-Milt

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On this fifth day in Africa we did not drive many total miles, but the ones we drove were on absolutely the worst roads I’ve ever traversed. The mountain roads in this region are dirt, washed out and rutted deeply, with potholes the size of Texas, alternated with iceberg-sized boulders that stand at just the perfect height to rip out the oil pan of any naïve vehicle that’s stupid enough to venture onto the road. Here near the equator the climate is temperate, the growing season long, the rainy season regular and faithful. These rural roads thread through what certainly has to be some of the most gorgeous land in the world, much of it planted in terraced rows of corn and cabbage and collard greens about as far as the eye can see in any direction. The verdant vistas across these roads are beautiful; but the prayer and confession required to travel these roads severely limits the scenic enjoyment. Stated another way, the roads are too frightening to allow for much scenic enjoyment–or much enjoyment of any kind– unless you favor off-roading as a hobby.

These roads are heavily traveled by pedestrians, bicycles and motorcycles. This is partly true because many of them are in such a condition as to not be suitable for travel in any vehicle that is not mostly tank, or of a two-wheeled variety.  I would be willing to bet that few people have ever gone where we went today in a Toyota minivan!  Even the locals were amazed! What Stephen our driver did today is right up there with Jesus walking on water; tales of his great automotive prowess (Stephen’s, not Jesus’) will echo through generations in the Mt. Elgon region of Kenya; near the end of our journey we presented Stephen with a trophy and proclaimed him “The Best Driver in the World.”  He simply took us places you cannot drive in a minivan, and we lived to tell about it. No tow truck was required, and no tires were changed. It was miraculous!  You may be wondering why we attempted such a feat; as difficult as they are to traverse, these roadways are the only ones that go to the places we went today, so they are important. It would seem clear that the government has no actual awareness of them, as they are carefully maintained every 9 or 10 years.  We managed to visit three schools today, only falling 5 hours behind in our schedule; I’ll write about those visits in another post. But while I’m still vibrating from the day’s journey, the sheer terror and excitement provided by driving thus far in Africa has caused me to come up with some rules for driving that may prove useful if you ever find yourself behind the wheel on the Dark Continent. (These rules are meant to be somewhat tongue-in-cheek, and in no way to ridicule Kenya or those brave enough to drive in it; they are, however, much closer to the truth than you might imagine!) I fully expect to see these in KEN-DOT publications the next time I go to Africa.

Some Rules for the Road while touring Africa:

• Nothing is too long or too large or too heavy to carry on a bicycle, along with your wife and four children. If you have a motorcycle, double that. A limit to the number of passengers on two-wheeled conveyances exists, and the number seems to be about 5, but might be stretched to 7, warranting certain necessities.
• There is no speed too fast when on a paved, or unpaved straightaway, even if the stretch of open road is only 50 yards long and even if it is not open roadway.
• There is no speed slow enough to travel on rural mountain roads.
• There are almost no posted traffic laws except one that is universal and absolute: drive on the left side of the road, unless you can drive faster on the right.
• Passing on mountains and blind curves is fine if you can pull it off.
• You cannot come too close to killing a pedestrian, bicyclist or motorcyclist until you actually do.
• Using your cell phone while driving is quite acceptable; using two at the same time is better!
• Potholes happen. Use any means necessary to avoid them. Any means!
• Seat belts are not required; they simply slow the response time of bystanders who are trying to remove your badly injured body from your burning car.
• The driver has no significant responsibility for the pedestrians, motorcyclists, or bicyclists he is bearing down on at 110 KPH; however, the thoughtful driver will provide a gentle honk at the last possible moment which may cause the startled pedestrian, motorcyclist or bicyclist to veer into the path of the vehicle now ten feet from his body; if it happens, it is the pedestrian, motorcyclist, or bicyclist’s fault anyway. Press on.
• There is no part of the road, or off of the road for that matter, that is unacceptable for use by the driver at any time.
• When it rains so hard that visibility is impaired, the driver should speed up so as to more quickly exit the storm.
• If a certain part of the road should become impassible, say due to flooding, the driver should pull off of the road and drive through the deeper water rushing underneath the roadway.
• A vehicle’s passenger capacity has not been reached until the trunk (the boot) and all cargo compartments are filled with human beings. If the removal of any number of said human beings allows for shifting and slippage of the passengers inside the vehicle, this means there are not enough people in the conveyance, and the driver must stop at the next crossroads and take on more passengers.
• (A corollary to the previous rule) The exit from the vehicle of two passengers means that three more must board at the next stop.
• If a slight mechanical malfunction occurs, say, the side door of the matatu van falls off, the van must keep on moving. Schedules are schedules after all.
• A driver should constantly monitor the road and traffic conditions present and completely disregard them at all times.
• If there should occur an accident resulting in a collision of two vehicles, (and trust me, there should occur a lot more of them!) the driver should pull off to the side of the road, look back in his mirror carefully, and then leave very quickly if the victim (as seen in rear view) is uninjured enough as to be making aggressive progress toward the driver.
• When approaching a military checkpoint manned by soldiers with AK-47s, the appropriate response is to slow, smile, wave and drive on through.A two-lane road does not mean there is room for two vehicles.  There is actually room for two large trucks, side by side, with a matatu minivan in between them, and a dozen pedestrians on each side, plus a third large truck, if need be.
• Speed bumps exist philosophically to bring order to the chaos; slowing down very much for them is a sign of weakness. Only the strong survive the roads in Kenya!

