I know it's been a while since I last posted, but man, time really flies when you are getting adjusted to a "new" culture, homeschooling six kiddos, playing soccer six days a week, taking care of a newborn, and trying to help your kids become passable Americans. Life doesn't seem as crazy as it sounds, but it is busy.
In the midst of all of this busyness we are merging our love for all things new and adventurous and our love for coffee into a new venture, Mountain Mama Roasters. If you know Kenneth at all you know he is a fan, to say the least, of anything coffee-related. After years of living and working in Karamoja alongside Andrew, my brother-in-law and another huge coffee fan, they began roasting and sampling Ugandan coffee. One thing led to another, most of it over cups of coffee, and a dream was born. A dream to do what we all loved, to make and drink good coffee, while helping to support other organizations we believe in. And so I'd like to introduce you to Mountain Mama Roasters. Take a look and see what you think!
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I recently became aware that there are many of you who read this blog that don’t get our newsletters. This is an attempt to catch you up on what God is doing in our lives and why we are no longer in Karamoja. *** Late one evening, about 9 o’clock, Wari came to our house. I call it late because in Kaceri people do not walk around after dark. Due to raiding and insecurity it’s a real risk. Wari sat down and wanted to talk. I assumed it must be serious to warrant a visit at this hour so we pulled some chairs out into the yard. He began to tell me about the persecution he’d been facing for the gospel and for his association with me, the white man. Lately it had gotten worse, and Wari asked if he can walk the trails alone and preach alone because when he begins to disciple men they want to know when they are going to get paid the way he is. “Kenneth, I don’t think anyone will believe I am doing this for free until I do it alone. People call me the white man’s dog because I follow you everywhere you go to preach.” Wari and I have been traveling around the area for about 2 years now preaching, discipling, starting churches, and sharing the gospel. Everywhere we go people ask us for things, everything from medicine, food, and sometimes even the shirt and shoes I’m wearing. I’m used to it. Wari’s used to it. Due to the extreme poverty all around it’s only to be expected. It’s also to be expected that people would believe Wari travels with me because he’s getting those things. However, I’ve never paid Wari to do ministry because I’ve always wanted him to be above reproach. And so I agreed to stay behind and pray while he makes his journeys. That night Kristi and I began to pray with our team about how to handle this situation, and we all immediately sensed that it was time...time for our family to leave and time for Wari to become the leader.
We, along with our team, continued to pray for the next week and continued to hear the same thing. After our week of prayer I went to Wari’s house to tell him what we sensed God saying. He invited me into the courtyard and I sat on the log that is understood to be a bench. “Wari, has God been speaking anything to you lately?” I asked him, starting off as we often did. “Kenneth, I had a dream last night. In the dream God was telling me that you are my father and that it was time for me to leave my father’s house because I am a grown man now.” He proceeded to tell me how he could not sleep for the rest of the night because he felt like God was telling him he needed to separate from me. He told me Kaceri was his home, and he did not know where else he might move his family. I then told Wari what I had come to tell him, “It is not time for you to go but for me. As your father in Christ who showed you the word, it is time for me to go and let you stand as a leader.” We rejoiced in how God had spoken the same thing to us both but were also sad because we knew what it meant. Since coming to Karamoja the plan has always been to train up leaders and then walk away and let them lead. I know that it is very hard for people to assume the responsibility of leadership when the original leader is there and present. I felt like this was very early in the process, but we knew that God was speaking. God had also given us a prophetic word about coming back to the states through Elise, our teammate. Fire devours before them, and behind them a flame burns. The land is like the garden of Eden before them, but behind them a desolate wilderness, and nothing escapes them. Joel 2:3 And so we have left in obedience. Andrew and Kerri Meador and Elise Heidi stay behind to work in a different area. Jeremy and Katie Spencer and their kids, along with Eileen Dekker, come to join them. We do not know how Wari and the new believers will do. Will they make it out there? Will they stand or fall? The questions for now remain unanswered, but I often think of how God put Adam and Eve in the garden with that fruit, with the choice to live or die, to choose obedience or disobedience. I do know that we can pray for a fire to rage in Karamoja, for the gospel to spread like a wildfire in the barren, dry wilderness. I will go back to check on him a few times a year to provide further training, encouragement and support. I am looking forward to these trips and pray that I will find much fruit among the Karimojong due to the faithfulness of the few like Wari. For us, Joel 2:3 says fire devours before them…the land is like the garden of Eden