We were invited by the people of Kazamoyo to sleep overnight, and to be perfectly honest, I was a little nervous. I didn’t know what they would feed me, and I struggle to speak the local language, so I was mentally prepared to feel very awkward and out of place. But that wasn’t the case. Though there’s no way any written description can do our village experience justice, I have to try anyway; I feel like it would be a sin not to share with you how wonderful this community has been to us.

After working all day building filters and teaching health and hygiene lessons, Winnie, Judy, Teresa and I made our way through the village to our home for the night. There is nothing extraordinary about Kazamoyo; in fact, the village, with its two churches, small primary school, and handful of shops (all constructed of mud but the school), is one of thousands of similar, and equally “mundane”, communities in Kenya. But, as I have been learning and reminded of daily, life, often abundant, happens here too.

Tired and dirty and followed by a trail of laughing children, we walked through the village, stopping a dozen times to greet people outside their homes. They were pleased we were spending the night in their community and wanted to welcome us. After many stops we finally came to our host’s house: Pastor Francis and Agneta live in a humble and clean mud home with their five children. Married before they became Chrisitans, Francis says that he was always mourning and that he struggled with alcohol. One day, on his way to visit a very sick friend, he met some strangers who told him about Jesus, and he knew then that he needed and wanted to become a Christian. Francis is now the pastor of the small church in Kazamoyo, and is happy, in a serene and quite way.

His wife, Agneta is one of the people I’ve become most attached to in Kazamoyo. She is forever welcoming, and clearly delights in being with us and serving us. On both occasions that we stayed at her home she tended to our needs in every way. Crouching in their smoky mud and thatch kitchen, we helped her make chipati over an open fire and she talked freely with us about her life. (Oh, if I only spoke more Swahili and could hear her stories straight from her own mouth!). We spent the evening this way, talking with Agneta playing with the children from the community outside their home, and although the evening was uncomfortably hot and rats kept me up at night, I sincerely enjoyed our stay in Kazamoyo.

Many, many times I’ve heard people talk about the generosity of “the poor,” but during these overnight stays in Kazamoyo, I’ve be blessed by truly feeling it. Aside from slaughtering two chickens for us to eat (a significant sacrifice); aside from them setting up our tents inside their small house instead of outside, displacing themselves from one room in their two-room house; and aside from carrying water from many kilometers away for us to wash with, Agneta and others from Kazamoyo have been generous us not just by serving us, but by really welcoming us: their attitudes of acceptance and humility, were, to me, unbelievable and unexpected.

Life isn’t easy for these people. Many are sick; few children attend school; water is precious and dirty and far away. They are neglected by the government and are vulnerable to conniving middle-men, who rip them off by undervaluing their goats and sheep. They are without work, yet have many mouths to feed. I wonder why I’m really here, because it seems like change, any change at all, is so slow to come that I’ll never even see it in my lifetime.

Both Francis’ and Agneta’s families have practically disowned them because of their faith. But they are strong in it; utterly devoted, in fact. I can see that they are a light in that community and that they envision abundant life for their friends and neighbors. I have a lot to learn from their faith and hope.

There are many other things I have to share with you but it’s almost 1am, and can’t do it now. When I come home, ask me about Peter and John, and about how the kids in Kazamoyo sing and play their jerry-can drum. Oh! and ask me about how matatus (Kenyan shuttle buses) drive on the sidewalk when they don’t want to wait in traffic, and about how I held our supper (chicken, and alive) on my lap all the way home before it was slaughtered. They’re good stories.

Oh, and just for the record: don’t assume by this blog entry that I haven’t felt, as I wrote above, awkward or out of place, or even afraid, during my time here in Kenya. I feel that way all the time. BUT God in His mercy has blessed me with more moments affirmation than of awkwardness, so when they do come, I’m strong enough to bear them.