Let all things their creator bless

If you are reading this, you know that in May of this year I went to Kenya on a mission immersion experience, sponsored by the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship’s Kutana Kenya program. You might be wondering why I am just now posting about the experience. Trust me, I didn’t forget about it. The second I got back from Kenya I was swept up with preparing for the next summer task, and the one after that. This is the first time since the trip that I’ve sat down to write about it. I wanted to wait until I could give this reflection its due diligence and time. There is certainly much to ruminate on. I fear that my memories of the events are slipping away, as they naturally do, but the message of the trip lingers with me every day. I have so much to say, and I ask you to please bear with me, as this will be quite lengthy! Let me first share with you a brief overview (certainly not an exhaustive explanation!) of what we did every day. I have attached photos of each place that we visited, so that you can follow along with the story as I tell it. As you may know, the focus of the trip was environmental awareness and stewardship.

Scene 1: the mountains near Nairobi

Our first stop was at Brackenhurst Conference Center, in a mountainous region near the capital city, Nairobi. We spent our two days here getting acclimated to the environment of Kenya. The air was cool and crisp, rain was frequent, and an enchanting mist constantly hung in the air. Everywhere I turned there was greenery. Here we relaxed, explored the terrain, or simply sat with nature, soaking in the newness that was Kenya for most of us.

Scene 2: Loongeiwuan Integrated Child Development Center

Here is where we got some much-welcomed human interaction with local peoples. We visited a primary school inaugurated by Africa Exchange, the US non-profit that launched our trip. There are a few other schools like this one, which Africa Exchange calls Integrated Child Development Centers. The school children greeted us by singing us a song. We then met each student, moving down a line and shaking their hands one by one. I must admit it felt very uncomfortable to be the center of attention in that way, to be the white-in-shining guest of honor. I even felt ashamed to make eye contact with them, realizing that we were only passing through, strangers and outsiders come to visit their school and never be seen again. I was also ashamed that I found myself pitying them, wanting a “normal, American life” for them. How self-absorbed I am to want to mold them to fit my standards, to want them to be someone other than who God made them to be. I had to get myself out of the way. In that moment I couldn’t fix the void that separates our cultures, but I could see the precious human beings in front of me and treat them as such. I could, for a moment, cross the void that separates God’s beloved children. I could look at them unapologetically and directly in their eyes, made special by our common Creator, without my selfish white guilt in the way, loving them for who they are and not who I want them to be. And maybe if we cross it enough, the void could be fixed.

Scene 3:  Rift Valley lakes

Next, we journeyed down into the Rift Valley to stay at a campsite on Lake Baringo. This was probably the most captivatingly beautiful terrain from my perspective. There seemed to be nothing humans could do to diminish its divinely ordained beauty. The first night we were there it stormed, and rains clouded the skies over the lake. I usually would have been annoyed by the rain, but it somehow made the view even more captivating. I’ve attached a picture, but don’t be fooled by what my iPhone camera could capture. It was 100 times more stunning. Representing over 470 species of birds, Lake Baringo was swirling with the brightly colored array of various birds, who constantly graced us with their calls and songs. One morning we took a sunrise boat ride out on the lake, waking up with the world in the realest way I’ve ever experienced. In my everyday life, I am sound asleep, not to be disturbed, unconscious to the earth that works its magic to wake up the world for me. The earth is always moving, always doing the dance of life, despite my obliviousness to it.

Scene 4: Rural homestay at Kipkaren

Next, our group split up and stayed at different homes for three days. I and another member of our group stayed with a woman named Helen, along with her son, Peter, and grandson, Ian.  I will not be able to tell you all that I learned here. This was one of the greatest gifts God has ever given me. There was nothing touristy about this homestay. I experienced the real Kenya, from the perspective of a typical rural family. I did what they did. I ate what they ate. I went where they went. I was swept up into their family. Helen was the matriarch of her family and their plantation. A widower, a mother of seven children who had gone off into the world in different directions, a beloved grandmother. She rose early in the morning to tend to the garden and the animals, and to begin the day’s cooking. She instructed house helpers this way and that. It was mesmerizing to watch her at work—a strong, self-sufficient, well-versed leader of the pack.

