Thursday, September 25, 2014
Continuing with a letter I wrote to my granddaughters on August 1, 1996, from Nairobi, Kenya:
Dear Maggie and Emma,
… The Bible says God is good and just, but why do I have so much while many of my Kenyan friends have so little?
They’re good, hard-working people who love God and serve Him, and something within me expects that good things should come to them. They must cry out, like David, “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (Psalm 13:1).
I search Scripture, I pray, and I ponder. What is poverty? What is wealth?
Our Maasai friends believe your grandfather lives in poverty—only one wife, only two children, and no cattle.
Who is rich, and who is poor? Compared to many of our Kenyan friends, your grandpa and I look rich in material goods, but compared to our friends and family back home, our missionary income makes us look poor. And, as poor and desperate as some of our Kenyan friends are, they’re rich compared to millions of people living in places like Zaire and Sudan. It’s all so confusing.
I know that sometimes people suffer because of their sins—they must live with the natural consequences of their bad choices. However, all too often someone else’s sin inflicts hardship on people. When a man runs off with another woman, for example, he leaves his wife and children to fend for themselves, and often they struggle to make ends meet.
In other cases, choices made by previous generations cause children and grandchildren to suffer.
Other times a government’s decisions cause adversity.
Perhaps in the case of our African friends, all those reasons contribute to their plight, but that’s not the whole answer. I’m searching for more than that.
Why do I have so many blessings and so little heartache? (from Chapter 18, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
Thursday, September 18, 2014
My heart aches for so many souls across the African continent.
When our friends explain their current crisis and ask for help, sometimes I see dark desperation in their eyes. Too many live always on the edge, always on the brink of malnutrition, clinging to their unadorned, spare existence, fighting against unrelenting poverty.
Even with help from churches, programs, and organizations, their lives are so fragile, so precarious.
I see a flicker of hope in their eyes when we give them a job, money, or food. Our help seems like a small thing, but for them, it is an answer to prayer.
My heart cries out for justice. The Bible says God is good and just, but why has He blessed me with abundant material possessions and the benefits of the modern world but withheld such things from vast numbers of Africans?
They’re good, hard-working people who love God and serve Him, and something within me expects that good things should come to them. They must cry out, like David, “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever? How long will you hide your face from me?” (Psalm 13:1). (from Chapter 18, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
Related post: Why not me? Searching for answers
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Recently I told you about the interesting mix of people, cultures, and religions one can experience in Nairobi, Kenya—and income levels.
Nairobi has several universities and colleges, and many Kenyans have a good education, hold responsible jobs, and dress well. Shop owners, businessmen, and doctors tend to be mostly of Asian background, though an increasing number of Kenyans fill those roles, too. These folks tend to make up the small middle class.
Nevertheless, while we lived there, the unemployment rate was about 55 percent, a staggering figure. People tried to find jobs—they tried hard!—but too often they could not find one.
And then there were the blessed ones, the employed:
I told you about Bernard, who sold his maize crop for a few hundred dollars, an amount he depended on to cover most of his family’s needs for an entire year. The buyer took his maize, and that of many other families, but never paid for it. This left those families on the verge of starvation.
I told you about Elizabeth and Agnes, who sold nearly everything they owned to help a sister pay her hospital bill so she could get released from the hospital.
And I could tell you about so many more—Japheth, Wycliffe and Hellen, Isaac, Sammy, Salome, Martin—who were doing the best they could.
For more than half of Kenya’s people, poverty and malnutrition are ongoing, everyday realities.
I think a lot about those Kenyans who live every day on the edge of desperation.
These people carry the constant burden of worry—worry about violent crime and threats to bulldoze down their neighborhoods.
But, most important, will they have food for their children?—money for medical help?
My heart aches for so many souls across the continent.
Why has God blessed me with abundant material possessions and the benefits of the modern world but withheld such things from vast numbers of Africans?
I search for answers. (from Chapter 18, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
Thursday, September 4, 2014
One Monday morning, Elizabeth arrived with a sad look in her eyes and said, “Leen-dah, my daughters and I have had nothing to eat all weekend!” She shook her head. “Nothing!”
|Elizabeth and Agnes|
Shocked, I pulled open my cupboard and insisted that she eat.
While she ate, she explained that she and her sister Agnes—both widows—sold almost everything they owned so they could pay a hospital bill for another sister.
Can you imagine such loyalty and generosity?
Jesus told the rich young man to sell everything he possessed and give the money to the poor (Mark 10:21), and Elizabeth and Agnes literally did that!
