at the base of the uterus is literally the key to the entire female reproductive system. It allows the flow blood and tissue during menstruation, guides sperm into the uterus during conception and directs the entire process of childbirth.  According to the World Health Organization, it is also responsible for the death of about 2,000 Kenyan women every year.

Cancer.

Caused almost exclusively by the Human Papillomavirus, this invasive, albeit slow growing cancer is asymptomatic in its early stages, making it virtually undetectable until the disease is quite advanced. That is, unless cervical cells or the cervix itself is visualized routinely to detect precancerous lesions and abnormal cells. Ever wonder why it is necessary for women to get a yearly Pap smear? It is precisely for this purpose. And indeed, since the widespread implementation of the Pap Smear program in the United States and other developed countries, cervical cancer mortality has decreased by about 70%.

Not so in the developing world. 80% of cervical cancer cases are found here. Why? Well, if we boiled it down, it would come down to this:

Lots of HIV: To quote Lucy Muchiri, a senior lecturer at the University of Nairobi, “Women who are HIV-positive have weak immune systems and this makes them very susceptible to persistent human papillomavirus that develops into cancer of cervix…It takes a relatively shorter time for the HPV virus to develop into full-blown cancer of the cervix for women who have the HIV infection … It would take relatively longer in women who are not infected with HIV”

Not so much in the way of resources: Traditional Pap smears require cytopathology laboratories and cytopathologists. In a word, resources. Unfortunately many hospitals in the developing world cannot afford such resources and therefore cannot offer screening programs.  3.2% of women in Kenya have access to cervical cancer screening and only 2.6% of women in rural areas have comparable access. So how can we detect precancerous lesions and abnormal cells? Well, if we plan to use traditional Pap smears, we really can’t. All we can do is hope that once symptomatic cancer develops, there might be something we can do.
Education….or lack thereof: People don’t really get cancer. That’s not exclusive to Africa, it’s just a little more widespread here. What’s more is people here can’t afford to go to the hospital until they are really sick. So the whole concept of preventive medicine isn’t a popular one. And rightly so. If it costs you 500 shillings to get to the doctor and you make 200 shillings on a good day, would you go to the hospital for a screening test?

Ok. So what does this actually mean?

It means that when a recently widowed, recently diagnosed HIV+ mother of seven comes to the clinic complaining of vaginal bleeding and is found to have cervical cancer, it is so advanced that all we can do is send her home with pain medication. It means the only silver lining is that this woman’s family and village won’t have to sell everything they own to keep their mother alive because there is literally nothing that can be done.

I might sound melodramatic, but sadly, this is the tarnished reality that exists here.

But what if there was something we could do? What if there was a cost effective, logistically feasible screening approach to cervical cancer that could work in this setting? Enter Dr. Paul Blumenthal (circa 1995), a Hopkins doctor working in Africa who sought to answer just that question. After consulting with other gynaecologists in the field, his proposal: swabbing the cervix with a solution of acetic acid and viewing the cervix with the naked eye. When such a solution is used, abnormal lesions on the cervix turn acetowhite. Granted, we have no way of knowing if such lesions are benign or precursor lesions, but we can at least if something abnormal exists and treat it, using cryotherapy (ever had a mole frozen off at the dermatologist’s office? Same concept, we are just freezing cervical lesions instead). And the organic chemists have probably already figured out the best part of this scenario. For the rest of us though, the best part is this: the magic 5% solution of acetic acid is simply household vinegar.

So here I am. Working with a team of doctors, nurses and administrators to coordinate the implementation of such a program at Tenwek Hospital sharing in one goal: to save lives.

So here I am. Trying to develop the tools necessary to get the message out in the community. GET SCREENED!

And if we can pull this off, maybe just maybe we won’t have to send anymore mothers home with an apology and a pack of pain killers. Maybe, we can catch this thing early and send them home cured.

While I’m at it, to all ladies 21 and over: have you scheduled your annual pap smear yet?

For further reading: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/27/health/27cancer.html?_r=1

I will admit, failure is difficult for me. I dwell on it. Bask in the sheer embarrassment. Feel awful. Miserable. A downright dud. Such was the night of the epic cookie mishap. Instead of handling the buttery embarrassment with dignity and poise, I was grumpy, snappy, and just not a particularly pleasant housemate by any stretch of the imagination.

Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Goodness. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Self-control. I sometimes wish that simply accepting Christ as my personal savior would endow me with such coveted traits. It, unfortunately, is not that simple.

It was only a few hours after this baking disaster that I was whining to a friend of mine. I so often fall short in striving for the fruits of the Spirit. Not just in dealing with embarrassing situations, but all the time. I don’t always love people. I am not always joyful or peaceful. Patience? Forget it. His reply was simply this: Sanctification doesn’t happen in a day. It doesn’t happen in a lifetime. It’s a process and God gives us the experiences that will develop these traits in us. Perhaps the struggles you are having now are simply those experiences God is giving you to build those areas of weakness.

How did I come to have such wise friends?

As I contemplated it, I started to realize the truth in this so thought-provoking response. What if my cookie failure was simply a really important baking lesson I needed to learn: don’t attempt to make cookies in a hot kitchen. If you do, be PATIENT. Put the dough in the refrigerator, then bake. If it doesn’t go well? That doesn’t mean you have a free be-the-worst-version-of-yourself-because-you-are-frustrated pass. Show some SELF-CONTROL. Maybe practice some GENTLENESS.

And best of all, be JOYFUL in the lessons.

Well the next day was the big chili cook-off for the compound. I was asked to bring chocolate chip cookies. Of course.

Ellie seems to enjoy my baked goods...

So. With a little bit of a pep talk from my ever so kind roommate, I picked myself up, marched into the kitchen and began the process. This time, I refrigerated the dough. I had to twiddle my thumbs for a few minutes in my earnest attempt at patience. The result, however, was magical. So magical, in fact, that it was the first dessert plate to be entirely empty at the cook-off. It was a little bit easier to be joyful this time around.

I know that this microcosmic lesson in patience might seem a little sugar-coated. And it is. Life isn’t as easy as chocolate chip cookies. Trust me, I know that. And I think God knows that.

Maybe life is just one big octathalon (Like a decathalon with only 8 events). And each event is like one of the fruits of the Spirit. In order to train  for such events, we need a coach that will train us appropriately. A life coach. A God coach. For me, patience is a huge weak spot. I am probably the most easily frustrated person on Earth. So, God gave me cookies…5 pound dumbells to start. Perhaps later, I will face greater challenges in the art of patience. For now, though, cookies is about as much as I can handle in my Olympic training.

“Habari gani,” I said shaking his hand, a typical Kiswahili greeting. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the janitor look up. The expression I caught on her face indicated her surprise at finding this person speaking Swahili was a mzungu. I continued to explain to Mushyoka that I wanted to study cervical cancer and wanted to find out the best way to go about doing so from a restrospective approach.

The stunned look on this janitor’s face became all the more apparent.

What this janitor didn’t know when I walked in was that in addition to trying to become fluent in Kiswahili, the national language in Kenya, I was also beginning to learn Kipsigis, the tribal language here. Granted, I still have absolutely no earthly idea how to form a sentence, but I am learning basics. I can count to ten, successfully (at least I could on Friday). I can say “I am going home.” I can say “thank you,” “I already have that,” (a particularly useful one when old Kipsigis mamas come selling produce that you either don’t want or already have) and I can say “swallow” and “chew” (also particularly useful when a certain two year old refuses to eat.)

So when I said to Mushyoka “awendi go’noon” (I am going home in Kipsigis), the janitor looked up at me and a smile started to creep across her face in a rather uncontrollable manner. Her expression said it all…the white girl can speak KIPSIGIS?!

As I got up to leave, I bid my farewell to Mushyoka. As I was just about the close the door behind me when I heard the janitor say to Mushyoka, “anajua, eh?” (in Swahili, “she knows, doesn’t she?”). I couldn’t help myself. I poked my head back in the door and said, “ndio, bibi. Ninajua kidogo tu.” (Yes, miss, I know only a little.). The janitor smiled again and started chuckling with delight. I continued, “and I just learned how to count to ten in Kipsigis!” Mushyoka was now chuckling.”Okay, ” he said, “count.”