One of her close friends (and tenders of her farm) gave us an in-depth tour of the garden and farm. I was entranced, baffled at the intricacies of taking care of the land, the plants, and the animals. I doubt that I would be able to keep just one of those alive. He showed us the various ways to cook and eat certain plants. He told us about the process of harvesting chickens and even offered for me to help slaughter a chicken, to which I politely declined. We ate delicious meals that Helen prepared, and it wasn’t until later that I realized that all of it came from her garden or farm. I was shocked, and almost confused. I’d never had a meal where I knew exactly where every food item was coming from. How deluded I’ve been. 

I will never forget a beautiful moment when we were eating lunch with Helen, her son, grandson, and two friends. We were all truly connecting. Though language was a bit of a barrier, it didn’t matter. They were laughing at me for the sloppy way I scooped up my food with my rice (a Kenyan method that I was attempting to learn). I laughed with them. It was silly and transcendent at the same time. We were people who lived half a world apart, with little in common except our humanity. And that is what we were able to tap into. We weren’t black or white, Kenyans or Americans, rich or poor. We were just people who discovered the simplicity of a moment, who reached across the void that divides us and reveled in the rare closeness. In that moment their laughs sounded so familiar. They knew me by my smile. It was simple, beautiful, and purely good.

I was especially connected to Helen’s grandson, Ian, a sweet boy of four years. We could never hold a conversation, because of the language barrier, but wow, did we enjoy each other’s company. At first scared of and confused by this strange, blonde-haired visitor, Ian gradually moved from fear to curiosity and then to adoration of his new buddy and playmate. We had a magnificent and carefree time playing and laughing together. My favorite memory of him is when he endearingly took my Chacos off my feet and put them on his own, walking around in them (see the adorable picture attached). When we finally left the house to return to our group, Ian burst into big, sad tears, screaming at the window watching our car pull away. Parting from this boy was one of the most painful things I have done. Helen, Peter, and Ian will always be my second family. They treated us like honored guests, but they didn’t need to. Just being in their presence and learning from their lives was enough for me. Peter, if you’re reading this, I can’t thank you enough, and I hope to see you again one day.

Scene 5: The dry plains of Marich Pass at the Lake Turkana Basin

This was probably the most rustic accommodations we had while in Kenya. I am only sharing this so that you get a picture of what is normal living to many Kenyans. I am a pretty easy-going traveler, and my motto is usually, “you can deal with anything for a few days.” But even I was frustrated and uncomfortable with these accommodations. In our thatched (but cement-floored) huts, every shower was ice cold, I occasionally showered with scorpions on the wall, and I slept in a sweltering heat with the sound of who knows what kind of insects fluttering over my head. Electricity was burned out in the compound essentially the entire time we were there. A dry dust constantly hung in the hair and clung to my skin. It felt like I might as well have been sleeping outside with the rest of nature. I know this sounds dramatic, and I am certainly not bemoaning this Kenyan way or complaining about our accommodations. But I would be lying if I said I enjoyed them. We have been so spoiled in the US. We have learned to only be comfortable in pristine accommodations, thinking it’s what we deserve. I’ve been a member of the most high-maintenance creatures on this planet, disturbed by the “uncleanliness” of nature. During our stay at Marich Pass, I was distracted by my own illusion of “comfort” and “normal,” kept from truly appreciating nature in its complex and wonderful element, seeing nature as an unfortunate inconvenience because of my privileged upbringing.