If you’re reading this and think I’m exaggerating, you haven’t driven in Kenya yet!  I left my good friend Francis Bii with a few heartfelt and urgent words: “Whatever you do my friend, buckle up and turn off the cell phone. At least one of them!

-Milt

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Tuesday begins early at the Bungoma Tourist Hotel, where we wake up wondering if during the night we’ve contracted Malaria, then decide not to think about it.  Travis and I vote on whether or not to risk the “shower of horrors” (see my earlier blog “Heartbreak Hotel”) and decide that it’s early in the week and we can skip the shower today.  Later, no one in the van complains, which means either that everyone else skipped the shower also, or we just don’t smell that bad, yet. The week is still young. A mercifully-short-but-tooth-loosening-drive down rural roads to the Eruli I School finds us rolling by the fenced and gated compound of said school in less than an hour. The instant we are seen, it is as if the schoolyard explodes in a frenzy of gleeful shouting and waving, hundreds of children reacting to the mere sight of our minivan matutu and LandCruiser convoy as if this is the day they’ve been waiting for all of their lives. And it is a red-letter day for them, because they know that today Dr. Milton Jones is coming, Dr. Milton Jones who bears both a huge burden and a huge responsibility for their well-being, and who is esteemed so highly here that even some of the children bear the names “Milton” or “Jones.”  We will also meet Wycliffes, Wesleys, and Augustines, names that bear testament to the great figures of Christian faith. Africa has been the destination of missionaries for hundreds of years; the residue of their imprinting still resonates in Africa. There’s also an “Elvis”; his name is a testament to something else…… Dr. Milton Jones is a celebrity in these parts, and for good reason. Of course, the daily blessings these children live by and through come from many hundreds of faithful supporters in the USA, loving sponsors who accept responsibility for the basic welfare of a child or several children. But in these parts and at these schools we will visit this week, Milton Jones is the face of CRF, and a catalyst that God has used to do some amazing things for ever-increasing numbers of Kenyan children, as well as others around the world. CRF has been doing great things for orphans for decades; Milton will tell you that he was simply put in the right place at the right time to get hit by the train of God’s sovereign work. At any rate, his willingness to care up-close has made him a celebrity here, and since we are with him, we are treated like celebrities as well. As we are herded toward the assembly hall, I feel a bit like a groupie. In Kenya, as we will more than learn over the coming days, there is a great deal of formality in the welcoming of guests. Almost as soon as we get out of our vehicles, a general assembly of the 300+ students is convened.  We walk into a large building made of mud bricks, then later covered with smooth stucco; wooden trusses hold up shiny corrugated tin roofs. These are newer buildings, not modern by our standards, but still substantial, well-built, and very functional–part of the catalyst of progress required when radically embracing the challenges of taking care of children and educating and feeding them. This room is full, with a little space at the front where our team of about a dozen is seated in white plastic chairs. These are places of honor, indeed. We sit perpendicular to another group lined up along the adjacent wall, the faculty, who are in my opinion, the real stars of Eruli. The headmaster welcomes us, the entire faculty introduce themselves one by one, and then Milton is invited to speak. The room comes to a hush as the revered Dr. Milton Jones, clad as always in orange, takes the center stage; they listen without a sound. They listen much better than American children!  After Milton speaks there is thunderous applause and then each of us is expected also to speak a word of introduction and greeting or encouragement or affection for the children; we’re new at this and a bit reluctant, but we catch on quickly.  It takes a long time. We are dismissed to walk a bit around the school grounds, touring the facilities and taking in the lush African scenery. The classrooms are basic, but clean and over-filled with wooden desks. There are well-used chalkboards painted on the walls here, and metal window frames with just an occasional pane of glass to prove potential. These rooms lack electricity, heating or air conditioning, as these kids are tougher than American children! On the walls are age-appropriate posters and charts, mostly hand-made, with alphabets and language vocabulary equivalents and numbers and animals and colors—much like you’d expect to find in any primary classroom. Their classes are “teacher-centric”–devoid of most aspects of trendy Western educational philosophy. The teachers teach and the children are expected to listen and learn, somehow, even without iPads! And learn they do, with scores that rank these private Christian schools as some of the best schools and best students in all of Kenya. Eruli is set in a tropical environment, just a few clicks north of the equator, and the plants show it, jungle-like in their size and hardiness. A “First Freeze Contest” would miss the mark here!  Banana trees are everywhere, filled with their ripening burdens and hyperbolic blooms, and everything else including the school farm is in hypergrowth mode during this almost-rainy season. We “veestas” mingle with children, who are delighted to see us and swarm whenever candy is seen, and then we walk among the rows of kale and corn that will become sikuma wiki and ugali, staples of the African diet. Before long we are called to tea, a British holdover ritual that exudes formality and civilization, beginning with the washing of hands.  An experienced member of our tour warns us not to eat too much of the fruit and snacks, because they will be feeding us again in just an hour or so. As tea ends, we wash our hands again and then are quickly called to another assembly in which the children will perform various poems and songs and dances.  The earlier assembly was only a “warm up” and now we will get down to the real program. As this is our first taste of a coming smorgasbord of “welcome visitors” (or “veestas” as they sing it), it is new and exciting. The children are incredibly talented, and their singing is unforgettable, piercing the air and vibrating the metal roof above our heads. They are bright-eyed and healthy and joy-filled, the anti-thesis of the “starving African child” on the TV hunger-relief ads; they perform with an energy that makes me think they could do it for hours. They do, in fact, do it for hours–and it takes a long time. After the last group performs, we are expected, once again, to all speak and offer our commendations for their efforts.  Milton goes first, we follow, then after the process, the children are dismissed and we exit into a sea of hundreds of beautiful African kids who want to talk to us, touch us, have their pictures taken by us, or if lucky, get some more of the candy we are handing out. (You have to be careful with this part; one of our group, Benny, pulled out a large sack of gum… he created a small riot and I was worried for his safety!) I have come armed with PEZ; I am looking for some of the smallest ones, the ones who keep off to themselves. I sneak half a PEZ package into their little hands; it is fun the watch the delight in their eyes when they see what they have.  More often than not, they will be sharing it with the other children soon. The morning now spent, lunch is served, another formal event preceded again by the washing of hands. We are fed like kings in a feast at the local founder’s home, a man named Emmanuel, who is responsible for the existence of these schools. I will write about him more later but for now I’ll just say that he is famous here as well, and it seems a great honor to even be in his house.  He is the reason for the Eruli Christian Schools; Eruli stands for “Emmanuel’s Rural Light”. Emmanuel is highly regarded by both students and faculty alike.  He is a man of great compassion towards what is in Kenya, and a man of great vision for what might be.  He sees the education of children, spiritually and physically, as the key to changing the future. Lunch takes a long time. In the afternoon we hurry off to another school down the road, a much smaller, newer Eruli High School; for some reason, we seem to be late in arriving everywhere we go.  Because the primary schools are doing so well, it is now becoming a large focus of CRF to provide secondary schools into which the younger students can progress. Here we tour the grounds and see two large dormitory buildings and a dining hall under construction, and then are ushered into assembly for another 2 hours of very formal, high protocol meetings with students and faculty. They end with their gift of a rousing musical and dancing production; I am awed by their energy, talent, and joy. It takes a long time. Where to stop this blog of this day of meetings without end? I’m thinking back to our very first assembly of the day. As each faculty member stepped forward to address the group, he or she began with a phrase: “God is good.”  The assembled children respond as one: “All the time!” The teacher continues: “All the time.” And the children together say, “God is good! That is His nature. Wow!” We heard this over and over, a phrase and concept obviously imprinted deeply in the hearts and minds of these children. If in their abject poverty and daily need they can believe this is true, why is it so hard for us to understand the same basic truth?

