(Side note, I actually wrote this blog BEFORE my last one, but since then I experienced a computer failure and therefore had to post them out of order. Thanks for reading. OH, and if you leave a comment, please please PLEASE leave your email address so I can respond! Miss you all!!! Much love…. ~Kige)
 
I stood before a crowd of Kenyans, who all held apathetic
looks on their faces. They don’t laugh at my dumb jokes like American youth do.
They don’t really do much of anything, except stare. I began my speech by
saying, “I know you’re all thinking, ‘Who is this Mzungu (white person) that is
going to tell us about God?'”

Some of them smiled at that, I think a few laughed. But
really, it was a true question. Who am I to tell these people about God? I come
from a land practically flowing with milk and honey. My education was pretty
much handed to me, these kids have to wake up before the sunrise, walk for
hours to go to school all day, then walk home. I don’t have that kind of
discipline. Even now, I question my devotion to my God, someone who I pledged
my life to. I can barely open my bible that sits next to me on my nightstand.

The dust gathers on the cover. Some of these kids would have
to sacrifice food to get a bible. What have I sacrificed?

So I open my mouth and preach the gospel to them. I tell
them about my life, and how I sometimes compare it to Joseph’s. What an
arrogant thought. Joseph was sold into slavery. I had to do some dishes and a
few loads of laundry. Joseph’s brothers hated him. My brothers love me. Joseph
was falsely accused of rape and thrown in jail to be forgotten about. I threw a
fit and cut myself when I didn’t get my way.

Joseph saved a nation. I can barely save a soul.

But I tell these students that somehow, in a way, all of the
things I went through prepared me to share with them. Kind of like Joseph I
suppose. What he went through led up to who he would become too. I stand in
front of a bunch of kids who probably had to watch their parents die of AIDS,
and try to tell them that there is a point. I try to encourage them to believe there
is a purpose to the pain, there is a method to God’s madness. I have 30 minutes
to convince them that someone who spends more money on coffee than a Kenyan’s
daily laborer’s wage ACTUALLY cares about them. I doubt if I even succeeded.

After my “speech” our Kenyan brother gets up to offer a
salvation invitation. I think one person raised their hand, but they didn’t
have the courage it took to stand up in front of their friends. I can
understand that. However, one girl, Irena, did wait for us outside, and so me
and my teammate Kris prayed with her to receive Christ.

As we spoke to her, tears welled up in her soft brown eyes,
and she began to sob. As we told her how important she is to God, and how much
He loves her, I still couldn’t offer her any hope in her situation. She was
worried about losing her sponsorship for school, and who knows what would
befall her then? Without an education, how likely is she going to be able to
actually HAVE a CHANCE to get out of the hopelessness that plagues the rest of
her nation? I can’t pay for her sponsorship under mere principle. After all,
what makes her any more worth my money than the NEXT poor Kenyan? I can’t
POSSIBLY fund the entire nation of Kenya after all, regardless of how much I
want to.

On the way back from the School, I asked our  Kenyan friend Aldo how much a school tuition
costs. He said it averages about 24,000 Shillings. That’s about $300 USD.

“Aldo, how much is a day’s wage?”

He replied, “Around 200 shillings a day.”

Around $2.75. The same amount I paid for a Mocha that
morning at a local coffee shop. Perspective immediately redefined.

I guess the real question is, how many times do I have to
purchase a Starbucks Frappucino before I forget I’m drinking away someone’s
education?

Tomorrow I’ll probably speak at another Kenyan Secondary
school. I’ll probably try to make another African believe that I really do
care. I’ll try to bring hope with me. It’s just so hard sometimes when I’m the
one who feels hopeless.