We were all asked to share a story for the blog from our time in Kenya, something specific that can help all of you who are reading to get a glimpse of what are time in Kenya was like. Hopefully something that can give you a small picture of what people are experiencing there, what their joys and struggles are, how we were personally touched by one person’s story, about how God is moving.
I had a bit of a hard time trying to decide, “what is that for me?.” I thought of a young boy who had his entire toenail ripped off. I bandaged it only to see it covered in dirt, open, infected a few days later in Kibera. No one looks after his toe. Who looks after him? Who cares for him? What does his toe tell me about the rest of his life? I thought of one of the adults who shared a powerful story about how she had been raped over and over again as a child and was told by her mother that it was normal, that she was growing up, and who later fell into prostitution and a marriage at age 12. God changed her life. We heard many stories like these that make you sigh, make you just sit there with a heavy chest and wonder why.
I want to share most, though, about a 7 year old boy named Amos. I don’t really have an incredible story about him, I don’t even really know his story – he didn’t speak more than a few words of English. I don’t exactly remember the moment when I first met Amos, but he was stuck to me like glue from early the first day through the end of the week. It’s funny, many of us felt as if we made our best friends in the first 7 seconds of our first week of camp. We all felt a strong general burden for all the kids there that week, but especially for a few close to us. Amos was always at my side holding my hand, yelling, “Paul! Paul!” (Pole! Pole!)when he wanted to show me something or get me to play the game he wanted to play. He wore that orange sweater you see in the picture a number of the days with us. He was always cheerful and engaging. He was best friends with another boy named Christopher. One day Christopher accidentally hit Amos and gave him quite the lump on his forehead, and Christopher was not the most apologetic about it. I consoled Amos and encouraged Christopher to say he was sorry. But, it was Amos who got up from his crying to give Christopher a hug and get back to playing.
I was reminded in Kenya of how there’s really nothing on earth like the genuine affection of a child. It’s amazing how much you can bond with someone without even speaking the same language. We just spent time together, played together, looked out for one another. I feel comfortable in most situations in life, but I, like all of you, want to feel accepted, loved, wanted. Amos was kind of an anchor for me in that way. It was so moving to see this young boy who instantly loved me. Each day I could look forward to spending time with Amos. I probably looked for him more intently when the kids arrived than he did for me! Now mind you, our trip was NOT about us. It was not about a bunch of Americans going to Africa so that they could get the chance to experience and view the people there, to see the way they live, to give them a hand. We are part of a fairly new, exciting, ongoing relationship, a friendship with our friends in Kibera. We did go there to minister to them, to encourage them, to love the children of Kibera who need desperately to know that they are loved, and that God loves them – but, we were ministered to in ways that we cannot express. And for me, Amos is one of the people who affected my experience in Kenya as much as anything else, who ministered to me in a personal way. I want to go back to Kenya. Not because it was fun, which it was. Not because I think it’s a good thing to do. I want to go back to see Amos, and the rest of our friends who love us and whom we have grown to love.
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