before them...In this Eden of the United States God is at work and is calling us to join Him. Pray with us to see where He is working and how we can join the fire. Thanks, Kenneth It's only been weeks since we left Karamoja, but I find myself already needing to remember. I hope to write soon about why God led us to leave (all good reasons), but for now we are settling in and words escape me for all I'm feeling. Instead, I am reposting this blog I wrote for my friend Karen's website. Some days I just need to look back to where God has taken our family and be assured that He is still leading us, although in a new direction, into good places, places where dry ground becomes springs of living water. *** It's 6 am, and Kenneth's watch begins beeping. Louder than the alarm I hear the cows lowing as they start their daily ramble down the mountain to find grass. The shepherds call back and forth to each other and sing morning songs to their cows and goats. Light is just beginning to peep around our metal shutters as I tap Kenneth again. I'm his snooze alarm. I reach under my pillow for my headlamp and quietly climb out from under my mosquito net. I feel my way into my fleece and grab a blanket to wrap around my legs. Mornings are chilly in Kaceri, and this one especially so since it rained most of the night. Kenneth is rolling out of bed now, and we tiptoe out of our room, careful not to wake Acuka. No sound comes from the kids' room, and I breathe a sigh of relief that Selah, our two year old and the kids' alarm clock, has not woken up yet. The seven of them usually share a room, but since Acuka's bout of pneumonia and malaria he has been sleeping in our room so that we can monitor his fever and breathing. The water filling the tea kettle echoes loudly in our cement-floored bathroom as Kenneth gets everything ready for morning coffee. I unbolt the front door as quietly as I can, but the metal rasps and clangs, another noise bouncing around our small cement house. We'll be lucky if the kids don't hear. The morning is beautiful. The sky is grey and misty, and the dew turns our fence-webs white. I grab a broom and tighten the leather strap holding the grass stalks in place. They are always falling out as I sweep, making a bigger mess of my already dirty floors. I sweep the porch methodically, moving the always huge pile of shoes and shooing the dog out from under my feet. He's made a mess of his dinner again, leaving mushy posho stuck and drying on our patio. I leave it for later. It's getting late, past time for starting. I bring out the plastic chairs, setting them in a semi-circle facing inward, our backs towards the fence and the distraction of any passers-by. Andrew is first, cheerful as always, followed shortly by Kerri, my sister and his wife. They are both wrapped in blankets against the morning chill, and they settle into their chairs, chatting quietly and waiting for the coffee. I take out my Bible and begin to work on the chapter I'm memorizing, a Psalm right now. I never thought I could memorize Scripture. I guess I always sold myself short. I also never thought I'd be getting up every morning at 6 am for prayer. God truly is a God of miracles. The sun is barely peeking over the mountains that surround our house as Kenneth joins us bearing mugs of hot coffee. I close my eyes, letting the steam drift up and around my face and breathe in the heavenly smell. I need this cup of coffee. Last night was long, and I am tired. I struggle to focus, but my mind wanders. I am still worried about Acuka. He had a rough day yesterday, so rough that I pleaded with God to spare his life. His fever spiked over and over, and convulsions shook his little body. His breathing was scary, ragged and infrequent, leaving me helpless to do anything. There is no oxygen within an hour, and no good doctors within two. Even the dirt airstrip is at least an hour away, not that it matters since it has recently been taken off the fly list. Too bumpy and no one wants the responsibility of fixing it. Today I am feeling the weight of our decisions, mainly the decision to move our family to the middle of nowhere, deep in the “bush”. Most of the time I love living here, especially the adventure of a life lived completely dependent on God. But some days I struggle. Some days I feel the stress, the tension of just surviving here, away from everything that we used to depend on. I pull my thoughts back to the present and realize that Kenneth is already praying. He's thanking God for sparing Acuka's life. We all know that it is only God's healing touch that has kept him alive. Help us to endure. Help us to continue to press on in this place where You've called us. Help us to fight discouragement and distractions. Help us, Lord, to remember why You've brought us here. Why we are here...my mind wanders again as I think about the love God has given us for these people. I know it's from Him because they are not usually easy to love. Vibrant is a word that aptly describes them, but so do the words stubborn and stiff-necked. What a paradox. This place epitomizes “survival of the fittest”, and in our 2 ½ years we have already watched many who were not “the fittest” pass on into eternity. Crossing into this region is like traveling back in time hundreds of years. They are cattle herders by trade, semi-nomadic people who move with their cows during the dry season in order to find fresh grass and live in thatched mud huts during the rainy season. They are known as fierce, blanket-clad warriors who fight and die for their cows. This reputation