Memorial from Milton Jones for Emmanuel Namunyu.

I want to thank you for letting me share in this memorial time. I am grateful for my great friend and brother, Francis Bii, for telling my thoughts and speaking for me. I know he will communicate well and represent my thoughts as well as that of CRF.

My love and comfort is extended to all of you here. I wanted to send you my condolences.  Christian Relief Fund, CRF, and I send our greatest sympathies to Alice and all of the family, the children of Eruli and Milton Simotweet, to all the church members, and to the friends who gather in this time of reflection and memory. We are so thankful for the way Emmanuel was an exemplary leader for CRF in helping to serve the lost and the least.

Emmanuel was a great husband, father, educator, pastor, and so much more.

He was named appropriately. He was even born on Christmas Day.  When Emmanuel was in our presence, we were reminded that God was with us.

I’ve never met a better man than Emmanuel. He was my friend. One day he told me that we were just alike. I have never had a better compliment. I love him. I will miss him immensely.

My friend Jared Odhiambo told me that we are supposed to look at this world through the lens of James 1:27 where God tells us that true religion is about helping orphans and widows. Emmanuel did this better than anyone I know. Anytime we had to make a decision together, he would remind me– “It’s all about the children.”

He saw the world differently. There was a gleam in his eyes that was absolutely unique. It seemed that he was seeing things that other people were missing. His look was otherworldly. It was as if he were seeing into a realm of God that the rest of us hadn’t seen yet. And now he sees the Master face to face. What before was a preview for Emmanuel is now the ultimate reality. Emmanuel is with Emmanuel. He is saved.

Let me tell you how I met Emmanuel.

I was sitting in a CRF clinic that had just opened at the Ring Road Orphan’s Day School in Kisumu, Kenya. We had been working for about four years trying to build this little clinic that would help mainly with AIDS victims but also treat malaria, tuberculosis, bilharzia, cholera, and other diseases. I was told that a man had made a very long journey to meet with me because he heard that I helped children.

I invited him in to talk to several of us about his plight. He told us that he was a former schoolteacher and had started a little school that he called Eruli School. He was from a place near Bungoma. He told the story of how he was personally trying to take care of 126 children who were AIDS orphans. He had a small pension from teaching school and a little farm. But with the famine, his crops were just not enough to feed the children. As a result, the children were starving. He did not know what to do with them. So he continued teaching them about Jesus and praying. When he heard that I was in Africa, he took the journey to talk to me. It was hard to believe the incredible story of “Emmanuel’s Kids.” So I checked with Jared Odhiambo who had been there to confirm if his tale was true. It checked out. It was true.

