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!