has kept many people, Ugandans and Westerners alike, from visiting or working in this beautiful place. And it is beautiful. I think back to the first visit Kenneth made here. He came back full of stories of a culture unlike anything he'd ever experienced. A people so far behind the western world that they lacked even the basic necessities of life: clothes, water (not running water or even clean water, just water), food, basic healthcare, and schooling. But the biggest thing was the lostness. A people who had barely heard the name of Jesus and didn't know even one story about Him. Their morality was nonexistent, not fake play-acting like American morality, goodness without the heart to back it, but outright, in-your-face, immorality. So we began to pray. The more we prayed the more we felt that we should be the ones to go. We should be the ones to bring the light of Christ to the dark areas of Karamoja. Not exactly something that was in my future plans, but I was open to it, interested. Discipleship and church planting had been our passion for a long time. We had done it in Nepal, then again in Colorado as we returned home. And now, apparently, we would be doing it in Uganda. As we prepared to go we saw God's hand in everything. From the insane amount of money that He provided in just a few months time to the sale of our house, the last of our financial burdens. He did it all. And it was miraculous. We never doubted His plan or His provision. We knew we were following Him, and that He would see this crazy thing through. After all, it was His idea. Fast forward a few months, and I'm stressed and homesick and wanting to be anywhere other than my hot house in my dusty brown yard where children surround my walls and yell out my name at all hours of the day asking for water and clothes and food and money. I'm expecting my fifth baby any time, and I'm beginning to wonder what exactly we're doing on the other side of the world. I hide out in my room, the only place I have any privacy and pray and pray and pray. God, what are we doing here? Today I just want to be in my comfortable home in America with lights and running water and NO MOSQUITOES. I want to deliver my baby in relative safety, with a hospital right down the road. I want friends who speak the same language I do, who like me for me, not what I can give them. I want to eat normal American food, not beans, beans and more beans. I just want to go home! And God reminds me, gently, of the penalty for looking back. The loss of the land. Was I an Israelite, one who constantly wished for the past despite the provision for the future, or was I willing to take the land, to go forward into the unknown despite the “giants” that resided there? He had promised us the land. “Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing, now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert.” Is. 43:18-19 This was definitely my wilderness, and I was feeling the desert heat keenly. But He had promised us the land and rivers in the desert. My part was to face forward, strengthen my weak knees, and keep walking forward. He was still with us, and He had called us to endure. Point well taken. Fast forward again and we're sitting in a circle under a huge spreading tree. Children's laughter and babies' cries mingle with women's chatter as we wait for everyone to gather. “Church” is about to begin. As more and more people arrive the singing starts and a dancing circle forms, jumpers in the middle, clappers on the outside. The music is lively and boisterous with many songs having just been written the week before about the newest Bible story that was shared. Most of these people are new believers still wet behind the ears from their recent cow pond baptism, and they haven't yet learned to calm down, to “behave” in church. They are hearing stories about the Creator, the one they knew existed but knew nothing about, and it is resonating in their hearts. God has been answering their prayers and they are experiencing, first-hand, His power to heal, save and change lives. My husband squats on his stool among the men, clapping and singing along when he knows the words. He knows these people well. They invite him into their homes and share their struggles and joys. He prays over them and rejoices with them as they learn of God's faithfulness to answer. His wisdom has earned him a place of respect among the elders, and he prays often for a humble heart as he disciples another to fill his role. He has been walking alongside them for over a year now, teaching, correcting, explaining and discussing, and is just starting to see the fruit of his labor. And it is beautiful. I open my eyes to see the sun rising over the mountain above our house. The view is breathtaking, and I am reminded again of the goodness of my God and His love for us that reveals itself in every waking moment. I hear men singing in the distance; a dance is in progress, probably continuing from the night before. Maybe today they are singing of the beauty of their cows or the power of their guns, but I have no doubt they will soon be singing of the greatness of their God. He is moving here, among these vibrant people, turning the hearts of the Karimojong to Himself, and we rejoice in the “rivers of living water” that are flowing all around us. “If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, 'Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water'”. John 7:38 “...for I give water in the wilderness, rivers in the desert, to give drink to my chosen people, the people whom I formed for myself that