September Newsletter

Hamjambo all! As I sit here tonight and look back at the last month of my life, I cannot help but realize that it has been a continuous lesson in both humility and flexibility. Since the night we arrived at Jomo Kenyatta airport in Nairobi, Kenya late on the evening of August 29, it has been a whirlwind of culture and activity.
During the past four weeks, I have lived in a missionary boarding house, in the home of a Kikuyu family, in a Benedictine monastery, and in the guest house of a convent. I have been to multiple churches and denominations, as well as a Hindu spirituality center. I have been to an AIDS orphanage to feed and care for abandoned babies, and learned how to bargain in Swahili at the traditional Massai market. I have learned about the politics and history of a country that is not my own, and I have tried to understand a people who look and sound totally different than myself. I have walked the streets of a rural village and heard the children chanting "Mzungu! Mzungu! How are you? How are you?" (mzungu means "white person" in Swahili) Through all of it, I have met God in unexpected places and unknown people.
One of the most profound examples of this type of blessing occurred this Sunday when I attended church with a student from the nearby St. Paul's seminary. I have to admit that I was dreading this experience, for it was another in a long line of activities, and I was going to an unknown location with a stranger I had yet to meet. As we made our way across the early morning Nairobi streets, I couldn't help but think I would much rather have slept an extra two hours and then gone to church with the other volunteers. About forty-five minutes and three crowded matatu rides later, we arrived at St. Peter's Anglican Church in Kahawa Sakuri, a part of the city I had not previously visited. We got there a few minutes before 8:00 am, just in time for the minister to ask me to say "a few words of encouragement" at the early morning youth service. From the moment the service began, I felt the joy of God's presence with us as we joined together in songs of praise and thanksgiving. The entire service was full of energy and enthusiasm for the Lord, and the worship team was excited about knowing God and sharing Him with others. One thing about African worship, they know how to rejoice! By the grace of God, I managed to stand and say a few words of introduction in my broken mixture of Swahili and English. After the service, I attended the youth Sunday school class, during which time I had a better chance to interact with the youth and their leaders. I got to listen to their thoughts and ideas. I got to hear them talk personally about their faith, and what God means in their lives. When it came time for introductions, every person stood to say their name, and then added that they were "saved" or "born again" and that Jesus Christ is their Lord and Savior. I was struck by the fact that one of the most important identifying factors in their lives is Jesus Christ. What if we all identified ourselves that way? I have had to introduce myself dozens of times recently, and it usually includes my name, my hometown, my university and degree, and the location where I will be serving this year. What if I just said: Hi. My name is Lauren, and I am in love with Jesus Christ who saved me. What if I stopped trying to sound impressive, stopped trying to earn respect or recognition and realized that everything I need can be summed up in that one sentence. The only status that actually matters is that I am loved by Almighty God.
Here in Kenya, they have a much deeper grasp of this fact. Yes, Kenya has problems: poverty and disease are running rampant, the streets are dirty and crowded, the slums are overflowing with individuals who cannot find a permanent home, and yet there is life here. There is humanity here. There are beautiful, capable people who have put their trust in the Lord, and who are in love with the same Savior that I have come to know and to love. As we took communion this Sunday, I was reintroduced to the God who cuts across all of our make believe borders. For the God we worship in America is the same God worshipped here in Kenya: He is the God of justice and mercy, the God of the physically sick and politically oppressed. He is the God who gives rest to the weary and food to the hungry. He is the God who gives us privilege so that we can use it to make a difference in the lives of our brothers and sisters around the world, the God who unites us all through the body and blood of His Son.
In the coming week, I will be moving out of the city into my permanent placement for this year. I will be heading to Ichachiri High School, in Gatundu, a rural village in the Kiambu district. As I go, I pray that God will continue to challenge me, that He will continue to stretch my identity and my faith. I love you all, and thank you for the encouragement and support that has allowed me to come and to serve here.

Blessings,
Lauren Scharstein

A Funny Story

So this is my second post for the day, but I really want to share this story with you all.

Before I begin, please keep in mind that things do not always work as they are expected to, and flexibility is a skill that must quickly be developed... a lesson Taryn got the chance to relearn last night.

