Nothing had prepared me for such extreme generosity

Nothing in my past had prepared me for the extreme generosity I received from the people of Taita Hills, close to lovely Mt. Kilimanjaro.

 

I might not have experienced that generosity except that, for the “village living” phase of our three-month orientation, our fellow orientees had chosen Dave to serve as the samaki kubwa, the big fish, someone to carry out three responsibilities: (1) to be in charge of our group in case of an emergency, (2) to relate to the local District Commissioner, the Bishop, and police, and (3) to check up on other members of our orientation group living with Kenyan host families throughout the mountainous villages.

 

When we visited trainee families in their Kenyan hosts’ homes, we had to make an effort to set aside American customs and, instead, to do things the Kenyan way. In ways Americans can’t easily understand, Kenyans consider it a high honor to entertain guests, serve them chai (tea, milk, and sugar boiled together), and have a long visit.

 

By comparison, in America, if we stop at a friend’s house, usually we say, “I can stay for only a minute,” but since that would offend Kenyans, we accepted their chai and stayed to visit.

 

Each Kenyan family welcomed us and, without realizing it, they taught us a new way to relate to others. Dave and I suspected that their way pleased God more than our usual American way.

 

We had such interesting experiences as we drove throughout the Taita Hills. On our way to visit a trainee one day, the narrow track turned into a dry riverbed full of boulders. The Pearl, our Toyota Land Cruiser, lunged over and around them, and Dave wondered aloud how much longer he should keep driving. When we spotted the home in the distance, up on a high spot, we stopped and hiked the rest of the way.

 

That host family had electricity! And, even more amazing, they owned a little television. When we arrived, the man of the house plugged it in and left it on for the duration of our stay. They had no reception, though, so we sat and watched the black and white speckles on the screen and listened to its scratchy hiss.

 

Another day we stopped in a more remote place to visit trainees. That house didn’t have electricity, but the owners had tied a light bulb to the end of a shoestring and suspended it from a rafter in the middle of the room.

 

And then one day, something happened I’ll never forget.

 

A host family killed a chicken and cooked it for us even though they could rarely afford to eat meat themselves.

 

In a year of crop failure, the people owned next to nothing, but they shared with us.

 

They wore tattered shoes,

had no electricity or running water,

couldn’t afford medicine or vitamins or dental appointments.

They might not eat meat for weeks or months at a time . . .

yet they killed a chicken and cooked it—for us!

And they gave us the biggest pieces!

Their generosity nearly broke my heart—

we didn’t need the nutrition! They did!

 

It seemed so wrong, so unnecessary for them to make such a radical sacrifice for us, in the same way Bwana and Mama had been so sacrificially generous to us.

 

I thought back . . .

 

. . . back to our first Sunday in the Taita Hills. The Anglican Church gave four eggs and two bunches of chard to my husband and me—items donated to the church by people who had no money to put in the offering plate. People who had too little to eat day after day, week after week, month after month.

 

I had wanted to hand back their eggs and chard.

 

But God prompted us to notice their delight in giving—their enormous grins and nervous giggles—and He prompted us to accept their gifts.

 

We did so with profound thanks

and with wrenching humility.

Overwhelmed by their kindness, I wanted to weep.

The Taita people owned next to nothing,

but they shared it with us.

They were living, walking, talking,

joy-filled examples of God’s sacrificial heart.

And how true it is that

God loves a cheerful giver!