With much remorse, I told him that Christian Relief Fund was not expanding and starting new works. Because of the great recession in the United States, we had lost sponsorships and money. As a result, we were trying to get new sponsorships for old works and children rather than for new kids. So basically, I told him “no”.

Then he thanked me. Even though I didn’t help him, he thanked me. And he asked if he could pray for us. He said that it must really be hard for us in the United States. So he prayed fervently that the Lord would bless us and help us through all the hard times we were going through in the U.S. Our bad times were nothing in comparison to his—but it didn’t matter to Emmanuel. He was gracious—and thankful.

Then we offered to buy him a bus ticket home. He said that he didn’t want to take money from us if we were in a recession. I insisted.

Then I remembered his name—Emmanuel–that means “God with us.” I was looking into the eyes of Jesus. It was totally what Jesus talked about in Matthew 25—as you do to the least of these, you do to me.

That’s when I realized that when you help Emmanuel Namunyu, you are helping Jesus.

I have never seen anyone on this earth more like Jesus. I have never met anyone who cares for children more than Emmanuel. When I last preached at Eruli, I said that Emmanuel is the hero of Africa. And he is my hero too.

CRF has changed. We help “Emmanuel’s Kids.” His ministry has expanded to touch thousands of orphans at Eruli, the new high school, and Milton Simotweet by Mt. Elgon. His work may have been slow in starting but now it is among the biggest of the Christian Relief Fund works around the world.

His ministry will continue long after his death. He told me that his desire was to give the leadership of his ministry to his son, Wesley. Wesley will continue to walk in Emmanuel’s footsteps. Wesley’s leadership is also my desire. And CRF will continue to work with Wesley as we have with Emmanuel. Certainly Wesley will need help from all of us here whether it is the family, co-workers, or children. But I believe in Wesley and know that we will see Emmanuel’s ministry continue in the same direction.

Most of all, Emmanuel taught me how to give thanks. When I didn’t help him, Emmanuel gave thanks. When I ultimately helped him with his many children at Eruli, he gave thanks. When I came to visit for the first time, he had all the children say “Thank you” to me over and over again. It must have lasted for 10 minutes. It was a foretaste of heaven. When I last heard him speak at church, he came to the stage and said to me, “Thank you. Thank you a hundred times. Thank you a million times. Thank you a trillion times.”

Paul tells us what God’s will is. God wants us to give thanks in all circumstances—good and bad. 1 Thessalonians 5:18–“Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.”

Emmanuel discovered God’s will. He was thankful no matter what was happening around him in life. I think that is the greatest lesson that he wants us to learn. And I am extremely thankful for Emmanuel.

I wanted to do something to remember Emmanuel daily. Over the years, I have ended my letters with a particular “closing” before I sign my name. I am going to change it now. I will end my thousands of letters from now on with “Thanks a trillion times!” in honor of Emmanuel. In my future I want to remember to be thankful, and I want to remember Emmanuel.

In your future, I hope you will remember the lesson of Emmanuel—be thankful in all circumstances. And I hope you will remember Emmanuel. He is the hero of Africa. He is my hero. He will be missed. He will be remembered.

-Milt

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After a busy and enjoyable Sunday at the Ringroad Church of Christ, our group headed out that evening crammed into a couple of hired matatus, one more time braving the Kisumu traffic in search of sustenance for our hungry horde of travelers. If you’re wondering what exactly a matatu is, then you’ve never been to Kenya.  In short, it’s a minivan designed for about 11 passengers, and it is a prime means of transport in and between Kenyan cities unless you want to ride a motorcycle or bicycle–a piki-piki–or risk a tuk-tuk, which is a three-wheeled motorized taxi. Or you can walk, which has its own complete set of inherent dangers. (While I will get into the wonderful world of Kenyan transportation in another blog, I will only say here that it is rare to see a matatu with 11 passengers; twice that is more the norm! There also seems no “end of useful service life” for these vehicles. The ones we rode that night had worn out about the time Paul was writing his epistles.) We ate al fresco that evening at a restaurant owned by a Muslim family. The fare was fried chicken, vegetable platters we’d been assured by our team leaders would kill us if we ate them, along with an appetizer of some sort of Arabian delicacy made from curdled barbecued milk that looks and pretty much tastes like white rubber.  It was every bit that good, and I passed on seconds. If I had to eat much of that stuff I might consider martyrdom! We survived the road trip back in our rattle-trap matatus, and then after a second night spent in the “Hobbit” room of St. Anna’s Guest House in Kisumu, the sun rises–not that long after it has set back home–and Monday finds us heading back into the slums of Nyalenda where at the Ring Road Orphan’s Day School VBS is the order of the day, our first Monday in Africa.

It’s ironic to be in Kenya on the first day of VBS as in about 8 hours, VBS will also be starting at my church back home.  (I love VBS, and having been a children’s pastor in my earlier years, I have organized and run a bunch of them. I have a wonderful staff now that includes Billy Kersh, the KING of VBS,  who is able to handle such things with ease. That said, there is a level of chaos that comes with it, and I have been tempted on occasion to put the “vacation” back into Vacation Bible School! It would seem that God has other plans, and even though I am most of 10,000 miles away from home, it’s Monday, and I’m at….VBS!) As we approach the school, things are already underway. I’m not directly involved; no one here knows that I am a former children’s pastor, and I haven’t volunteered that information! I’m really just watching today, which is a good thing for pastors to do sometimes, and I note quickly that there are some universal truths about VBS no matter where it’s happening. There is a degree of chaos, but it quickly moves toward order as the women take charge.  It is impossible to do VBS anywhere without women; they are a force to be reckoned with, and the troop of ladies who have come with us are no exception. They have a plan, and it will be implemented. There are a few guys helping out, but we know our roles; the women are the masters of the situation!  Also universal is the excitement in the air. The children are so happy, so eager for this day and its joy. And, most importantly, they will learn Bible stories of this Jesus who was once himself a child and who grew up not really that far away from here, and who probably looked somewhat more like them than he did me. Jesus is the star of VBS, and that is how it should be.