And so I began.” Agenge, owing…” the janitor was looking increasingly surprised, “Somok, angwan, moot, lo, sitik, tisap, sugol, theman.”

“Eh, nzuri sana!” the janitor replied. I have received many of the surprised looks from people around here and so the reaction did not particularly surprise me. I have also come to learn that if anyone starts laughing at you after speak Swahili, it is usually a sign of surprise and not of ridicule.

What I wasn’t prepared for was what the janitor said next, “Asante.” She said, “thank you.” I must have looked at her quizzically because she then said, “Asante. Thank you for learning my language.”

There is a Kipsigis proverb that says this, “Kiwakeen chelelei ak kelu chebo tany.” Though it literally translates to, “If you scare a jackal, you will end up drinking milk,” it is meant to communicate the importance of encouragement- that no matter how small or insignificant your effort might be, it can mean something huge to someone else.

And that is what I experienced today. My learning is slow and my memory leaves much to be desired. Though I can’t say much, it seems that my effort means something to that janitor. Something worthy of her most sincere appreciation. It is moments like these that give me hope. That make me think I am doing something that will be appreciated and that will mean something to someone.

Chamage. That is the Kipsigis greeting. Oddly enough, though, it doesn’t mean “hello,” “how are you,” or any other variation of the American colloquial greetings. No. It literally translates to, “do you love yourself?” It might seem a little vain, but it is an interesting method of gauging one’s demeanor or mood. And the proper response is, “mising,” which literally translates to “yes, very much.” Though I have said the correct response on many occasions,  I can’t say I have always sincerely meant it. But when I was walking back to the apartment after this particularly moving encounter, a Kipsigis woman passed me, saying, “Chamage.” And without hesitation, I immediately replied, “mising.” Because that day, I did love myself. I loved that my efforts at learning this language, however minute, meant something to someone. I made someone’s day. Someone thanked me. And that is what I love.

“Many nights we’ve prayed with no proof anyone could hear- in our hearts a hopeful song we barely understood. Now we are not afraid, although we know there’s much to fear. We were moving mountains long before we knew we could. There can be miracles, when you believe. Though hope is frail, it’s hard to kill. Who knows what miracles you can achieve when you believe. In this time of fear when prayers so often prove in vain, hope seems like the summer birds too swiftly flown away. Yet now I’m standing here, my heart’s so full I can’t explain, seeking faith and speaking words I never thought I’d say.”

I have always thought that it is up to us to see the ways that God is working in every situation and in every life. That just because we cannot readily see His work does not mean it isn’t happening. Perhaps we just cannot see it because we are blinded by all of…life. Our decision to see God in His glory through our lives is a matter of our perspective. And as I listened, having just come from four days of desperately wanting to feel normal, I decided that my tomorrow would be a day where I would view my world through the eyes of hope. Where I would look out for God’s presence and be utterly astounded by it.

“Hi! My dad and I wanted to see if you would come to lunch at our house today.” Rachel said, popping her head in the door of

Rachel and Joanna

our apartment. Rachel just turned 24 and is the youngest of ten children. She is the daughter of a visiting obstetrician at Tenwek Hospital. Her mother died last year. When Joanna and I heard that chicken enchiladas, asparagus and strawberry rhubarb pie were on the lunch menu, we gladly accepted the invitation. What I didn’t realize when we accepted this very kind invitation was that today was her mother’s 65th birthday. Today, we were the honored guests at a very special birthday party, one we weren’t privy to until the end of my prayer over lunch when Rachel said, “And God, I pray for my mom in heaven. God, make sure she enjoys her birthday today.”

Shortly after our lunch with Rachel (it turned out that her dad never made it to lunch as he was called to an emergency C-Section 10 minutes prior to lunchtime), we were invited to a real birthday party, that of Mr. Joshua Shadrach Bemm, more commonly known as “Shaddy” (I am now speaking fluent toddler. It’s much easier to pick up that Kipsigis). Today, we were celebrating Shaddy’s two years of life. While in many of my other posts, Shaddy has only been peripheral to his silly little sister, Ellie, it seems fitting that I explain a little of the miracle of Shaddy’s two-year old birthday. Shaddy, along with his two sisters, Ellie and Esther, were adopted. Nobody really knows the full story of Shaddy’s past, but whatever it is, the fact that he is celebrating his birthday on the patio of a loving family of nine and in the midst of a community of more than 25 truly is miraculous. Though, even at two, I think Shaddy (and his sisters!) was more excited about the funfetti cupcakes!