I wonder—would I do that for one of my brothers?
Elizabeth and Agnes have shown me what genuine sacrificial love looks like. I can’t get it out of my mind. (from Chapter 18, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
Thursday, August 28, 2014
August 1, 1996
Dear Maggie and Emma,
… Nairobi houses an interesting mix of people, cultures, and religions. When we drive around town, we can see any number of churches, mosques, cathedrals, and temples.
A significant number of Nairobi’s citizens are of Indian heritage, descendants of immigrants who helped build the railroad from Mombasa, on the Indian Ocean, to Kampala, Uganda, starting in 1896. Referred to here as “Asians,” they tend to work as shop owners, businessmen, and doctors.
Numerous international agencies and corporations headquarter in Nairobi, too, as do embassies and a United Nations office, so people from around the world live here. Most dress in either Western or African clothing, but it’s not unusual to see an Arab man dressed in a traditional long white robe and flowing red and white headpiece—seated in the back of a chauffeur-driven Mercedes Benz.
Nairobi has several universities and colleges, and many Kenyans have a good education, hold responsible jobs, and dress well. They tend to make up the small middle class.
Nevertheless, the unemployment rate is about 55 percent, a staggering figure. But it’s more than a statistic. Real people have no way to feed their families, real people feel real hunger, and real people need medical help. They love their children just as much as we love ours. Can you imagine their desperation? For more than half of Kenya’s people, poverty and malnutrition are ongoing, everyday realities.
For generations, many Kenyans have lived on family farms and survived on their own grain, vegetables, fruit, chickens, goats, and other animals. Traditionally, when a man dies his children subdivide his shamba (farm) but, inevitably, plots have grown smaller and smaller until some aren’t large enough to divide any more. Coupled with severe drought, living off the land has become increasingly difficult.
To support their families, thousands of Kenyan men have moved to Nairobi to find jobs, leaving their wives and children upcountry to work the shambas. The men send money back home but, considering some of them earn only a couple of dollars a day and must pay for their room and board (often in one of Nairobi’s slums), they don’t have much left to send home. Nevertheless, because they love their families, they do the best they can.
Many of Kenya’s citizens get up before dawn, splash off with water—often from a neighborhood tap—and sometimes eat nothing for breakfast. When the sun comes up at six, we see thousands of people on the streets walking for miles to get to work; most can’t afford the bus.
Too many wear worn clothes and tattered shoes, often the wrong size, sometimes without laces. Many work for the equivalent of less than eighty dollars a month, and yet they are the blessed ones—they have jobs. The unemployed look for jobs but, all too often, they simply can’t find work.
Our friend Bernard (pronounced BARE-nard) has more training than many and works as a driver in Nairobi. Like thousands of other men, he sends money home to his wife and children upcountry, where they farm their plot of earth.
He told us he sold his maize crop for a few hundred dollars, an amount he depended on to cover most of his family’s needs for an entire year. The buyer took his maize, and that of many other families, but never paid for it. This left those families on the verge of starvation.
After months of controversy, the buyer said they could have their maize back—if they came and got it. These families are so poor they can hardly feed their families, let alone hire a truck to transport grain, so now they have neither their maize nor their money for it.
For several weeks, we have watched Bernard turn increasingly gaunt. We worry and wonder if he’s going without food so his children can eat. Or, maybe it’s something else, like AIDS.
We don’t want to pry, but we hope that soon he’ll let us know how we can help. (from Chapter 18, Grandma’s Letters from Africa)
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Lately I’ve been whining, griping about our water and power shortages when we lived in Nairobi, Kenya, and bellyaching about plumbing problems, and whimpering about spotty, quirky phone service.
But I’ve also been a bit uncomfortable about these recent posts so I’ve been pondering the attitude I had back then, and considering my attitude now, all these years later.
Here’s the thing. I had no reason to feel sorry for myself.
Millions of Kenyans had no running water, no electricity, no plumbing, no phones.
Most, but not all, of the Kenyans I knew lived in massive slums. Kibera was the biggest slum in Nairobi.
“On a rainy day in Kibera—one of the world’s largest unofficial settlements, or shantytowns—you are ankle deep in a soupy, earthy smelling mess of red mud, human waste, and plastic shreds,” writes Tasha Eichenseher.
I’ve seen Kibera from the road and from the air, and I’ve walked through a similar slum in Nairobi. I can identify with Tasha’s descriptions:
“Kibera is a sea of corrugated tin,” she said, but she forgot to mention it was rusted tin.