they might declare my praise.” Is. 43:20-21 I'm sorry for the loooong delay on getting this blog out! I can't begin to explain (at least in this post) what all has been going on, but we have been busy. And I am finally finding time to upload some pictures and give you a report on where the money has been spent. This is our good friend, Lokong Simon. Lokong was a huge help to Kenneth in buying all the supplies for distribution. There is no Wal-Mart in Karamoja. Instead, everything had to be bought little by little at various shops and various prices. Not exactly the most efficient system. However, Lokong kept meticulous records of every item and its price and was a big help with communication. Every bag of sorghum had to be weighed and loaded onto our rented truck. These men are carrying about 300 pounds between them, and sometimes one would hoist it onto his shoulders and carry it alone! We were finally left with thousands of pounds of sorghum stacked outside one of our huts. Along with sorghum Kenneth bought blankets, cooking pots, jerry cans (for carrying water), and basins. These women were thrilled to get their things, as you can see by their faces. Actually, I'm sure they were, but getting a Karimojong person to smile for a picture is like pulling teeth. They prefer the serious, angry face :) We are so thankful for the support that poured in for our village. All together we received over $11,000 in donations, much more than we needed to help every family who lost their home. We were then able to do a second distribution, this time for the elderly and vulnerable widows in our community and still had things left! We then turned to the long-term projects we are involved in such as Akiru and the Moses Project. This picture was not taken the day we brought our Akiru ladies supplies, but it's a tamer version of their reactions to new blankets, basins, and jerry cans. They are always a lively bunch! Our Moses Project babies and their families were the last (so far) to benefit from the excess money. We have 11 babies who, depending on their ages, either receive formula or sorghum every week along with soap and medicine as needed. Many of these babies have lost their mothers or have mothers who are unable to provide enough milk as in the case of these twins. So far we have distributed over 650 pounds of sorghum and boxes and boxes of formula, and even have money left to see them through the end of the year at least! What a huge blessing this has been, not only for the families affected by fires but for our community as a whole! Thank you for being a part of this. We are grateful for your monetary support and your prayers as the families around us rebuild, as our Akiru ladies continue to work to support their families, and as our Moses Project babies grow and thrive. It's two days after Christmas when I get the call. The old bull elephant I'd been watching lumbers slowly off as our jeep creeps past. I can hear my kids laughing and talking above me, their feet hanging just in reach of a good tickle, but I don't feel like tickling anymore.
“She's gone,” my mom says quietly. The call I had been expecting. Maybe not here on the other side of the world, a game drive in progress, but no one can say the day or the hour when we are called home.
He looks over at me in concern as I listen to the details, my grip tightening on the wheel. He's wondering when I'm going to break down. And I want to, I do, but some things hurt too much for tears. No matter how much you prepare it still hits you like a punch in the gut, as if you never saw it coming. I'll never understand it. I'd planned to go home, I want to go, but I'm 16 hours from the airport, and my passport is tied up at immigration. There's just no way. My eyes follow the old bull, his tusks yellowed with age. He seems so lonely.
I think of my grandmother the last time I saw her. Stooped, a bit frail, but still spunky as ever. Over the last few years her world had shrunk to the four walls of her home. She didn't feel like going out and had few visitors. It turns out she was struggling the whole time with fierce pain while breathing with only one lung.
The things that go unsaid.
She always was a tough woman, following my grandfather literally to the ends of the earth. Ethiopia for a stint, Oregon for a longer one, both far from her Southern roots. But the draw of home would eventually bring them back to raise their children where the pecan trees grow thick and heavy laden. In my childish memories her house was always a place of mystery and adventure. Woods and fields, worn paths and hidden animals, coke can shooting and pecan tree climbing. The rooms were full of hidden nooks and crannies, bookshelves overflowing with outdated and fraying paperbacks. It smelled of must and damp, a house well-lived in if not well-cared for. I loved every minute of every day I spent there.
But most of all I loved being with her. As the years passed I continued to visit her, alone this time. She sold the old place after my grandfather became too frail, both in body and mind, to keep it up and moved in with my aunt and uncle. I would spend weekends with her as often as I could get away from college activities and growing relationships. She would take me shopping at the mall for things she thought I needed, finishing our trips with the cafeteria line at Picadilly. Those years were marked by cafeteria lines. Afterwards I would ask if I could drive her, and now and then she would let me. Mostly she stubbornly refused, a sign of character traits someday to come in my own children.
