Letter for The Vine

Below is a brief letter I wrote for the Presbytery of the James’ newsletter, The Vine.

I first heard about the YAV program in February of 2008, courtesy of Google. I had just gone back to school after taking a year off. The preceding year had featured a great deal of introspection and wrestling with my faith, and I was looking for something to do over the summer. Instead, I found YAV. I knew it was something I wanted to do, but wisely, decided to wait until I graduated in 2009. I waited several months, and, the following December, applied. In March, 2009 I went to the placement event, very excited about the Kenya site. I left the placement event having been selected to serve in Northern Ireland. This was, at the time, honestly, a slight (admittedly very slight) disappointment. As I wrote in a note on my selection request, I would have been happy with Northern Ireland, but I would have been ecstatic with Kenya.

Thankfully, God and the YAV Staff made the right choice for me. My year in Northern Ireland, from 2009-2010 was exactly where I needed to be at that time. My placements, a Presbyterian Church in Lisburn, and a non-sectarian Youth Center, actually located in that church’s basement, stretched and challenged me in all the right ways. I landed in Belfast incredibly nervous about working with youth—and I worked with the full range, from toddlers on Wednesday and Friday mornings to teens on Friday nights. I gave my first sermon, which was very sweetly tolerated, planned worship, made copies, got soundly beaten playing soccer with 16 to 18 year olds, watched as 13-14 year olds ran circles around me on the soccer pitch, and, finally, by the end of the year, managed to hold my own against 11 year olds. I came home at the end of the year excited to make the much shorter move from Charlottesville to Richmond to start classes at Union.

I would not trade that year in Northern Ireland for anything, but I kept feeling called to Kenya. Fortunately, I was blessed with the opportunity to follow that call, and am now back in the YAV program serving in Kenya with CWS Africa. My work is showing me a different aspect of mission and evangelism, as I seek to tell the stories of the communities with whom CWS works. I was asked to write about what this year means, but that is exceptionally difficult to do right now. There are times when I wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else. There are times when it is an enormous struggle, but I came here to grow, and growth is rarely easy. Thus far, this year has been an amazing opportunity to experience a different culture, participate in different ways of worshipping God, to eat the best fruit I have ever had, and to experience life in a way that is simply not possible anywhere else. Thus far, I have sought to say yes to everything I can, which has taken me to beautiful beaches on the Indian Ocean and majestic vistas over the Rift Valley, from rural villages, miles from the nearest paved road to some of the most densely populated urban areas in the world, and through three countries: Kenya, Tanzania and Uganda. As for what this year really means for me, it’s too soon to tell, but I suspect that when I look back on it, it will have been exactly where I needed to be.

West Pokot

We were staying in a guest house near the Kenya-Uganda border in West Pokot.  Normally, on field visits, we spend the nights in towns, as we did for three of four nights on this particular trip, but the sites we are visiting tomorrow are too remote, necessitating that we stay in a more remote area.

It was rustic, true.  There was no running water, which was no surprise, but thanks to solar panels hooked into several batteries, there was electricity for lights.  Overall, it was majestic.  The guesthouse sits on a ridge in the midst of the Rift Valley.  On one side is an easy slope down past a church and school to the village.  On the other, a much steeper drop presents views across miles of the valley floor, crossing the border into Uganda.  One member of our group started planning to have her wedding there.



After getting settled in, I went downstairs to the large common room, and joined on of my colleagues for chai.  After a few minutes, a man came up and introduced himself, and, after asking if he was interrupting anything (he wasn’t) asked if he could tell me a story (he could). 

“I am an alcoholic. This is my only problem”  He tells me that very few people will listen to him, or understand him because of his alcoholism.  (Just to be clear, the problem of understanding does not come from his speech—he is speaking clear English).  He tells me that he is an alcoholic because of his friends—that he has tried to leave alcohol, but failed.  He tells me that he wants to go back to school, but cannot leave his wife and daughters.  He asks me what he should do.

Crap.

Ever since his first words, I had been silently praying.  Praying that he only wanted to tell his story, that he wouldn’t actually expect anything from me beyond passive listening.  Knowing that was unlikely, I also prayed that God would give me something to say when he finally did ask.  And, I’m not too proud to admit, I was also praying that he would just stop and go away.

“Can you give me counsel?” he asks.

Fumbling through past experience, memories of Seminary Pastoral Care Classes and YAV orientation, I finally stall for time: “I am not a counselor.”

He persists.

I tell him “It sounds like you know what you need to do, but haven’t yet found the strength.”
He looks at me blankly.  Clearly, he wants more than limited affirmation.

I ask if he prays.


"My wife prays for me.” He answers. 

“But do you pray?”

“Yes, my wife prays for me.”

I try one more time, and get the same answer.

I give up.

He starts talking about his family.

He is married, and has two daughters, aged five and three.  His marriage was arranged—his family gave her family 30 cows, and they married.  He wants his daughters to be educated.  He does not want to sell them to warriors, not even for 50 cows each, but his brothers pressure him to.  He tells me that they had hoped he would have daughters so he could marry them off for a bride-price.

He tells me that the oldest in is nursery school, but that he already struggles to pay the fees.

He raises cattle, like many in the area, and is under constant threat from raiders.  On one side, they are threatened by the Karamoja, on the other by the Turkana.  A little over a month ago, the Kenyan government came in and took all their guns.  (That gun roundup actually postponed our trip—we were originally going to go in early December).  Now he worries that they won’t be able to defend themselves against the raiders.

“We will just see them being driven off in the distance.”

He tells me “I do not count my cows, because tomorrow they could belong to somebody else. I may think I own so many cows, but tomorrow, someone else will own them.  This is why I am an alcoholic, because I am frustrated.”

He is called away before he can again ask me for any help.

Very little makes me uncomfortable.  I like things to be a certain way when I have the power to make them so, but I recognize when I don’t have that power, and in those circumstances, can be very laid back.  I do, however, struggle when strangers ask me for help, because I just don’t feel like I can possibly know enough. 

This man spoke to me of struggling with alcohol and temptation to drink from friends.  He starts talking about wanting to go back to school, but not being sure about how.  These thoughts are not totally alien to me, I can relate to them, at least somewhat.

Then he started talking about raiders and cattle rustlers.  I was completely lost.  There is nothing in my experience, and barely anything in my imagination which can compare to that.  In the US, I have always been able to rely on the police.  In Nairobi, I live and work in one of the nicer, safer neighbourhoods, with regular police presence, and even private security protecting the compounds containing my apartment and office.  West Pokot, however, is not all that far from Baragoi, where 40 some police officers were killed in an ambush by cattle rustlers just a few months ago.  Clearly, this man cannot depend on government protection.

So far, I haven't even addressed the dynamics that have him talking to me, and not my older and wiser colleague sitting across the table.  And yes, based on body posture, etc.  it is clear that this man is talking to me, not us.  My colleague grew up not all that far from where this village, and would have been a far better person to consult, but he isn't white.

My skin color and presence in this particular guest house mark me as a foreign church or NGO worker.  Someone with education, money and influence.  In reality, I have no influence, very little money, and my education is almost entirely irrelevant to this context.

The next day, my colleague brings up this conversation.  Chuckling, he tells me that I did not give that man what he wanted.  My colleague tells me that I should have told the man to talk to his pastor, but likely what he really wanted was money.

My colleague is probably correct, and I knew at the time that I should have tried to bring him into the conversation, but for whatever reason, despite thinking that in the moment, I failed to do so.

Now, back in Nairobi, it is far too late to try to offer better counsel, or try to gain deeper insight into this man's life.

All I can do his tell the story.