5 July 2008 11:41pm                                                   

Last night I was at the window, because singing was outside. I put my head against the cold bars and listened to the family next door . I could make out the husband, wife, and the kids all lightly singing "Tawala maisha yangu Yesu". Reign in me Jesus, they sung. It was late, and this was how they were going to bed. This is how they mellowed their minds and focused on the days ending.

Its this sort of singing I have come to love here. No pomp or terminology, just utter heart and soul. The woman's voice would lead the single phrase and the others would join in for the repetition of the rest of it. Before they finished the last word, and while that last bwana was still being stretched and used, the woman would rise her voice again and start the whole thing up. To let the song have a break stand without notes would have lost the energy and the rhythm. It needed her to keep on lifting, keep on going, respin the thing over before it ended. Even a pause and it may have fallen to pieces.

The song ended, not suddenly, but by winding down like a pot off the stove. And from there they each spoke in quiet tongues. It was, to be honest, the most plain and honest way of doing this I've ever heard.

Maybe the kids were tired and sore of this repetition, like doing the dishes. But from where I was standing, my face to their night, the melody was proof that goodness does reign in this place. With the dark holding aside the clamor of the day, I saw in the soul of that family the source of their light and strength.

           4 July 2008 11:38pm                                                   

Has your head departed for where it is not? Has your mind left for the time that is coming? I am pulling your sleeve. I am telling you, "look", because there is so much to address before its over. This will finalize better if you're present. I know you are nervous and a bit wary of what's coming, and I know its easier to walk unattached in the world, because that way you remain less spent, your sleeves less soiled, and your heart will leave far less responsible. But the time to come is going to be more solid if you live this moment more fully. Splash cold water on your face, lift your head up, and bear down the stairs outside. Be in bed on time. Go to dinner when you know they'll be there. Invite your friend for breakfast. Ask about how nervous they are regarding the insane Christian jobmarket. Pray with them about that. There is so much to be done. Two weeks are short, but its still two weeks of a place that you will miss when its gone.

           3 July 2008 11:45pm                                                   

The longer I spent here, the more meals I ate, the more I rode the public transports, the further I explored the local roads, the longer I stared at the world around me - the more I came to see the variety within this world.

Vincent cooks ugali soft. Tom makes it gritty. Matatus on Ngong 111 are pretty nice, even with the obnoxious flat panel TVs of booty music. The matatus on Dagoretti road are hideous, and sometimes you cannot close the sliding door if the van has stopped on a slant. The restrooms at Javahouse are sparkling new, and those at Sixems are essentially a bucket. The Americans drink coffee with sugar, the Brits drink tea without. Crime is rampant on Ngong past dark. In Karen it is safer.

Knowing things take time. Living somewhere without being crazy takes time. Knowing what to say in a sermon, to your classmates, or to that troubled friend takes time. Knowing how to make jokes in a new place takes time. Things take time.

           2 July 2008 11:17pm                                                   

The last exam was today. I had stayed up late writing the final Hebrew paper, so I barely studied for it. I got there with four hours of sleep under my belt, but the exam was all on the one sole section I had time to study (Galatians 5). It was a miracle.

I usually don't write on this public thing about personal darkness. Such things are barely understood through snippets, and any outward relay can be often more destructive than helpful. I think this is why Psalm 88 is the only one of the bunch that ends in hopelessness. But sometimes I am given the gift of remembering those tough times later on, and I can see how God personally got his hands dirty for me. Such remembrances are true treasures.

Such a time happened in September. I had only arrived off the KLM night flight, just setting the suitcase on the ground when a rush of despair drenched me. It had something to do with how the peeling deep red painted cement floor was familiar, like something out of a dream. I remember how the haphazard ceiling and its hole over the bookshelf snapped me back to a cynical soberness. Reality set in. I saw how this was to be home again.

And I could barely stand. My knees were flinching closed, so I sat down on the grey blanketed bed and closed my eyes. "What am I doing God?" I asked. "Why did I come back here? How can I do another year? How is this even possible?" I tried to resurge something like trust and hope in my heart, but I was an emotional vacuum. My head was something lifeless, and my will had no moxy left to start up a song.

There, in the dark of the night, God moved me from where I was. He didn't birth some sort of idea of hope, neither did he cause my emotion to be flooded with something like resurrection. God simply said inside my wilted heart, "Go to bed Simon."

When I awoke the sun was shining, and things seemed easy again.

Since I am so sick
Since I am in need
Since I have no healing within me

Oh, my God, be mindful of me
You are my help and my Redeemer
Oh, my God, be mindful of me
You are my help and my Redeemer

Unto You, oh Lord
I lift up my soul
In Your loving-kindness I believe

Surely those who wait on You
Will never be ashamed
All of those who call on You
Will know the faithfulness of Your name

-E.T.W.C

           1 July 2008 10:30pm                                                   

Mengo Palace execution cell of Idi Amin's military. Prisoners waiting to die made the charcoal writing on the walls. Usually they wrote their names.

           30 June 2008 11:56pm                                                   

The weather has become warm again. The night is still cold, but at least the sun shines long enough to heat the water tank. The college attending children of professors have come back from their year abroad. Graduation parties are being planned here and there, and the schedule is slowly gearing up. And last night, during the EuroCup final, with twenty people packed around a TV, I watched as nations gained and lost reputation within the school's eyes. Spain dominated the match, and in the end everybody went walking out the door impressed with a higher value of the Spanish.

"Who is the best in Africa?" I asked Francis next to me. His look glowed a little, and he said (while still eyeing the game) very lowly, "The Egyptians". "This game would be over already if they were playing," he said. "People would be talking about the ethics exam tomorrow." He gave a small low chuckle, moving his two hands as a goalie and a ball, making the ball flip high, slow and easy over a charging goaltender.

           29 June 2008 11:27pm                                                   

I turned a corner and a younger girl was walking towards me on a nearby dirt rural road, and I could see she was silently weeping. But it was a terse weep, where her body was held tight within a normal posture, even though her face was thrashing and contorted by her emotion. So her back alone was being held steady by her effort. And I followed what was watching that side of her, opposite of the front side coming towards me. I followed the back of her down the road she had come from and three workmen were there standing still, watching her go with something like scorn on their faces. I realized that these workmen, on that empty road, had just emotionally or physically abused this lone woman. Solitary and secluded on that road, simply contracted from elsewhere to pour concrete, they had no one to hold them in rightness, and had the freedom along this empty rural byway to abuse that girl when no one was looking. But the girl held her head and shoulders strong, and led herself quietly away from them. Though these men had done something horrible, she wasn't letting them win.