When those days finally came she was still there, tucking a check into my pocket every time we visited her. For travel expenses or for the children she would say. And I would kiss her soft, wrinkled cheek and bend down to hug her bent body, hoping she could feel my love in the core of her being. Because I loved her, love her, so much.
Yet she'd been lonely for so long. We buried her husband, my grandfather, in 1999, my dad in 2005, then my aunt, her only daughter, in 2006. I remember our breakfast together before my aunt's funeral service, her untouched food and tired, grief-filled eyes.
“A mother should never outlive her children,” she would tell me, and my heart ached with our shared loss.
But she was right, and since then she's just been waiting for her turn.
The jeep rocks back and forth as we bump along the rutted path, tall grass waving on each side. I look again for the old bull, but he's plodded away, now only a grey speck fading into the hazy savannah. Maybe it's his turn as well, and maybe what I've seen as loneliness is just that pause before death, the letting go of this life and turning to the next.
I hope she knows, I hope she has always known, the things I left unsaid. Not I love you, that I said often, but I want to be like you andYou taught me how to truly love. I hope she knows how proud I am of her.
A breeze stirs, filling the jeep with the scent of dried grass and warm earth. Bird songs echo across the swaying fields as they dip and glide with the rushing wind. I breathe in the life around me and slowly my grip on the wheel relaxes. We lay in the hammock together tonight, his head resting on my arm, his little legs wrapped around mine, and looked at the moon. Between pointing at stars and trees and glimpses of moonlight he would hug my growing belly, absently rubbing it as he does every day. He turned three a few days ago, my seventh child, and we celebrated his miracle-of-a-life with cake and candles and many, many heartfelt gifts, one of the perks of large families and generous kids. He was thrilled that it was finally his turn to be celebrated, not knowing the celebration I feel each day of his life. We visited his first family recently. The whole village came out to see him, and he greeted them one by one, at once both friendly and oblivious. He chased chickens and drank soda and everywhere we went the people were amazed by him. I found an old journal this week from my first days of caring for him. I seemed tired and worn out, nursing two babies and getting little sleep, but oh, so in love with this boy. Even then, from day one, my heart was crying for this baby that no one wanted the responsibility for, this tiny one so alive, even at 2 1/2 pounds. I had coffee with a friend the last time I was in Jinja, and we talked about the prevalence of abandoned babies in Uganda. Her girls used to spend time on the street before joining her family and pick through garbage for their living. Abandoned babies were a common sight for them. They would find babies in dumpsters or among the trash, alive and crying. But they were children themselves, barely making it, unable to care for another, and this was just normal life. Babies unwanted, unloved, unclaimed. In Kaceri we have a program called the Moses Project that was born out of a desire to see babies, from all situations, thriving in their families. Today we met in our school hut, seven mothers and grandmothers with their twins and grandchildren, babies crawling and crying everywhere. We read the Bible together, we prayed for each other, we gave out milk and food, we held little ones and gave instruction about caring well for their children. We tried, with our words and actions, to validate these women who are trying so hard against such difficult odds. And it's working. They are learning and babies are thriving. As I sat there with these women, Acuka on my lap, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for my son's life. He was one of these children, a motherless child, unwanted by his grandmother, supposed too small to survive. But now. Now. He is our joy. It just radiates from him. He jumps everywhere he goes, and his laughter is constant and contagious. He copies everything his brothers and sisters do, for better or for worse. He almost always has a toy car clutched in one fist, but can rarely be found in pants. He is spontaneous and free with his affection and loves everything except napping and bathing. He still makes me stop and stare with wonder at his life, his miracle-of-a-life. And so tonight I cuddle him close. I kiss his fuzzy head and stroke his brown cheeks. We look at the moon together as the hammock sways, and I give thanks for his life and the chance to be a part of it. What a blessing he is. (Don't worry, I WILL be posting an update about distribution to the fire victims. Unfortunately my internet is not good enough to load many pictures here, so I will wait until the next time I am in Kotido.) It's been overwhelming this week. Not the amount of homes destroyed, but the giving, the giving has been overwhelming. In a matter of days the total given reached over $10,000. That may not seem like a lot when you consider how much it costs to replace American things (not even enough for one family, right?), but this is not America, and people here can carry all they own on their backs. And so tomorrow Kenneth leaves for a neighboring town. He'll find a lorry (big truck), load bags and bags of food, piles of blankets, jerry cans, basins and cooking pots, and he'll bring them all back to give out to the families in need. If only every problem were so easy. We visited the home