What They Didn’t Tell Me about the Kenya- Somali Border

                   Our bus rocks back and forth while we drive down a broken-bricked road on our way to the riverbanks. Kenyan music plays on the radio as the traffic buzzes around us. I look down to reach in my bag, and when I look up again, an 18 wheeler-type car is coming straight for our vehicle. I glance around our car is surrounded. We have nowhere to go. We are going to be hit. I close my eyes, brace for impact, and squeal knowing I am going to die here. I tighten my grip on the unfortunate person who is sitting pale faced next to me and begin to pray. Several seconds pass, before the person speaks “um miss, you can let go now.” I look up and see the roads are clear and embarrassment floods my face. “Sorry” I mumble, knowing that this will not be the last time I have to tell them this.  I think to myself “I have already been in Kenya a week. I can’t believe I am still scared of their driving. What is wrong with me? ” However, I quickly assure myself that I have every right to be scared as our driver runs a red light. “Um Paul,” I yell from the second seat “I am not sure if you noticed, but there was kinda a red light back there. “ Paul looks at me with a big grin and says “Oh no child, we only put those lights there for the foreigners.” He winks and then noticing the look on my face says, “Don’t worry my child, you are safe with me.” 

                 That did not make me feel any better, and in fact I was getting car sick, so I tried to go to sleep. When I woke up to our host was telling us that we would be stopping at a gas station. I look around excitedly looking for a Buc-ee’s or at least a shell station, but I didn’t see one. We turned into this little parking lot with one gas pump and one room- the bathroom.  This bathroom obviously did not win an award on cleanliness, but since it was the only one in the town (and yes I did ask), I had no choice.

                 As we made our way towards Somalia, the temperature drastically changed. We went from cool weather to hotter- than –hot-weather. I looked around and all I saw was dirt. We drive for what seems like miles and finally we stop. “Hey guys we’re here” our host yells. I look around, confused by what I see, because I am not quite sure where here is.

           All I see is a building that looks like it is wrapped in tin foil and has tents in the backyard. “Is this where we are staying?”  I think.  As though he heard my thought, our missionary begins to unload our stuff and hands us our tent equipment.   The group of girls immediately goes to work trying to put up our tent (key word trying) without any help. We finally got the tent to stand up (after thirty minutes), and after we walk inside, it collapses. A chorus of groans is drowned out by the boys’ laughter. Our pride could not stand in our way any longer so we begged the boys to help us.  They had the tent finished in five minutes (to our dismay and their delight). 

                That evening the local pastor welcomed us into his bat-infested home for dinner. We ate a lovely meal of beans and rice, before he informed us that we must go to bed as soon as it gets dark. “The banks are too dangerous at night. Do not wander. Stay inside your tent.” His tone conveyed it all; we nodded our heads in agreement, as a solemn promise.   We did, however break that promise when we found a bug as big as Godzilla in our tent. Thankfully, Joy, who is five-years-old, saved us from our utter doom by slaying the giant monster so we could go back inside our tent. 

            The next morning, we were greeted by small Muslim children who were walking to school. We learned that many of these children would walk at least six miles every morning to get to class on time. I couldn’t believe their dedication. After classes stated, we loaded up into this wagon-trailer and began to take the route that these children took every morning. We dodged thorn trees as our driver drove under them laughing.  I watched wide eyed as it cut the people’s (who did not have time to duck) skin and clothing and I wondered what it did to the children as they walked by.  We often had to get out and push our wagon-trailer as it was stuck in the mud or giant ruts. I looked around at the looming trees and giant rocks and I couldn’t help but notice how scary it was. These kids would often walk home alone at night. “Did they ever get scared?” I wondered

                        Our host broke though my thoughts, saying “This path that we are driving on was cleared by two brave girls, ten years ago. These girls wanted to see what was on the other side and what they discovered was a remote people group. This people group consisted of those that have fled from Somalia and have found refuge on the Kenya-Somali border. They are uneducated and that is why we are here. We are going to build a school for them.”

   I looked at the huts that were built of twig and mud, some houses were even in trees. I saw young children spilling out of homes half dressed or with holey clothing.  “These are children we are going to be  helping” our host said and  I smiled at the thought.

                      We pulled into a small clearing and everyone jumped out. I was handed a machete (yes a machete) and a large metal pole, that the Kenyan’s called a limbo, to make holes in the ground. The Kenyan Master’s Commission instructed us to take the machete and plunge it into the ground to loosen the dirt and then take the limbo and beat the dirt into the ground before we took our hands and scooped the dirt out of it. We were then to repeat this process until the hole was as wide and deep as a third of the limbo.  I began to dig. 