The day’s activities fortunately allow me to reconnect with some of the kids I met yesterday at church services here. They are all in school uniforms today, white trousers or jumpers with light blue shirts. I must confess I have trouble telling them apart. But that is OK… they find me, quickly enough! Pheline Dkinyi is determined to teach me Swahili; she presents me with a hand-written Swahili-to-English guide that might make me a kindergartner if I could learn even that much. Her notes are addressed to “Jacob”—which is the close biblical equivalent to James. “Jim” is not in their vocabulary at all. The notes are signed formally, “your faithful child.” Pheline wants to know much about my world, and my family. I learn she wants to be a lawyer; Pheline’s ability to question will serve her well!  Emmaculate Atieno is her friend; they are joined at the hip, a classic teenage symbiosis. She wants to be an artist, and her note is adorned with swirly line drawings. She asks if I will bring some markers for her when I return. She speaks that last part as if it will be fact; even though I have only been here for less than two days now, I feel reasonably certain that I will see her again, that somehow I must. Africa does that to you, I’m told.

A young man I met the day before finds me as well. His name is Evans; I called him Vanderbuilt yesterday because he had a sweatshirt with “Vanderbuilt”—as in the university—emblazoned across the chest.  He didn’t get it; my humor doesn’t translate so well here. Evan is a talker. He is tall and thin, soft-spoken, with intense eyes that seem to pierce the depths of my heart.  As I strain to hear him, he tells me of his older sister Diana, and of a younger sister who is in the hospital in Nairobi. It sounds serious enough, and the look on his young face coupled with the weight on his narrow shoulders tells me that it is serious, and he knows it. Still, I get $750,000.00 worth of his million-dollar smile from time to time. He is clingy, doesn’t want to leave when the bell rings signaling that break time is over. And I wish he didn’t have to. I don’t know why Evan found me, but I’m glad he did. These kids are but three of Kenya’s 2.5 million orphans. These are some of the more fortunate ones.

Several of us will be leaving soon after lunch, heading northward. We begin saying our good-byes, severing friendships that are much too young. As I look out over the sea of beautiful faces here at the Ring Road VBS, I am given to wonder a bit.  I’m an outsider, most definitely, just a visitor in their world.  I can’t imagine their lives, and I can’t help for a moment contrasting them with the lives of my own children, born into comparative privilege, and even now into their 20’s well-loved, protected, nurtured and sheltered still more than they realize. I have great kids, and they are grateful and appropriately thankful for what they have. But like their peers–and to a great extent like their parents—we are all somewhat oblivious to the material blessings and opportunities that we might mistakenly assume are our birthright. This experience is wreaking havoc with my concept of blessing, for these Kenyans I’ve seen and come to know so far, adults and children alike, have a joy that flows easily–completely in spite of their apparent poverty. I don’t see much of that kind of joy in America, even among believers. We have everything, but seem tired and worn and anxious, a nation that leads the world in stress-related diseases. They have literally nothing; perhaps it is in the emptiness of their circumstance it is easier for them to know just how good it is to have found a friend in Jesus. We sometimes sing, “He’s everything to me.”  They live it. Every single day. Maybe, just maybe, they are more blessed than we—for they can see it in the clarity that comes with a truly unencumbered, uncluttered life. I’ll have to think about this some more.

I’m glad for these hundreds of kids that caring and generous sponsors from America are truly allowing some basic material provisions to flow into their lives. And I’m glad that these three I’ve come to know just a little bit have found a loving environment at this orphan school where they are fed, clothed, educated, and bathed in a daily dose of both practical and proclaimed gospel Christianity. Seeing them gives me hope for their future. The old saying goes like this: “If you give a man a fish he will eat for a day; if you teach him how to fish he will eat every day.” Here at VBS and every day at this school they are being taught about Jesus, and that is teaching them how to fish. It’s not that they can survive and excel simply by bettering themselves. It’s that as they come to know Jesus the Fisher of men–they cannot help but be changed, and then become agents of change themselves. That’s the way the gospel works.

After a quick tour of a neighboring high school called “Oasis” the morning at Ring Road ends with lunch; we eat a bowl of rice with goulash, a much more substantive meal than the beans and rice they fed the kids, and I can’t help but feel a little bit guilty. We begin the walk of twenty minutes back through the slums, dodging sewage and chickens and motorcycles and bicycles—threading our way against the current of human hopelessness. We emerge on the other side, stepping across the highway as into daylight from the shadows. We cross the road, and make our way back to the sanctuary of our walled-in, guarded, gated guest house—a world of clean sheets, hot water, maid service, breakfast—everything you could need or want. It doesn’t do any good for Evan or Emmaculate or Pheline to want it. They will perhaps never have it, unless, God-willing, they can be some of those fortunate few who are afforded opportunities that will get them out of the slum. They have a tough climb ahead, but I see hope even in the dark corners of Nyalenda.