Can we have birthday parties every day?

   

Cupcake bliss

As I played hide and seek with Ellie (it was a little more like a game of peek-a-boo hide and seek with a dash of “pop goes the weasel”) and held the ever so cuddly Esther Gloria, I started to think of the miracles that I had seen in the wards even while I have been here.

Esther Gloria ("Etter")

Like the woman who came in having had 13 miscarriages and finally, at age 41, delivered a healthy baby girl. “The whole ward rejoiced,” said Ivasha, the nurse I work with on the WHO study.

Or the young girl who attempted an illegal abortion, subsequently had a pelvic abscess and came into the hospital on the precipice of death. She gets to go home tomorrow, alive and well. This particular case is an interesting one as a public health major and one very passionate about maternal issues. I could go into my thoughts on elective abortion policy. This is not the venue, however. This is simply a testament to the miraculous nature of our God and his abounding mercy.

To end my day, I brewed myself a cup of tea.

Hi Enne!

And on the tea tag was a verse from Paul’s letter to Ephesus.
Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever.

“And now I am standing here, my heart so full I can’t explain, seeking faith and speaking words I never thought I’d say”

(especially after my miserable gut-wrenching week). Because God always provides. Be it in movies, in babies, in birthday parties or simply in cupcakes.

“Is she your daughter?” one of the pharmacy technicians asked her.
She laughed, “I am certainly old enough to be her mother, but no. She is only my daughter for the next nine months.”

There is a profound beauty about Tenwek Hospital and the community that it houses that I haven’t yet fully described. It is here that I have about five moms, one set of grandparents, oodles of friends and (my favorite part) about ten siblings. They are not biological, of course, but for the next nine months, I get to claim them as mine and I have the blessed opportunity to learn and grow in my experiences from them from each.

Amy has seven kids, three of which are newly adopted Kenyan toddlers from the AGC Baby Center in Nakuru (See ENEE!) and still manages to wake up at 5:30 am every morning to do an hour of P90X. I have already started her morning workouts with her and biking across the USA was a breeze compared to this set of exercises at 7,000 feet. But besides her amazing ability to persevere and stay strong in the midst of what many might call a chaotic household, God has also given her the blessing of patience and compassion. She is so very willing to have a long afternoon conversation about life while watching the little ones on the lawn. She can very often provide articulate insight into interpersonal relationships and will often provide much needed levity to sometimes challenging situations.

Abby, David, Kayla, Jamie and Emma are the “big kids” on the compound. They are all in the American equivalent of 7th grade and 8th grade and have already decided that Joanna (my roommate) and I are going to be their oh-so-teasable older sisters. A few nights ago, they found a frog in the yard and subsequently knocked on my door to “borrow a movie” (I didn’t know they had the frog). Of course, I let them in only to have and big slimy frog thrown at me. I screamed and haven’t lived it down since. Now that they are acutely aware of my utter disdain for such creatures, I am sure they are plotting their next prank. Though I am dreading my next amphibious interaction, I must say that laughing with the pranks lends itself to solid relationships and it is through those relationships that perhaps God might work through me to help them grow as He has worked through so many others to help me grow.

I first came in contact with Dolly when I was at Tenwek last summer and I look forward to getting to spend even more time with her. But perhaps what I have experienced and love about Dolly is her ability to listen and to empathize. Even if it’s a casual conversation about the mundane or one more emotionally charged, I can go to Dolly and without fail, she will make me a cup of tea, offer me a biscuit and hear me out. She makes it so easy to admit mistakes and she is so able to forgive. I wish I had that kind of patience and that ability to provide so much grace and compassion.

And of course, Joanna, my roommate. It has been in our first week together that both of us have noticed our many differences. It has also been in the same first week that we have recognized what a God-given gift it is to have such differences between us. Whereas I am more naturally organized and neat, she has an amazing ability to understand and explain philosophy and theology. She thrives on it and in that, I have learned so much already about thinking through such intellectual concepts logically and rationally. And as a microbiologist, she can almost always tell me which microorganism causes what ailment.