“…tin over a maze of earthen walls” she continued. I saw walls made from scraps of lumber, bits of metal, and cardboard.
“… and dark narrow paths.…” Yes, I remember those shadowy paths, sometimes with open sewage running through them, usually with trash in them.
“It is home,” Tasha continues, “to anywhere between 500,000 and 1 million people—likely more than a fourth of Nairobi’s population—and is crammed into just 620 acres.…”
Just imagine living 24/7 with no toilets, no power, no lights, no refrigeration, no water—no water for anything: cooking, bathing, laundry, cleaning.
Tasha writes of “children dropping their trousers next to makeshift sewage canals” in Kibera, and of flying toilets. I remember those flying toilets—plastic bags used in place of toilets, hurled through the air.
According to Elora Nicole, in Kibera:
- 1 in 5 kids won’t live to see their fifth birthday
- 50% of the population is school-aged
- 66% of the girls will trade sex for food by age six
- Usually eight to ten people live in a 12’ x 12’ home.
You see what I mean? I had no reason to feel sorry for myself.
I admit that sometimes water problems left me baffled, power rationing inconvenienced me, phone calls were often impossible. Many things left me flabbergasted. Countless times I chose to laugh instead of cry. But I had no reason to feel sorry for myself.
Thursday, August 14, 2014
So we were coping—at home (remember yellow flowers in our toilet bowl?) and at West Nairobi School—with the worst drought since the 1940s.
At home we had water in our pipes off and on, but the school had a glorious, amazing, delightful borehole with a fantastic water supply.
|Robbin and David|
The borehole didn’t belong to the school property, however. It belonged to the city council, and the school had the council’s permission to use it. Other people could also ask permission to use the water, too. The school owned the pump and the pipes, so as you can see, it was a tangled arrangement.
David and Robbin, who worked with us at the school, lived a stone’s throw down the lane from us in an aged but charming settler’s home, a remnant of the British colonial era. They were a busy family with several young kids and another on the way.
|Robbin and David's home|
They, too, had to deal with water irregularities.
Here’s Robbin’s laundry story in her own words:
I finally figured out why I hate laundry now. I didn't hate laundry before. Back home in the States I threw the clothes in the washer, when I had time I threw them in the dryer, and when I needed to wear something I got it out of the drier.
Now I live in a 100 year old house, and the pipes aren't the same and I don't have sufficient water pressure to fill my washer. That means I have to stand there with the hose and fill it up.
It also means I have to be there as soon as the rinse cycle starts in order to turn off the machine and fill it up or the motor will burn up.
This is very time-consuming because if I put the hose in the machine and walk away for a minute, when I come back the machine is overflowing. I am not sure how it happens.
Also I catch the wash water to throw on the plants, and catch the rinse water for the next load of wash.
I don't have a big enough tub to catch all that water, so I fill buckets and tubs and other plastic containers, which means I have to be there the whole time it is emptying.
I must admit I have missed it before and it has emptied down the sink. This is because the machine is a bit spiteful. If I am standing there it takes 40 or so minutes to empty and spin, but if I don't catch it in time it does the whole thing in two! I think it enjoys my frantic run to catch the water.
And I have to get the whole thing done before we lose power.
Someone asked if I have a timer to remind me to go check the laundry. No, this would only work if the machine was reliable—but it isn't. It takes anywhere from 1 to 45 minutes for any given cycle, depending on what else I am trying to get done at the time.
Why I Hate Laundry:
- Because laundry takes so long I am not getting to do all those messy, time-consuming science experiments I would love to do with the kids.
- We don't eat as healthy as I would like due to the time I have to spend doing laundry rather than food preparation.
- The reason I am getting flabby isn't because I am too lazy to exercise, I just don't have time because of the laundry.
- I am not getting older—I have wrinkles and gray hair from worrying about the laundry.
- My refrigerator doesn't work well and I finally realized it's because it is jealous of the time I spend with the washer.
- My electric stove gives me little shocks every once in a while. It must be jealous of the washer too.
- If the car breaks down I figure it's because we don't wash it enough since we use so much water on the laundry.
- The drought and power rationing are probably a result of my laundry.
- Yes, anything that goes wrong I can now blame on the laundry.
P.S. When I told David the reason I was getting flabby was because of the laundry, he offered to do the laundry for two weeks to see if it would help. I blame the sarcasm in his voice and smirk on his face on the fact that the laundry must have shrunk his shorts.