It’s time to pack up and load up for the road trip to Bungoma, north of the Equator. It will be my first serious roadtrip in Africa; the unknown beckons and there is still so much to see and do. But these are stories are for another page.

What is it? Today is World Toilet Day. I nearly forgot about it until my friends at the Water Center at the University of Oklahoma reminded me about it and helped me remember why it is so important.

If you know me, you know that I’m always looking for ways to help children in poverty. Did you know that a child dies every minute for lack of a toilet? Bill Gates has seen the importance of this so much that he is offering a huge sum of money for anyone who can come up with a better toilet.

Millions of people around the world don’t have adequate sanitation. Therefore they get all kinds of diseases. Thousands of young children die every day from the germs spread through human waste that causes diarrheal disease. Women and girls around the world lose their dignity and suffer abuse and attacks simply because they don’t have a private toilet. Shouldn’t everyone have access to a toilet? But one in three people in this world don’t.

It’s also a matter of economics when it comes to sanitation. For every dollar spent on sanitation there is a four dollar return. A good toilet can bring better health. There are fewer sick days for workers. More children can attend school regularly.

So as you go today, be thankful. And when you are there, try to think of a way to help others get this same blessing.

Happy Toilet Day!!!

-Milt

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I woke up today somewhere that I’ve never been before–in Africa, just below the Equator. After two days of almost non-stop flying across the world, we had made it by Saturday evening to Kisumu and the comfortable surroundings of St. Anna’s Guest House. I was assigned the “Hobbit Room”, a diminutive suite all by itself with a doorway about 5 1/2 feet in height, sized perfectly to seriously dent my 5 foot 11 inch head, until I quickly learned to duck. It’s been a strange night, sleeping in this tiny room for the first real time in about 30 hours. After the also fairly surreal experience of eating Indian food in Africa with our travel group, I headed back to the room, ducked (this time!) under the door, and studied my sermon for a bit before I finally crawled under my mosquito net and instantly succumbed to the sleep of exhaustion. In what seemed a few moments, the alarm was buzzing on my phone, and our first Sunday morning in Africa was in motion.

I learn we will walk to church this morning, about a mile or so away; we set out with a few of the group who’ve thankfully done this before. We walk along a roadway lined with some large homes and older estates. This part of Kenya has been here a long time, and I wonder at the history. Before too long, we turn the corner and see a larger highway, then meander across a field, navigate an ominous drainage ditch, and cross the asphalt. The typically chaotic traffic is less so this morning, early on Sunday. Even most of Kenya sleeps in on Sundays it would seem. We walk down an incline, and then are quickly swallowed up by the narrowing corridors of Nyalenda slum, the second largest slum in Kenya; a slum is defined here as a community where people live without running water or electricity. At the low end it is estimated that some 300,000 live in this one. We must be a strange sight, this gaggled queue of jet-lagged white people, purposely walking along a path I dare say not too many Americans travel. There are ramshackle houses and storefronts all along the way. I see vegetable stands, banana sellers stalking about, charcoal dealers, a butcher shop even, with an indistinguishable hock of meat hanging in the open air. I wonder for a moment how much a pound of mystery meat might cost in the Nyalenda slum, and who here might be able to afford it, and how fresh it might be. Lots of questions with no answers.

We walk deeper, much of our path strewn with trash, or muddied with the laundry water and tributaries of sewage from the hundreds of homes without plumbing. The smell of wood fires and acrid burning plastic mingles with the damp odors rising at our feet. Not enough wind here! At one point I watch a child draw a little bucket of water from a depression, scooping it up in a pail and running toward home with it. Even my one semester of microbiology makes me shudder at the thought of what might be in it. Up and down and across the one-car-wide road we continue, dodging the worst of the sinkholes and trying to look inconspicuous. It doesn’t work very well. Finally we come to our destination, a large clinic building on one side, flanked by a large schoolhouse on another. These buildings are blue, brightly decorated, almost out of place in the dinge of the slums. I will learn that they are indeed jewels of Nyalenda, specifically planted there to touch and bring light to life in the slum as much as possible. As we walk into the gates, the sound of singing wafts around the corner of the clinic building, and I am surprised to see a large, well-worn, blue and white striped tent awning. It is the Ringroad Church of Christ, and it is bursting at its open-air seams. This is where I’ll be preaching today. My stomach feels funny. Our journey (and this article) have already taken a long time; but the church here cannot be understood apart from its setting.

What follows this morning at church may not have been the strangest worship experience of all my preaching years, but it certainly was the first time I’ve had a goat wander up to the platform and take a seat underneath the communion table. (I’ve seen donkeys in church before, but that was at a pageant, or some of the more stubborn two legged kind who tend to show up often!). I still get a little tinge of nerves every time I stand up before a crowd. But this is different, as we are given seats of honor in the front row. We’re sitting backward on the seats of desks from the school, ordered on a slab, chunks of concrete and rebar symmetrically forecasting a real building someday. And now that we’re here, the real service begins. A few songs are sung, some with vaguely familiar tunes. Even though many Kenyan’s speak some English, their accents make it hard for my West Texas ears to assimilate, and most of what I hear is their native Swahili. As the service progresses, the butterflies in my stomach go on the rampage. The goats 20 feet away in the field next door are teaching a biology lesson that’s hard to miss, and all this time, with everything else I’m trying to take in, I’m fairly certain I’ve brought the exactly wrong message for this crowd who have emerged from the slums to become a congregation.