                Halfway through the third hole as I reached my hand in to scoop the dirt, a man from the Master’s Commission pulled me back, he grabbed the limbo and began to beat the ground as he yelled in Swahili.  “He found a scorpion,” one of the guys translated.  I looked as the small crumpled creature was brought up from the depths. “You are very lucky” one of the guys whispered, “One bite from that tiny scorpion and you would have been dead.”

                                     I stood there in shock not quite understand all that happened before I ran to grab my water. As I finish the water in my bottle, a small hand reaches out trying to grab it, startling me. The child begins to babble in Swahili and I was surprised that I could understand some of it. The child asked “White person, can I please have your water bottle?” I hand it to her and she rushes off.  Aaron, one of the men from Master’s commission, leans over to me “Did you hear what she said afterwards?” “No, all I understood was Asante (thank you)” I reply. “Well she said ‘the crazy white person gave me this’” he laughs as an insulted look appears on my face.  “Why did she want my bottle. It was empty” I ask. “Tabitha” Aaron says his voice growing serious,”I am not sure you understand, with that bottle she can get water from the river. She now has a way to carry it and will not be thirsty.”  “From the river?” I ask thinking of the brown swirling streams of dirty water filled with germs and parasites.  “To them the water is not dirty, it is life” Aaron explains.

                         As I sit there thinking about this statement a young Muslim girl sits down next to me. Through a translator I learn that her name is Miriam and that she is fourteen. She had gotten married to a man in his forties and was about to have his child. She told me that the child was going to be a boy and she was going to name him Jesus, because he would be the next great prophet.  My heart broke for this young girl as I thought back to the man I had met on the river banks. This man sat down next to my team and when asked if he was a Christian he asked for a piece of paper. He wrote down the word yes and then after we saw it ripped it into a million shreds and threw it in the river.

                    For them knowing Christ means death or even worse (according to African culture) their entire family would reject them. It is really easy to sit on the other side of the world and hear people speak about the dangers of the Kenya-Somali border, but it is another thing to go and see for yourself. Yes, there is pirating off the banks of Somalia and there are scary giant, poisonous bugs and snakes.  And yes, there are some people who want to kill all Christians, but there are others who are thirsty for education, water and eternal life.  Everything else (long car rides, sleeping in tents, thorn trees and giant or deadly bugs) all  seem so insignificant in comparison. These are thing that no one told me, but I had to learn for myself. 

The Eye Of The Storm

                I still remember the day, my father looked at me with his big brown eyes and said “Tabitha, we are going to have to evacuate. I am sure you know that the storm has turned for the worst. I need you to pack enough clothes to last you for a couple weeks, but only the things that are important to you. “I glanced at my father fearfully, this was the first time I have ever had to leave my home. “Dad, will our home be here when we get back?” I asked him hopefully.  He replied “Baby doll, I honestly do not know.” I ran to my room with tears in my eyes and stared blankly at my suitcase. Where would I begin? I looked at the wooden dresser my softball coach had made me for my birthday; it was too big to fit in our car. I glanced at my first place trophies for softball, although they were special at the time, they were of no value now. The tears fell down my face. How could I pack my entire life into one suitcase? When would we come home? What would find when we did? Would my house be here? My mother walked in the room and hugged me as we both cried. She whispered “I know honey. It’s going to be okay. “I slowly composed myself and began to throw clothes in my suitcase, before snapping pictures of my room, just in case everything was destroyed. Early the next day the luggage was loaded in our vehicle as we prepared to leave as soon as the word was given.

                        My parents felt as though I should still go to classes so I sat silently in the classroom praying that the storm would turn, but knowing that it was growing closer with each passing second.  I glanced around to watch the phones of my classmates that were tracking the storm’s progress. Nick read off of his phone “The Weather Channel says that the eye of the storm is going to hit Quintana Beach, and if does the wave surge will flood our entire town. “ We glanced at each other with nervous eyes knowing we might never see each other again.

                 At lunchtime, we all filed outside and sat on the ground. On a normal day we would have been laughing and having fun, but instead we talked about all the things we would miss about our tiny town.  I realized I would miss my home where I had grown up.  During this lunch time conversation we were interrupted parents showing up early to announce that it was time to leave. We tearfully hugged each other, and said our goodbyes promising to find a way to contact each other, even though we knew this was going to be impossible.  

            I climbed into the car with one final wave, and before we drove away we said a prayer asking God for safety.  We had chosen a destination that was only four hours away, but because of  all the evacuation traffic it took us twenty miserable hours.  When we  reached the hotel we went to sleep praying that the hurricane would spare our town.  

