a verylong week
on monday, i started language school. every day, i sit in a tiny orange room for three hours, with three other students, as our teacher points to every sort of plastic doll and animal, kitchen utensil and household object.
(in swahili, pointing.)
“this is a bird. this is a bird.”
“this is a girl. this is a girl.”
“where is the cutting board? where is the cutting board?”
its a bit tedious, but i’m very thankful for the opportunity to learn language.
on saturday, i went with eunice and john downtown, to see the riverside boys. massai spotted us first, and came running, grinning. its the first time i’ve seen that boy since i took this photo of him in july 2009. since then, he’s been in jail for at least a year, but has escaped. i’m amazed at how tall he’s grown, and how much more mature he seems. he ran to gather some other boys, and soon there were 9 of them there, talking excitedly to eunice, and holding my hands in turn.
she told me later that several of them were arguing over whether or not i was the same mzungu who “sat in the dirt with them and took all the pictures.” apparently, i can’t be that girl, because my hair is now short.
it was sweet to see the boys, but broke my heart as they asked eunice if we had forgotten about them, if we didn’t love them anymore.
there has been a lot of difficulty and discouragement in the ministry lately, and no one is now visiting the boys, or sharing any food with them. in fact, its been almost a half of a year since ministry there has stopped.
i’m eager to learn swahili, and to meet with others whom God has given similar hearts, to see how we might move forward.
as john and eunice and i were on the way to visit some other friends, a car in front of us stopped suddenly, and we also stopped. unfortunately, the matatu behind us did not stop, and read-ended our car. we spent the next few hours going from police station to police station, explaining what had happened.
i won’t lie: tonight i’m feeling discouraged. living on a compound is difficult for me. even more difficult is the absence of community. of those people whom i know, and who know me. whom i trust deeply, and who trust me. people who desire to live lives not of quiet desperation, nor of selfish comfort, but of sacrificial love and deep communion.
i know our lord said “fear not,” but i’m afraid here. afraid that these struggles are in vain, and afraid somewhere along the way i’ve made some wrong decision that he can’t or won’t redeem and make good. afraid that i will lose whatever it is that drives my heart, and that my heart will become hard.
i believe; help my unbelief!