It wasn’t even my fault. A few weeks before Larry Wu heard me preach a sermon on avoiding the pitfalls of materialism, or being sure to live with loose-handed approach to the things we have. He said it was exactly the right message, and that it was the one I should preach in Africa. I trusted him. He’s a smart guy. He said these folks needed to hear it. But my first impression is that these people have next to nothing, that they know and live out abject poverty every single day in a way I can’t imagine. And the more I think about the disequilibrium between their circumstance and my sermon, I’m unnerved. And I’m really missing Sunday back home!

Since there are no alternatives, as my turn comes I stand and rather awkwardly prove how out of place I am, by spending both of my Kiswahilian vocabulary words in the same opening phrases. “Jambo”–”greetings” I say, and they answer back, “Jambo”. Wow, I’m bi-lingual. I mention the other word, tumaini, which means hope. And I, more than any person present perhaps, am hoping I can pull this off. I’m saved in part by my interpreter, a gentle giant of a man named George Obonyo. George is the pastor of this slum church; I am instantly impressed with his demeanor, and his voice. He is the James Earl Jones of Kenya. I had instructed him before I began to not let me say anything stupid, and to improve my message any way that he could. I quickly believe him to be capable of both requests. Having gone too far to quit now, I wade in deeper and George and I learn quickly this dance of sharing a sermon in two languages. He mimics my inflection, he gets excited when I do. He sometimes uses 20 words for my one, and occasionally one for my twenty. It’s interesting, and the crowd is riveted. I must be quite the oddity, or entertainment must be in short supply in Nyalenda; perhaps both! I’m thankful for the 20-plus other white faces in the crowd. They look out of place here too; at least I am not alone!

I give it my best, and do finally manage to land the sermon, still wondering if I’ve also managed to offend a church with my message that seems to fit spoiled and wealthy Americans so much better. But the response is warm, and later Larry will remind me of what I know already–that even those who have very little can still be gripped by it; they have fewer idols to tempt them than we do, but the idols are still ever-present and just as real. If I only have a bowl, a cup, the clothes or shoes I wear–it is still all-too-easy to think that these are MINE, and that having so little I have no responsibility to share with those who have less. Any people who have been helped significantly can come to expect the help, come to almost demand it. Materialism is a disease for which there is no known inoculation; the only known cure is radical unselfishness and gratitude.

So after what is probably much too long, or at least seems that way, I’m done. I sit down, so very thankful to be finished. We move fairly quickly into the Lord’s Supper, perhaps the one thing in the entire service that resonates in it’s familiar commonality. As I commune there I think of my church family back home who in 8 hours will be doing the same thing. And I think in a new way about the whole word “communion.”

After this the leaders introduce and pray over a new baby, sadly uncommon in a city of orphans in that it has two parents who both know and love The Lord and who desire that life for their child. Their devotion is touching. An offering follows, and I wonder how these people can have anything to give at all. We visitors give generously from our rolls of newly acquired Kenyan Shillings; I suspect the offering that day may cause quite a commotion among the deacons and treasurer. I’m sure it will be well-used, as it is certainly well-needed. And then, just when I think it is safe to begin to feel a little more comfortable, what happens next is the most striking thing of the day, and possibly the entire trip. This crowd, men, women and children who by my standards have next to nothing–the difficulty of whose lives I can’t even fathom–begin to sing with all their hearts what seems to be their favorite song. It goes like this: “He’s done so much for me that I cannot tell it all, I cannot tell it all, I cannot tell it all. He has done so much for me that I cannot tell it all, my Lord has done so much for me.” They sing it over and over with energy I rarely see after church has lasted two hours! And as they sing, I realize they understand what I was preaching about, and now they are teaching me, and showing me, after all, that they are the richest people on the planet. That’s the real sermon of the day, and I will never forget it.

A long time ago God brought a message himself to a world that was diseased, destitute and lacking. While he had been showing us himself and his love for a long time, we weren’t understanding very well. So to interpret and demonstrate his love in a way we could understand, this God became one of us, and lived right in the slum of sickness and sin and disease and heartache, right here with us for a time. He became poor, clothed in our rags, confined to our skin and our seasons. Ultimately, that skin was shredded for us, and all of his perfect sinless blood was spent to pay for our sins. Through that gift we orphaned slum-dwellers became the adopted sons and daughters of the King himself. This is good news that he brought. And now I am guilty no more, and filthy no more and sick no more. He’s done so much for me that I cannot tell it all….!

Barnabas is in charge of drilling for Hope Water that is the division of CRF that drills for water in the drought in the Horn of Africa. When I met Barnabas, he said—“I am a driller. That’s who I am. That’s what I do.”

Barnabas and his crew live in the desert in Turkana. They work in an area where it has not rained in six years. It’s a tough place. They sleep on the ground. The heat is unbearable. They shoot animals with bows and arrows for food. Why would they live under such circumstances? All for water.