You see, she was doing a very normal thing: going to the bathroom in our new home at the Assumption Sisters Convent. The problem occurred when she tried to leave said bathroom: the door wouldn't unlock. I don't mean like it was kind of stuck, and she just needed to push a little bit or turn the key a little harder, she was stuck. We tried everything imagineable to get her out: a credit card, vaseline, a screwdriver, pliers, a nail file, a hammer, and the actual key. Nothing worked. The door wouldn't budge. Finally, one of the sisters came, looked at us like we were crazy white people all crowded around the bathroom door talking to Taryn and then proceeded to try all of the tools we had already found useless. After about an hour and a half of our frustrated, yet hilarious efforts, the sister came back with a crowbar and basically broke down the door: Taryn was free.

If at any point during the week you feel sad, just picture a nun walking down the hall in her nightgown with a crowbar and a pair of pliers, it will undoubtedly brighten your day. :)

Careful - Kind of Gruesome

I will have to say that last Thursday was one of the most emotional days I have spent here in Kenya. We woke up in the monastery just like every morning for the past two weeks, but this particular day we had the task of first slaughtering then preparing our own lunch. That meant that we started off with a white goat and six brownish chickens and ended up with a bucket full of nyama choma and a pot of chicken stew. Needless to say it was all of the steps in the middle that were difficult...
Here in Kenya, slaughtering a goat is a celebration. It is a time of joy and fellowship when communities come together to feast and give thanks for the gifts they have received, for us it was a challenge. Luckily,it is also a man's responsibility, so Stephen, Paul, and Kirk were elected for the task. This meant tying its legs together, laying it out on the concrete floor, and then slitting its throat. I have to admit that the scene was hard for me to watch, as a goat is a pretty fair-sized mammal, and it screamed in a way that was both chilling and nauseating at the same time. Once it was over and most of its blood had drained into the floor, they hung it up on a metal hook to begin the process of skinning and dismembering it. At this point it was time for us to take care of the chickens.
It felt more like a funeral procession as we walked from the butchery to the kitchen, and I think most of us were realizing how disconnected we are as Americans from the source of our food. Brother Sylvester caught one of the fastest chickens and demonstrated what we were supposed to do: first catch one, pin down its legs and wings with your feet, pluck the feathers from its throat, stretch the neck out over the drain, and cut. Kari went first and successfully slaughtered her bird, and I decided to go ahead and get it over with next. At no other point in my life have I picked up a living, breathing creature and put it back down a lifeless carcass. It was definitely a different feeling to cut through the skin and flesh of a live chicken and then continue holding it until it stopped flapping. I was more than a little shaky when I finished. From there we plucked the birds, emptied their organs, sawed off the legs and proceeded to slice them into a more familiar sight, similar to what we see on the grocery store shelf.
As I thought about our activities both during and after that day, I began to realize what little knowledge I have about life in most countries. Everything in the third world is more labor intensive and more connected to the earth than it is in my world. Children here are not surprised or disgusted by the concept of slaughtering animals for their food, whether it be goats, chickens, or cows. Theirs is an innate awareness of where things come from and what it takes to survive. As an American, I am able to separate myself from the realities of life that permeate every aspect of this and most cultures. In order to have meat, you must kill an animal, in order to have vegetables, someone must grow them. I have definitely been more thankful for each meal I have eaten since then, not only for the food, but for all of the effort that goes into harvesting and preparing it. I haven't actually been able to eat any meat since that day, but I am better able to appreciate the role that other animals play in our lives, and to see the inherent connections that exist between ourselves and our world.

Not Zaxbys

Just in case you were wondering, here are some of the things I have eaten recently:

• nyama choma - this basically translates as "roast meat"... take meat to mean what you will, but in Kikuyu land it generally refers to goat
• mukimo - otherwise known as irio - this is a combination of potatoes, maize, various beans, and pumpkin leaves all mashed up together
• gulab jambu - boiled milk balls, which are deep fried and covered in sugar

Definitely not chicken fingers and fries!

New Life Home

We have been in Kenya now for about two and a half weeks, and each day it feels more like home. As we walked the 4 km from the monastery to Limuru Town this morning to use the internet, our group was met by calls of “How are you? How are you? Mzungu! How are you?” (Mzungu, being the Kiswahili word for white person) I sometimes forget that in Africa we are an anomaly, that our skin makes us stand out, especially to the young children who line the rural streets as our group walks by.
We had the opportunity this past week to visit the New Life Home for orphans and abandoned children. There were 51 children there between the ages of 9 days and 3 years old. We had the chance to hold and feed the little ones and then spend time playing in the one year old nursery. It was a moving experience to say the least, both humbling and rewarding. The faces at New Life Home made so many of the issues we have discussed real; it gave names and identities to the AIDS pandemic sweeping Africa… Ezra, Clive, Erica, Joseph… they gave life to the effects of the poverty and hunger that have left these babies without family members to care for them. Many of the children here are HIV positive, and they will live with the consequences of that disease all of their lives. Yet these children are the lucky ones, they have a place to live and a place to play. They have beautiful, capable people caring for them, people who believe in the home and the futures of these babies. These are the children who have been given a chance.