And these are just a few stories of my newfound neighborhood. No matter how much I moan, whine and complain about chores and housework, and no matter how often I reprimand the electricity and internet for going bonkers, I would not trade the conveniences of the US for the community with which I have the opportunity to live and interact.

Because in the end modern conveniences may make communication easy and information available, but they also make me very lazy. And in end, my experience with this amazing group of God-fearing people will make me a better version of myself. After all, isn’t that what Tenwek is about?

**None of that posted in my blog necessarily reflects the position or opinions of the U.S. Fulbright**

It is time intensive. I remember when I first arrived in Kenya and heard that people hired house helpers, I was a little confused and found the practice a bit archaic, Out of Africa style. Yet, having lived here for two weeks, I cannot wait to hire a local lady myself to help with life. And here is why:

Drinking water requires collecting it from a large rainwater tank, boiling it, and filtering it.

Taking a shower is much more complex as more often than not, the water is brown.  And thus I must fill a bucket with the same rain water, heat it and use it to rinse my hair after I wash it.

Washing clothes requires using the washing machine, line drying and then ironing.

There is a wide variety of vegetables around here. In addition to the vegetable stands that exist on various corners, an array women come to the door, selling vegetables of all shapes and sizes…pineapples, lemons and pumpkins. Just today, I bought a bushel of cilantro for 30 shillings (92 shillings= $1) from Ruth. Eating vegetables, however, requires peeling them, chopping them, and soaking them in vegetable bleach, fishing them out of the bleach water in handfuls and patting them down with paper towels. And if you don’t….well then you run the risk of amoebas and giardia and other oh so delightful GI ailments (they truly are delightful). I can also get produce in Nairobi…like apples and all sorts of other things we cannot get here. But that requires some meal planning.

I don’t have a dishwasher.

We can get milk extremely cheaply here. But, it is straight from the udder. Thus, we must boil it (to pasteurize it) and skim the cream from the top. Every time we pour it in anything, we need to use a cheesecloth strainer.

The roads are made of dirt here. So, walking around I track in dirt and mud. What does that mean? So. much. more. cleaning.

Drinking a bottle of soda requires me to bring my previous bottle back to the duka (shop). Otherwise, I get charged a bottle tax of 50%.

The local butchery here is only open on Mondays and Wednesdays. And very few of the butchers speak English. The only chicken you can buy here is whole chickens. Thus, if I have a hankering for chicken, I need to de-bone an entire chicken. ONE WHOLE CHICKEN. Alternatively, I would need to plan out meat consumption for two months and buy lots of meat from the butchery in Nairobi. Of course that requires calling the Nairobi butchery ahead of time, asking them to vacuum pack and freeze my meat for pick up.

Good sliced bread is not readily available here. So I bake it.

Saltines and Ritz crackers don’t exist here; only “digestive biscuits.” So again, I make them.

There are no chocolate chips here. So if I want to make chocolate chip cookies, I need to chop up a chocolate bar.

Coffee creamer also doesn’t exist so I make my own mixture with whole milk and a can of sweetened condensed milk.

I need to buy a lot in Nairobi when I go…spices. Canned goods. Household items. Shampoo. Pasta. Rice. Kitchen goods. Coffee. Peanut Butter. Cheese. Jam. Yogurt. DIET COKE. Books. Notepads. Phone Fill- Up Cards (here, there is no such thing, really, as phone plans. You choose your carrier, get a SIM card, and load minutes on using pre-paid scratch cards. It is about 3 shillings every minute to call locally.)

Now, have I mentioned that the internet hasn’t been working? We use a modem that we bought from the cell phone store in Nairobi. But alas, it is SO SLOW.

Have I mentioned that the power goes out for an average of 5 hours every day?

Have I also mentioned that I have actual work to do… as in at the hospital?

I wish I had taken a home economics course. And I really want a house helper. But right now I am trying to enjoy this salt of the Earth lifestyle I find myself living. Though I miss the convenience of the U.S, there is something to say for know exactly where your food comes from.

**None of that posted in my blogs necessarily reflects the position or opinions of the U.S. Fulbright**