Scene 6: The Sisit community at West Pokot

I would say that the mission and ideals of this trip were reflected and summed up most fully with our visits to the Sisit community, where we interacted with school children and helped to plant trees in villager’s gardens. Each day we hiked 30 minutes to the top of a mountain (a trek that some of the students make to get to school every day!). We visited each classroom of the thriving early childhood education program (another of Africa Exchange’s Integrated Child Development Centers), where the kids greeted us in English and introduced themselves to us one by one. And we participated in the Trees for Life project, splitting up and walking with people to their homes and planting trees in their garden with them. While the language barrier proved to make communication difficult at times, we found common ground in the work. We didn’t need spoken language to work side by side, digging up soil and nestling our tree in the earth. I asked the man whose home I went to how tall our tree would grow to be, and he pointed to a massive tree nearby. Not what I was expecting. I didn’t even know people could plant trees that big. I also ignorantly didn’t understand why anyone would care to have another tree in their yard, until he told me that the tree would provide him water, food, shelter from heat and rain, and watershed protection for years. It was striking for me realize that I would be leaving quite a significant mark in that small community of Kenya. I often think about those two trees I planted and wonder what they look like, who is caring for the trees, who is playing around the trees. Perhaps it is self-centered to be so fascinated by my own importance. But it is not the fact that I planted a tree in Kenya that strikes me. It’s the fact that I planted a tree with the owner of the home. We worked together, and the product of our work will make its mark on the earth for years to come.

Scene 7: Tropical rainforest at Kakamega

Next, we stayed at a quiet and remote Christian retreat center amidst a tropical rain forest. While there we saw rare bird species and an endless variety of flora and fauna. I and a couple of friends went on a little excursion into a rainforest path. I was calmed and mesmerized, enveloped in the senses that bombarded me. It was so surreal and dreamlike that I really wondered if I had been pulled into heaven.

Scene 8: Maasai Mara wildlife preserve

Throughout my life I had been deprived of the wild until our safaris through the plains of the Maasai Mara. Civilization brainwashed my perception of the world, deluding me with the assumption that homo sapiens alone rule the planet. But there are species with their own life dynamics, creating an animal culture of their own amongst themselves, undisturbed by the follies of humans. On our safaris we saw lions, cheetahs, wildebeests, zebra, giraffe, elephants, buffalo, hippos, hyenas, baboons, and dozens of other species that I can’t name. The wildlife preserve protects animals from the encroachment of humans, but it doesn’t protect them from each other. The brutal circle of life was on display for me as we watched a pack of cheetahs cunningly hunt, kill and feast on a wildebeest. It made me sick to my stomach, but for some reason I struggled to look away, mesmerized by the violence, both beautiful and horrific. It was horrific to watch the mutilation of a life of an innocent and helpless creature, but strangely beautiful to watch the cheetahs work effortlessly together, a plan for survival crafted and executed with the utmost efficiency and teamwork. It made me wonder: what was God’s intention with the circle of life, and is it only reserved for the wild? Or are we humans affected too?

What does it all mean?

Now that I’ve outlined the events of the trip, I’d like to tell you what they taught me. We used phrases like “mission-immersion” and “kutana” (mutual encounter) because they are more accurate than calling it a “mission trip” in the most traditional sense. We were being immersed in a culture much different than ours. We encountered people who don’t think like us, who lead quite different lives than ours. We made connections with these people, many that are lasting. We met them where they are. They met us where we are. We encountered creation afresh. We learned to look at the earth with new eyes— the same earth that has been under our feet since our birth, but that now looks like a world we’ve never tread upon.

I was bombarded with many emotions and feelings: sadness, joy, wonder and awe, a dull, ever present melancholy, calmness and peace, hopelessness, and hope, but mostly hope. I was saddened not by the “devastation of the land” or the unfortunate lot of the Kenyan peoples, as one might assume. I was saddened by the folly of the “developed” world that I’ve experienced in my own country. The United States, with all its liberties, privileges, and advancements, has lost a connection to the earth, a connection that sustains Kenya and its people. We could go an entire day—or days!—without going outside. It would seem from the vantage point of our secured homes that we don’t “need” the earth. The truth is that we don’t know how much we need the earth. And I do not believe that Kenyan peoples, or peoples from any other developing country, have a greater capacity to love the earth than we have over in the US. I believe that we are all born with this innate sense of connectedness to the earth and its creator. It is who we are at our very core. Do you remember fearlessly running barefoot through the grass as a child? That’s the innate connectedness I’m talking about.From dust we were made and to dust we will return. We were made to love the earth, because God created it. But the developed world has bombarded itself with one advancement after another, and our industries have taken on lives of their own. We consume and consume and don’t know how to stop. That is partly why our beloved earth faces such peril today. It is no secret that the earth is rich with resources. I don’t think that’s a coincidence; I think we were made by God to enjoy those resources. But we were not meant to take more than our fair share.