Bob Marley and Benedictine Monks

Well, our home stays ended this past weekend, and I was reunited with the other eight volunteers Thursday afternoon to continue our orientation. We met at St. Andrews Presbyterian Church and loaded the bus for our next destination. As our bus travelled out of Nairobi, which is a large and crowded city, it wound its way up 2000 ft to the hill top town of Limuru. Here we will be staying in a Benedictine Monastery for the next two weeks. I cannot even begin to explain the beauty or tranquility of this place. The region is dotted with trees and tea farms, and the air is pristine and wonderful to breathe after a week in the city. Brother Amsel greeted us at the entrance, and preceeded to walk us around the entire estate, showing us the tea plantation, the garden, the animals, and the bakery. Everything consumed here comes from the fields or the barn, and the brothers grow it all.
There is a feeling that permeates this entire place of a peace like I have never known. In Hebrew the word for peace, shalom, meant more than the absence of war, it meant fullnes. It meant having everything you needed to be wholly and happily yourself. That is the feeling that is so strong here. It is the feeling of being in the presence of the divine, of being so well loved by Him, that all else comes second. I am thankful for the opportunity to learn and rest here.
At night time, after dinner and evening prayers, Brother Amsel and Brother Eugene bring out guitars, and we join together to sing everything from Lord I Lift Your Name on High to No Woman, No Cry to Johnny Cash. Paul, another volunteer, is a great musician, and he and Brother Eugene trade off leading songs in English and then Kiswahili. Last night we sang the chorus of "God is so Good" simultaneously in Kiswahili, English, and their African mother-tongues... what a joyful noise it must have been in the ears of our Lord!
I cannot help but sit back and wonder at the place that God has lead me. If you had asked me at any point in my life where I would be the year after graduating from college, I am sure it would not have included sitting in a Benedictine Monastery in Limuru, Kenya surrounded by African monks and various Presbyterian and Lutheran volunteers. What God is this that would bring me to this place? What wondrous love is this that Christ would die to reconcile me to the God of all creation, this God of love and beauty who walks with me here.

Trust in the Lord

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding.
Proverbs 3:5

"Trust in the Lord" is something we often hear, but it is something that has always been a rather abstract instruction to me before now. Trusting in the Lord has taken on a whole new meaning to me here in Kenya. Here in a foreign land where my own understanding has never been less sufficient. You see, my own understanding is limited to American customs and English words. It is tainted by a life of privilege that fears letting go and being without. My own understanding that cannot fathom the hospitality of this place and these people who have embraced me and who already call me family.
And so, I am humbled. Humbled by my 3 year old host niece, who speaks not only English and Kiswahili, but also Kikuyu, her mother-tongue. Humbled by my host mother who has opened her home and her heart to me, who shares with me the details of her life and her history. Humbled by people who welcome me gladly into the joy of their community.
I spent my first full week here in Kenya living in the house of Polly Mwangi, my host mother, along with her son, Mark, her three year old granddaughter, Suki, and Jane, a local teacher. During this home stay, we were given the opportunity to learn what Kenyan life is like on a day to day basis. I have learned how to eat traditional Kikuyu food which consists mainly of rice, beans, potatoes, greens, and goat... mixed together and mashed up in various ways. My favorite thus far is ugali a mixture of boiled water and white maize flower which is eaten with sukumaweke, a combination of chopped spinach, cale, tomatos and garlic cooked together with water.
At times, it is still difficult to be so far from home and familiarity, but I am learning to depend on a God far bigger than the one I used to know. I am learning to depend on the God who knows us all, who loves us all, and who unites us all. A God who is stretching my idea of what constitutes family, a God who is stretching my idea of what it means to have faith, and what it means to have enough. Though letting go of my previous beliefs is painful, it is immensely freeing to know that my Creator is continuing to mold me and to teach me what it means to trust in Him.