of the now-motherless children this week. The grandparents piled them in front of us, dirty and half-clothed, the baby snotty-nosed and sick with an eye infection, the others covered with ringworm. They've been motherless for only a few weeks, but they sit in the little shade they can find, listless and uninterested in us. Maybe they are sad or maybe they are only hungry, sometimes they look the same. And I wish, so much, that I could give them more than food and blankets and cooking pots. I wish I could bathe them, one by one, put cream on their ringworm and clean clothes on their bodies. I wish I could snuggle the baby and make him smile. I wish I could give them back the mother they lost. But this, this help we're offering, this is the best we've got. It's not enough, it will never be enough for these children, but it will have to do for now. I am still grateful we can help, grateful we can, in some small way, show them how much the Father loves them. And I pray that someday they will know Him and His love for themselves. That He will be enough to meet those needs we can never meet. For those who have prayed or given or written us encouraging notes, Thank You! You have blessed not only them but us with your faithfulness. We are so humbled by your responses and so overwhelmed by your generosity! Now, please stop giving! But don't stop praying. We will post pictures later this week! It's been five days since the fire in the village next door destroyed over 30 homes. Since that time we have been overwhelmed by the outpouring of support from our friends back at home. We are encouraged that so many are responding and helping us help them! We have joined forces with the local church to visit villages and get an accurate count of how many households and individuals were affected by this fire. During this headcount several other villages within a 5 mile radius were found to have had fires in the last week, raising the number of people now homeless to over 400. The community is coming together to help these families rebuild by donating grass for new roofs and sticks for new fences, but very few are able to help beyond that. Still, it's encouraging to see all of us, mzungus and locals alike, joining together to help. We have already ordered supplies for the families and are planning to have them brought on Monday of this next week. As things stand now we have over $4,000 in donations pledged, and are ordering things for every family affected, trusting that God will provide the rest of the money needed. So if you plan to give but haven't yet, please do! We will more than likely stop taking donations after next week. Please be in prayer for one family in particular. They live in the village of Lominit, the same place my son was born. As the fire took over their storage hut the mother rushed back inside to rescue the little money she was hiding there and was severely burned all over her body. She was taken to the local health center, but her burns were just too severe and she died the next week, leaving 8 children behind, one of them still nursing. Please lift up these children and their father as they try to rebuild their lives without their mother and wife. It is always difficult for children to survive here without a mother, but God is good and in control of even this, and we trust that He will use this for His glory. Please check back next week for an update on the distribution of food and supplies for these families. We are so grateful for your donations and prayers! We, along with the families here, are so blessed by your support! The sound of crackling woke me up this morning. It was too close and too loud for comfort. We gathered beside Elise and Camille's hut and watched the flames lick at the dry sorghum stalks just outside our fence. As the shepherds beat at the flames with branches the fire slowly died down, leaving only blackened earth in its wake.
It's fire season around here. As the snow falls back in our home state we who live among the Karimojong watch our grass yellow and wither away. The land as far as I can see is hazy with dust and smoke and patches of black stretch to the right and left, little ribbons of trail still winding, white and bare, through the ash. This week a fire got out of control. It came on the wind, they say, little tornadoes of flames that flew from hut to hut and fence to fence, destroying everything it touched. In the end 32 families are left with nothing, bare ground, bare walls and burnt circles all that's left of their homes. Their stores of food, meant to last until harvest season in the fall, are black and charred. This kind of disaster in our country brings out the best in us as people and as fellow Americans. We give generously and take trips to help with clean-up and disaster relief. We take people into our homes, if needed, and gather donations of blankets and clothes. We give, give and give more. After all, they are our friends and neighbors. But what about disaster in a place like this? A place where neighbors don't have enough for their own families, much less those whose food is now black with ash. A place where people own only one blanket, if that, or one pot, or one set of clothes. How do they help? They'll try, I know, but there is not enough to go around. The families who lost everything are sleeping outside on the burnt ground as they beg for help. They are grinding their charred sorghum and maize and cooking it, anything to fill their empty bellies. And so today, because these people are now our neighbors and friends, we beg you, our neighbors and friends across the water, for help. We have never done relief