We are overwhelmed with daunting warnings about the impending destruction of our planet, but if we’re being honest, most of us cannot fathom the seriousness of those warnings. They don’t seem to directly affect us. But in developing countries like Kenya, the effect of climate change is often right in front of their eyes. So, I don’t fault individual Americans for the way we’ve abused the earth. The industrial system we’ve set in place has grown larger than we could have imagined and has surpassed the control of individuals. But because of this, it is much harder to see what the Kenyan people see when they look at the earth. They can more readily and accessibly see the effects that abusing the earth has on human beings. A tree in rural Kenya may be a source of food, water, shade, and shelter. What do trees mean to us in the United States? Plastic that we recycle will go into a landfill that we will never see. In rural Kenya, mounds of plastic could be dumped in what you call your backyard.

I remember being a child and running barefoot in the grass, climbing trees, looking at stars, digging through mud and observing caterpillars, catching fireflies and watching their movements in a jar before setting them free. But I don’t do that anymore. Why did it feel so good to feel the earth beneath my feet? In between my toes? I think it’s that innate sense of connectedness to the earth. As a child I loved the earth, and it sustained me every day. I wonder—what would our world look like if we could all fall in love with creation three times a day? I challenge you to walk outside today and observe something in nature. Don’t look at it for what it can do for you. Don’t hope to gain something from it. Just watch and listen. I guarantee that it won’t be difficult to fall in love with something after you’ve spent time with it. I think a lot about a quote from one of my favorite authors and theologians, Thomas Merton: “The most wonderful moment of the day is that when creation in its innocence asks permission to “be” once again, as it did on the first morning that ever was.” Isn’t that so nice? All creation asks of God is to simply “be.” Someone once told me that a tree worships God better than we ever could by being exactly what God made it to be. Throughout our lives we strive to do and be so much. We seek after things that don’t make us happy, that don’t bring us closer to God. We can learn something invaluable from the simplicity of nature.

I hope that you can tell from my story how immensely grateful I am to have had this experience. It doesn’t get more cliché than to say that my life has been changed. The way I look at the world has been altered. Now when I see a tree, I can’t help but be filled with a deep, inexplicable emotion, knowing that the spirit of God resides in that tree. Now when I see trees being cut down to be replaced with another outlet for our consumerist obsession, I don’t apathetically brush it off, but my heart hurts, realizing exactly what we are losing, physically and spiritually. Now when hear a bird singing, I wonder if it is praising its Creator.

I think that I assumed, going into this trip, that I would be “helping” people, even though I’m not really sure what that means. Otherwise, could I call this a mission trip? Perhaps I did help someone, in some way. But the truth is this: we Americans were the ones who were helped. The entirety of Kenya reached out and blessed me. The people, the trees, the soil, the animals, all worked in harmony to teach me how to thank God for everything we’ve been provided. And maybe, hopefully, I was a blessing to at least one person along the way. And is that such a bad thing? Can missions be this mutual encounter? A give and take, a sharing of goods and resources, knowledge, experiences, and blessings? That is my prayer for our world.

I think we spend a lot of time wondering what heaven will be like, looking forward to it as an escape from this wretched world. We think it’ll be like nothing we’ve ever seen before. Well, what if heaven looks like a restoration of the earth? What if heaven looks like creation in its purest form, the way it was meant to be? I think back to that rainforest path I walked through in Kakamega. What if God is waiting for us in that rainforest, ready to welcome us into his arms, which are the soft lily pads of the pond? Saying, “Come join me, come be with me in this earth I have made for you.”

I will leave you with the words from a well-known hymn written by a 13^th century friar who I think got this “connectedness to the earth” thing right.

All creatures of our God and king, lift up your voice and with us sing: Alleluia, alleluia! Let all things their creator bless, and worship him in humbleness. O praise him, alleluia!