“Water is life!” Barnabas said. Thousands and thousands are dying all around this place. And if Barnabas finds water—they live. I asked him why he left being a driller for the biggest company in Kenya to go to the desert. He told me it is because we are Christians. Bringing living water was just as important to him as bringing the water that comes out of the ground.

It took us about 9 months to get a rig to Turkana. We had to jump through so many hoops with the Kenyan government to get it in that our patience was tremendously tried. But it was worth it when water flowed for the first time.

I got to be there and see with my own eyes the water from the first borehole. Barnabas made it a production. He stood on a high platform on the rig by himself. He had all kinds of knobs and levers to pull to get things in order. He called all the cameras around him. He took a dramatic pose. And with one more pull of a lever, water was streaming up from the ground. As the water was drenching over his head, Barnabas dramatically jumped from the platform to the ground. He gave us a thumbs-up and a smile. Then he gave me a giant hose where I could shoot the water from the ground into the air. Pretty soon he was gathered with a group of the natives singing and dancing as they celebrated the life coming from the ground.

“He turned the desert into pools of water and the parched ground into flowing springs.” Psalms 107:35

As I looked down the river, I could see colorful little dots coming at me. I knew who they were. It reminded me of the baptism scene in “O Brother, Where Are Thou?” But this group of people were not dressed in white. They were dressed in the most colorful robes and gowns you have ever seen. The women wore bright colored beads all up their necks. The men had wrapped themselves with bright blankets and were carrying canes. You could hear them coming because the drums were beating with each step. High-pitched Africa trills accompanied the oncoming crowd.

We had just met outside for church under a tree. (If you know my story about the children under the tree, this was the church we started there a little over a year ago). I remember the chief who gave me land at this place asked me— “Do you think all of my people should become Christians?” Well, about a year later, hundreds of them were coming to church. And after my sermon, we invited them to come to the river.

Exactly 30 people were baptized in that river. Markson, our CRF evangelist in Turkana, had the privilege of baptizing them. Turkana is so hot (literally a desert) that I thought about jumping in with everyone else. I have never experienced drums, dancing, yelling, singing, and rejoicing like they do at a baptism in Turkana. All of this started a little over a year ago when we drilled a well in this place. We drilled a well which led to a farm which led to a goat ranch which led to a town which led to a CRF school which led to a church which led to 30 baptisms today.

What a story!

Jim Shelburne, who preaches at Washington Avenue Christian Church in Amarillo, said—“It was a perfect day!” Jim was correct.

She was wearing a full-length gown. It was bright red, and she even had a hat to go with it. She was wearing a sash to make her look like Miss America—or should I say Miss Kenya. They had built a little runway for her to walk down (kind of like a beauty pageant). Actually, they brushed the dirt a little bit, but it was effective.

Katherine was the last one. Other boys and girls from our school in Eldoret preceded her down the runway. But she had the privilege of being the finale. And at the end of her walk, Katherine came up to me and escorted me. She gave me a present—a piece of wood with Romans 8:28 written on it. We stood in front of the entire crowd at the assembly. We had our picture made, and then she asked me to dance. It was a big deal.

I thought about what this meant to Katherine, especially when it comes to self-esteem. A few years ago, she had been living in the slums with dirty clothes, very little food, and no possibility of an education. Now she was a glamour queen walking down the aisle with someone she admired. Her clothes were beautiful. She was well fed. And she was excelling in her education. She felt like she was worth a million dollars.

When the event concluded, Katherine came up to me and thanked me over and over again for walking with her. She told me how thankful she was for her opportunities. Then she asked me if I knew Randy and Lisa Darnell. I told them that I knew them, and they lived in the same town I was from. She told me to send them greetings and to tell them how much she loved them. Then she started crying. She just could not stop crying when she thought of them. They were her sponsors. She said she could not have had any of these good things without them. She could not stop crying. I wish more sponsors knew how they not only provide food, education, and housing—but they also give self-esteem to the children who need it the most.

Indeed, Katherine was beautiful. It was more than the clothes. Her beauty went down to the heart. She chose the verse wisely that she gave to me. It was the story of her life. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are called according to his purpose.”

I’ve never seen children more excited about learning. Madame Maurine, their principal, reminds them every single day about the wonderful opportunity that they have simply because someone whom they have never met, their sponsor, gives money so they can eat and get educated. And they listen. They are grateful.

Being in an assembly at Suzy Peacock is like being on Let’s Make a Deal. No matter what happens the crowd goes wild with laughter, claps, and joy. To put it simply they have found hope.

One ponders how a bunch of orphans can be so happy. One ponders how a bunch of poor children devastated by AIDS in their area can be so smart. Suzy Peacock is only five months old, and its students are already scoring among the highest grades in Kenya. Their motto is “Limitless Desire.” That’s a lot like hope, isn’t it?

Proverbs 13:12 states– “Unrelenting disappointment leaves you heartsick, but a sudden good break can turn life around.”

These children had “unrelenting disappointment” for all of their lives. Disappointments for them came from poverty, disease, grief, and a lack of education.

Then all of a sudden, they got a good break. A school was built. Someone sponsored them through CRF. And they are going to take advantage of the sudden good break. They are going to make sure that their lives turn around.

I have never more vividly seen the results of a sudden good break. I don’t think I have ever seen how sponsoring a kid totally turns a life around. I hope you can give a child a break. Thanks for those of you who have.