I still tear up when I think of it—it seemed so wrong, so unnecessary

 

All these years later, I still feel pain in my chest when I recall what they did.

 

It seemed so wrong. So unnecessary.

 

And my husband and I sat and squirmed in the middle of it.

 

We were the first, and perhaps last, white people ever to visit that little Anglican church high in the Taita Hills in southeastern Kenya.

 

The congregation welcomed us warmly even though we surely did startle them when we white people stepped through their door. (See We had lived in Kenya only a few weeks and—Wham!)

 

During the three-hour worship service, the congregation took up two offerings. Some people had no money—instead, they brought produce, eggs, milk, or dried beans.

 

Read that again: Some people had no money, so they brought produce, eggs, milk, or dried beans to place in the offering plate.

 

Only then did it start to dawn on me how poor those people were.

 

Then, they auctioned off those items.

 

Everyone bantered and laughed while they converted the food into cash for the church’s expenses. We couldn’t help but laugh with them, enjoying their joy and fellowship.

 

After forty-five minutes, the people had converted into cash four eggs and two bunches of Swiss chard. Dave and I calculated they’d raised the equivalent of thirty-eight cents.

 

Then the auctioneer walked into the congregation and stopped in front of us.

 

I could not believe what I saw him do next.

 

He handed us the eggs and chard.

 

Stunned, I wanted to cry because, as Americans, we were rich—and I mean shamefully rich—compared to them. Every day of our lives, we’ve had more than enough to eat and yet those dear people, who had so little, gave us the food donated to the church.

 

It didn’t seem right—they needed the nutrition and we did not!

 

I wanted to hand back their eggs and chard.

 

What would you have done?

 

I wasn’t sure what to do, but I’m so thankful that God prompted us to notice their delight in giving—their enormous grins and nervous giggles—and that He prompted us to accept their gifts. We did so with a mixture of thanks and deep humility. Overwhelmed by their kindness, I wanted to weep.

 

In them, we beheld God’s grace—they gave us what we did not deserve. I will never forget that as long as I live.

 

Indeed, the Taita people were living, walking, talking, joy-filled examples of God’s generous grace.

 

Looking back on it,

I count that little congregation

among God’s hundred times as much that I blogged about recently

—an answer to my daughter Karen’sprayer

based on Matthew 19:29.

Click on When Jesus’ words are difficult, sharp and real.

Be sure to check it out.

You’ll be glad you did.

(From Grandma’s Letters from Africa, Chapter 3)

 

I was a stranger and you welcomed me

 

Dave and I and our fellow orientees had been in training for two months and we’d soon learn how well prepared we were for the third and final phase of our orientation: Each family would be on its own, scattered throughout remote African villages in mountains named the Taita Hills.

 

We would no longer have the comfort of living alongside our fellow orientees. Our directors, Brian and Jenny, would leave the area—but only after dropping off each family (or single person) in their new settings.

 

Dave and I were the last of our group to arrive at our new “home.”

Well after dark on Saturday, November 6, Brian pulled The Pearl (our group’s trusty Toyota Land Cruiser) to a stop high in the Taita Hills. We hadn’t seen another dwelling or signs of humans for quite a while. Trees and darkness surrounded us, but The Pearl’s headlights shone on a little mud-plaster house.

 

Brian walked to the door and spoke to the people inside. Then he turned and ambled back to us.

 

“They didn’t get word you’d be living with them,” he said. “It’ll take them a few minutes to get ready.”

 

Only later did I realize that they had already gone to bed.

 

Before long, Brian introduced us to our hosts, an older couple, Rafael Mwakodi, whom we called Bwana, and his wife, whom we called Mama. Looking back on it, I suspect this “older” couple was younger than we were.

 

Brian said goodbye and headed out into the still dark of night. The “village living” phase of our orientation course had begun.

 

In the dim glow of a kerosene lamp, we visited with Bwana and Mama, all smiles. Bless the Mwakodis’ hearts—I would not have smiled if foreigners awakened me at night and announced their three-week stay.

 

After a few minutes, they led us to our room, and Dave and I settled in for the night.