work on any scale, but this time we feel compelled to try and help. Maybe help will come from organizations here, eventually, but they can't wait. We are planning to bring a truck from a neighboring town with bags of sorghum or maize, blankets, cooking pots, jerry cans and basins for each family. This is barely scratching the surface of the need, but it's a start, a start that leaves room for our local community to help as well. So please, if you are willing, give! There is a donate button on the right side of our blog if that's the easiest way for you to help, but make sure to email us at williamsinthewilderness@gmail.com and let us know that money is designated for fire relief. Otherwise, checks can be sent to: Advance Him P.O. Box 65147 San Antonio, TX 78265 Please add a note (NOT on the check) with our name on it. Thank you in advance for your help! We are always amazed by the support we feel from our friends and family back at home. Please join us in praying for these families as they struggle to rebuild their homes and their lives. It had been one of those needy kind of days. The kind where I am a milkshake and everyone has their straws in me, sucking for all they're worth (thanks to Rachel Jankovic's book, Fit to Burst, for this very accurate description of my life!). Today it was money for school fees for my daughter, one lady asked, and a ride from town because it is so far to walk, said another, and medicine because my baby is very, very sick, said my friend who walks on her hands, and food because there is nothing for the children to eat, said still another, and work because we have no hope left at all. And the needs were so valid, but all I could hear in my head was that slurping sound of straws scraping the bottom of my glass, searching for any last taste. Slurp, slurp. I was empty. That day on the other side of the globe my grandmother was being buried, a funeral I never meant to miss. And our Akiru meeting had been rough. Conflict, arguments, raised voices and hurt feelings, they all came out, but nothing was solved. And honestly, isn't it time for me to stop being so tired and sick every day? I don't remember pregnancy being so hard. And my list of errands was longer than my daily allotment of endurance. My own needs were sucking me dry. How could I possibly have anything left for anyone else? And so we fought our way through the day, my patience hanging by a thread, and finally started for home. Bumpy roads have a way of clearing your head, making you more contemplative, and for the first time that day we slowed down and just soaked it all in. The sunset, the cows, the shepherds and their sticks, the simplicity and beauty of life. And slowly I began to remember. My life was overwhelming, no doubt about that. But it was also beautiful and blessed. I had forgotten that this life that I was called to, this life that I had chosen, was one of joy. Joy in the journey, joy in the sacrifice, joy in joining my Father in laying down my life. Not that it was easy and not even that His yoke always felt light, but if I was called to "count it all joy" then maybe I needed a perspective shift. My heart had lost its way and in the process had run dry. I thought back to the woman asking me for money for school for just one child while the others all sit out, waiting for the hope of a sponsor next year, and I was so grateful to be able to teach my children at home. I thought about the woman who needed a ride, who would more than likely be walking the 26 miles to my village, her baby tied on her back, and I was so grateful for my dependable truck. I thought about the woman whose baby was sick, who would crawl all the way to town on her hands, her two year old daughter on her back, just to beg for help, and I was so grateful for healthy children and for easy access to medicine. I thought about this same woman begging me for food, her small pile of holey leaves all that she had to feed her seven children, and I was so grateful for nutritious food, for the ability to choose what we feel like eating on any given day. I thought about the woman needing work, her husband, disabled, and her children left with nothing, and I was so grateful for the freedom we have to work here, unhindered and without worry, knowing that we are well supported by those who love us. I thought about my grandmother and the legacy she had left us, one of sacrifice and service, one of following her husband wherever he led her and raising a family of lovers of God, and I was so grateful for the time I had with her and the relationship we shared. I thought of my Akiru women, their hearts stirring, their desire to follow just beginning, and I was so grateful for the changes we are seeing, the growth that is even now happening. I thought of my morning sickness, my struggle to find enough energy to function on a daily basis, and I was so grateful for this new blessing, even this sickness proof that God gives such good and amazing gifts. And all of a sudden my heart was full, full to overflowing. Like I said, my life was beautiful and blessed. I had just forgotten. *** Have you forgotten today? Have you forgotten the depths from which He rescued you or the way in which He carried you? Look back at your life, look up to Him, and remember. |
Would you consider partnering with us financially to serve Liberia?Kenneth and Kristi Williams The Williams Family
Kenneth and Kristi
Nevaeh, 20 years old
Rikot, 19 years old
Ezra, 19 years old
Zion, 17 years old
Izzy, 16 years old
Selah, 13 years
Acuka, 12 years
Benaiah, 9 years
Jubal, 6 years
Jireh, 2 years
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