           The next morning when I woke up I was delighted to find that the hurricane had shifted in the night. The chances were slim, but there was a possibility that the storm would not touch our town.   My eyes stayed glued to the TV for hours as I watched the hurricane hit the shore. I saw the film crew be hit  by the waves on Galveston Island (which is less than forty minutes from my home) as they ravaged the shore. I saw my favorite house’s concrete gates be ripped from the foundation. As the day progressed, I saw homes that were flooded and flipped upside down. With each image I prayed, but no word was heard from my town. My heart was breaking; I wanted to know what was happening to my house and to all my friends that had stayed behind.  My family wanted to know so badly if we would have a place to return to. Three days later after several sleepless nights word came that it was safe to begin to travel back home. We learned that our home had survived. and that the damage had  began twelve miles down the road.

            As my father drove he stopped several times so we could see the damage that had been done by the hurricane.  I cried as I saw the concrete slabs where houses once stood. I saw children’s toys scattered on the ground among the broken glass. I saw lines that marked how many people were survivors and how many were found dead in the houses. As I stood there overwhelmed by emotions, I could only think that this could have been us.  God had spared my home and most importantly my family.  My mother and  father wrapped their arms around me and my sister to comfort us as we cried. This is a day none of us will ever forget.

Timing Is Truly Everything

        

I remember when I first saw him, I was fourteen. To me, he looked like someone who had stepped from the heavens and graced the mere mortals with his very presence. He had just moved in to town, but was welcomed in like a celebrity. Within weeks he went from “the new kid” to captain of the football team. He was respected by all and loved by many. Although I was well known in the town, I did not seek popularity, so I only met Travis because he came to my youth group. He was a senior in high school and I was only a lowly freshman. He seemed to be perfect and with one glance of his icy blue eyes I was frozen in place, because I felt as though he could see to the depths of my soul, because he always knew what I was thinking .He was my warrior.   He protected me when I felt weak and afraid. He listened to me when I felt low and  always gave the greatest advice.

As the year went by Travis became a part of the staff at my youth group and we continued to be friends. I watched as he dated countless girls (but in my heart I always knew they would break up) and would be there to encourage him when they did. When I finally graduated high school, he sat through my ceremony as a proud almost boyfriend. We had been friends for four years so no one was shocked when we finally admitted we liked each other (his grandmother just asked so when we were getting married).

We thought we had life all figured out. We would date for four years while we were both at Southwestern and we would get married right after we graduated (as was expected of us). It was no surprised when a week after I graduated Travis asked me to officially be his girlfriend. He had to wait till after graduation because staff was not allowed to date the students. When I opened my mouth to say “yes” something came over me and instead I told him that I wanted to pray about it. Surprised at my answer, he gave me a week to decide, and I started praying.

Every time I prayed I heard the same answer “wait.” I was frustrated, because why would God tell me to wait when this was all part of the plan? The next day I began to hear awful rumors about my almost boyfriend. He was accused of doing drugs, sleeping around and drinking alcohol. I tried to deny them all, because I did not trust the sources, and had never seen him behave in this manner, so how could they be true? When I asked him about the rumors he quickly had a response. “Honey, you know they are just jealous. I never dated her. Why would you believe anything she says? Don’t you trust me? Have I ever lied to you before in the four years you have known me? If you believe this then how well do you know me? Do you really think I would do those things? Baby, I love you and I would never hurt you.” I wanted so badly to believe his excuses, but for some reason I couldn’t. I began to pray harder as the days flew by, but I kept hearing the same word “wait.”

                 Tuesday night, the day before I was scheduled to give him an answer, my world came crumbling down. My friend Summer  from work,  came up to me with puffy eyes asking if she could talk to me in private. We walked to the parking lot and she began to tell me that she slept with Travis. She told me that on Monday she had just agreed to go with him and his friends to the movies. When she found out all his friends ”canceled” ( later we  found out they were never invited in the first place) she agreed to go alone. I sat there with tears in my eyes and in my anger I called him on the phone. When he finally picked up I said “How could you?” He hung up and in five minutes he was in the parking lot to defend his honor. 

     As his eyes blazed he began to tell me the countless excuses I heard before only now I knew the truth. “You lied to me. I trusted you and you chose to hurt me” I said through teary eyes. His tone lowered as he took a different approach and he began to harshly whisper “I never loved you. Didn’t you realize that? I just used you to cover up my secrets. You were the perfect decoy. Who would ever believe a good girl like you would be dating a guy like me? I could live my life the way I wanted and no one suspected a thing until now.” My eyes widened  as I spoke through sobs “Travis, I don’t understand why you did this. You hurt me, but I don’t hate you. I wish I could blame you, but I can’t. Travis, I won't stop praying for you, but I will never speak to you again. ” Travis’ eyes full of frost burned into my soul as he yelled words I choose not to remember . I stood there trying to decide what to do, but I felt lost.   I ran to my truck and jumped in locking the doors and began driving away as he tried to open the truck  doors. I cried and screamed out to God not knowing where to turn or what to do, I felt trapped.  I fought every emotion imaginable and wanted to miss every church event. However, when the time came I went each time. 