 

Only much later did Dave tell me that the Mwakodis had moved out of their own bedroom to let us have it and that they slept on the floor in another room. That makes me want to cry. In Bwana and Mama, I beheld the sacrificial heart of God Himself. (From Chapter 3 of Grandma’s Letters from Africa)

 

And, looking back, I recognize that Bwana and Mama, and their home for three weeks, were part of “God’s hundred times as much” —an answer to my daughter Karen’s prayer based on Matthew 19:29:

 

“Everyone who has left houses

or brothers or sisters

or father or mother or children

or fields for my sake

will receive a hundred times as much. . . .”

 

You see, before Dave and I left the States and moved to Africa, everything within me screamed that it was not right for us to leave our 21-year-old daughter, Karen, alone at that point in her life. But God had made it clear that it was okay for us to go. It broke my heart. It broke my young Karen’s tender heart, too.

 

 But in Karen's guest post, “When Jesus’ words are difficult, sharp, and real,” Karen wrote this about the last night she spent with us in the States:

 

“I prayed that [Matthew 19:29] for my mom that night. I asked God to give her a hundredfold for all her sadness, for all she was leaving behind. I remember writing that verse down to give her. I wanted her to know that I understood, that I trusted God, that I believed Him and His promises—for myself and for her.”

 

Neither Karen nor I knew what, specifically, 

those “hundred times as much” blessings might be, 

but now I can say for sure: 

Bwana and Mama Mwakodi were part of 

the hundred times as much, 

directly from God’s hand.

 

Jesus was speaking of people like the Mwakodis 

when he said, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” 

(Matthew 25:35).

 

The beginning of our biggest test yet

 

You remember those knot-in-your-stomach times when the rubber hits the road, when you know you’ll be tested and tried.

 

You had trained and studied and prepared, you had prayed and worried and prayed some more.

 

And the day came when you had to see for yourself

whether your training and preparation were enough—

whether your faith was adequate,

whether God was adequate,

whether you were adequate.

 

Well, that’s where Dave and I were—on the threshold of our big test—one that would last three weeks.

 

You see, we and our fellow orientees had been in training for two months and the time had come for us to see how well prepared we were for the third and final phase of our orientation: Each family would be on its own, scattered throughout remote African villages. We would no longer have the comfort of living alongside our fellow orientees. Our directors, Brian and Jenny, would leave the area.

 

But someone in our group needed to be in charge—in case of an emergency—so Brian called a meeting and had us vote.

 

Our fellow orientees chose Dave to be the Samaki kubwa, the big fish.

 

So, we all loaded up our tents and supplies and left Maasai-land. I remember our stay there as a mellow time, a serene time, a gentle time—for the most part anyway. I had enjoyed the quiet, the clean air, and the slow, simple lifestyle.

 

Our handful of vehicles headed toward the Taita Hills—a mountain range at an elevation around 7,000 feet—in southeastern Kenya, close to the majestic and famous Mt. Kilimanjaro. We left the desert and entered a lush, verdant region.

 

Before we all went on our separate ways on our own, our group congregated in Dembwa at the base of the Taita Hills, a small town close to a main highway and a bustling civilization. Town and regional officials welcomed us with lunch and speeches. And in good African style, both Dave and Brian gave speeches, too. (See photo below.)

 

We had gathered in the yard of a new elementary school with six or eight classrooms and, since Dave was an educator, he was curious about the classrooms. Since the children didn’t have classes that day, we stepped inside one room.

 

Concrete floors and walls kept the temperature nice and cool, but the school had no electricity—teachers and students depended on sunlight through windows.

 

The classroom was furnished with a slate blackboard and rough-hewn desks and stools.

 

A world map hung on the wall—the classroom’s only educational material.

 

The room had no textbooks, dictionaries, or anything else. In place of books, we noticed pencils and thin tablets in which children had written lecture notes from their teacher.

 

We found it hard to grasp the poverty displayed in that school—it seemed unthinkable—but we also knew the teachers, students, and their families placed a high value on education. They were doing the best they could with their meager resources.

 

On that day, little did we know that this school was superior to many others across the continent.

 

And so, with a knot in our stomachs

and with wonderings if we’d stand the tests,

and curiosity about what awaited us in the Taita Hills,

we were off on yet another adventure.

How good to know God was with us on it.

“The Lord Himself goes before you—ahead of you—

and He will stay with you.

He won’t leave you alone, He won’t forsake you.

Don’t be afraid. Don’t be discouraged.”

(Deuteronomy 31:8)

Dave and other speech-givers in Dembwa