       It was not long before the lies began to unravel and Travis’ perfect image crumbled to the ground. He could no longer stand being in the room with me, so he left our church and I have hardly seen him since. I still pray for him, because I want him to do well, because I saw the potential that  he had. He was a leader who had a kind heart, but was corrupted by the very things that he allowed to control him. I wish I could say that he is doing well, but I don’t know this for sure.
             As the for  Summer, we remained distant friends, until she moved away. She returned this  summer for her sisters wedding, and I saw her for the first time. It had been three years since I had seen her last and she was pushing a stroller. When I walked up to say hi, the child with an unknown father, glanced up at me with piercing blue eyes. I was so startled by his features that I dropped the phone I was holding in my hand.  Summer and I  made distant small talk and when she walked away tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt so sorry for her, because she would have to raise this small child all alone. 

         A wise man once said " When gods die they die hard" (Wednesday wars).   Like the statues of the broken  gods,  a person will be cracked and marred by the things that control them. I wanted to see Travis as a sort of demigod because he seemed to be perfection personified, but inside he was weak. He did not put his trust in the God he claimed to love, but instead he was controlled by addictions that wanted to consume him. The addictions did not stop until they had controlled every part of him. Like a hurricane it demolished every piece of his life until nothing was left standing. The years have healed my heart, but he is still broken. Although this was a huge storm in my life at the time (and I did not see how life could move on) it is rather small now. I see how horrible my life would have been if God had not encouraged me to "wait" for his answer. Timing is truly everything. 

My Love for Literature

                

    I was three years old when my family first thought I could read. My parents and I had gone to visit my grandparents for the day. I, being a typical three-year-old, had wondered off to entertain myself. When my grandmother walked in to her bedroom, she found me holding my favorite book and “reading” out loud.  She called for my parents to come quick as she ran to grab her camera. As she snapped pictures, my parents began to laugh. My grandmother did not understand why they had laughed until my mother began to explain that I was not really reading the book, but had memorized it. She took the book out of my small little hands, and I continued to recite the entire book from memory. I even paused in the places where the pages should be turned.
                 My love for reading must have come from my parents, because my dad would often read to me before bed. I would give him a stack of books that were my favorites for him to read. I remember him complaining that we had already read certain stories and he was sure I had other books to read. I would refuse a different book, and when he had read my favorite part, I would take the book out of his hands and tell him it was time for another story. There were many times that he begged me to let him finish the story, but I never let him  (He recently admitted to me that he would take the books back to his room to finish them after I had fallen asleep.) 

          When my mother read to me she inserted my name in most of the stories. I was the heroine, which made me feel invincible. When I learned to read, I, sadly, learned that my name was not inside every book, like I had thought, but was hardly in any.

          By the time I was really reading (and not memorizing) I was hooked. I would read every chance that I could get, in the car (which would explain why I never knew where I was when I started driving), on a boat, at the beach and even at softball tournaments. Reading was like breathing to me.  I could not put a book down.  It became so addictive to me that my mother would threaten to ground me from reading, if I did not hurry up, and put my socks on so we could leave.  This threat was normally followed by the exclamation, “I am a horrible mother.”   She never grounded me from reading but I was occasionally given "reading time limits." 

               As I grew older my love for reading expanded to where I was reading anything and everything I could put my hands on. By the time I was twelve I had read most of the "age appropriate" books in the library, plus most of C.S Lewis' works.  My parents decided to have me enrolled in a high school senior English class, just to see if I could handle it. During that school year, I was introduced to classics such as Beowulf and The Epic of Gilgamesh.   I liked all the stories,  but I fell in love with  mythology. I just loved seeing the different world views  and  finding elements  that they took from the Bible and from history.

             As the years have gone on my love for mythology has grown. I am probably the only college student who would get up super early on Sunday mornings before church (okay maybe it was just eight am, but still that is early) to talk with one of my friends who still believed in the gods about mythology. Through mythology I have been able to share what I believe with him (although he is is still not a Christian, he is beginning to ask more questions about God, and why I believe the Bible is true).  Literature helps people to relate to one another regardless of religion or culture. 

                        When I went to Africa, I taught English to Muslim children from ten to fourteen years old. The children loved stories and when I sat down I began to repeat the stories I had memorized from my childhood. I just loved watching their eyes light up as they heard about Peter Rabbit and Adam Raccoon. After I had finished telling all the fictional stories I could, and the children were still begging for more I was able to share stories from the bible to these Muslim children. I loved hearing the kids beg for me to tell the story of Jesus one more time. And as I did I realized that literature opens doors, because with out mythology, I would have never been able to speak to my friend about God. And without stories I most certainly would never have been able to teach those children in Africa about Jesus.