dawn: adventures of a journeywoman

Kids sign and wave at the deaf school.

How can going home be a dread and a dream at the same time? Sometimes new experiences, people, and places can seem more comfortable than returning to the known and familiar. In a homecoming, you know what to be afraid of. In returning to the village I had lived in 3 years ago, I was overcome with a fear of familiarity. During my last week there in 2006, I had extrememe highs and lows: we had a (barely) successful first HIV testing outreach day and two days later, fighting broke out at my good-bye party. So I wasn't quite sure of what to expect on my return. In fact, after working long days and nights at Kijabe Hospital and moving quickly across the country to see as many animal species and habitats as possible, the slow pace of village life was also a bit frightening. I am good at being busy and struggle with rest.

Yet, God knows all this and that my favorite things in life are surprises. So I was pleasantly surprised when my old program director, Peter, graciously had put Cay and my visit as a priority on his busy schedule. He helped me rekindle the importance of resting with others in relationships. On our way to the village, we stopped at the tailor who sews his mother's clothes and talked to her disabled daughter about news and bargained for some gifts I wanted made. As we bumped down the muddy road (which was esentially "off-roading"), we stopped several times to greet children, mayors, teachers, and health workers. Each villager was always ready with a joke or a compliment to bring a smile. Instead of taking a direct route to my host mother's shamba (house and farm), we stopped for tea time at his mother's shamba. After a few hours of sharing about our cultural perspectives on aid, development, the weather, the election violence, if husbands and wives should sit next to each other in church, and many other topics, it was finally time to return "home."

Julia, my host mother and confidant, ran to greet Cay and I to the compound. Each compound is a piece of land allotted to a patriarch. Each of his sons is supposed to build a house for his wife and family on the land. So our compound has several houses with three sisters-in-law and their mother-in-law working to provide clean clothes, shelter, and meals to the children while the men work in Nairobi to send money home. Although I wasn't sure how Cay and I would occupy our time (once again worrying about trying to be a human "doing" rather than a human "being"), Cay surprised me by announcing she would use this opportunity to understand the everyday life of a rural Kenyan woman. The next morning, Cay woke up early to milk the cow (finally successful after a first try scared the cow and Cay tumbled backwards, spilling the first milking), wash the clothes by hand, slaughter and de-feather a chicken, pick sweet potatos, and cook chapatis (an Indian flatbread). Cay continues to impress me with her willingness to embrace the new experiences around her (but up to a point-I never got her to take a "splash bath" outside or ride a boda, boda-the bicycle taxi). I couldn't ask for a better traveling partner.
Cay milking a cow!

While Cay jumped into village life, I attempted to mimic the lessons that Peter had reminded me. I took my time greeting familiar faces in Kibaluhya on the road. I sat and said pole (sorry) to a respected elderly villager who had fallen sick. I accepted chai (tea) with staff members at the clinic (even though I was bursting at the seams from all the food everyone tried to feed me). I smiled as multiple people exclaimed, "Dawn-look how much fatter you have gotten in the last three years! You have gained so much weight!" and tried to remember they say this to everyone, whether true or not as a compliment (fat is beautiful here). I met (or rather scared) the baby of the nurse assistant I had worked closely with during my last visit (I was her first white person) . Yes, coming home can be frightening, but is also an opportunity. I found opportunities to rest in the moment while reconnecting and rekindling frienships.

A woman praises God after being baptized.
Cay not only inspired me with her enthusiasm in engaging in village life, but introduced me to a new community. Cay is a sign language interpreter in the U.S. and had made a few contacts of people who knew the deaf community in Kenya. A few hours after arriving in Western Kenya via the overnight bus, we met an ordained deaf minister in Kenya, Jehosaphat. He let us accompany him to a baptism service. When we walked in the door of the church, the members (all deaf) were having "sing song". I had never seen deaf singing before, but the sheer joy on the faces of those leading in rhythmic swaying and signing was something I recognized as worship. As we walked down to the river for the baptism, church members enthusiastically wanted to share seemingly all of their life in a few short minutes to me with their hands. I was at a loss for any words of communication, but Cay's hands flowed right in. I tried to remember everyone's "sign name", or unique identifying gesture, and was even given my own (the letter "D" circling my ear since I was noted to fix my hair in this way). One by one, five brave parishoners waded waist-deep into the nearby river while Pastor Jehosophat signed, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen." I learned to raise my hands and wave my fingers instead of clapping after the dunking was complete.

After the baptism, I let myself be convinced to saddle up to a motorcycle to reach a boarding school for the deaf before a rainstorm broke loose. As the rains poured outside, I met teenage deaf girls who have overcome family and cultural barriers just to receive an education. Children with disabilities in Kenya have long thought to have been cursed. Many parents would traditionally be expected to poison their child. More compassionate parents have taken to hiding their children to avoid this fate. Recently, a parent was discovered to have locked their deaf child in a bathroom all day as they went to work, so no one would know they were there. Many are unaware that deafness does not equal mental handicap. And even those children who are able to attend a deaf school are faced with higher school fees than their hearing counterparts and many parents do not want to "waste" their money on a deaf child. The girls at the school couldn't believe Cay when she told them that deaf people in America can work to become even doctors and lawyers.

We were able to visit another start-up school tackling these issues in Ahero, a town near Lake Victoria where much of the country's rice is grown. Because of the standing water to grow the rice, the area is inhabited by mosquitos which carry malaria, many children there have become deaf due to a side effect in treating malaria. Two deaf teachers have volunteered for the last year to locate these hidden children and teach them enough sign language in preparation for deaf school. A huge component of their teachings are also directed at the children's parents, educating them on communicating with their children and the possibilities available for them. One girl recently brought to the school was 13 years old and had never been able to communicate other than through some gesturing (known as village sign language). She now is learning for the first time how to sign her name with the 5 year olds in her class. The children and adults in the Kenyan deaf community that we met at these and other organizations, schools, and churches this week have really touched my heart. Cay and I invited Pastor Jehosophat and his wife to lunch today and they shared several prayer requests: for a strong family, for more workers to reach the deaf in northern Kenya, for teachings on health for deaf women, for guidance on expanding theology schools and churches in the deaf community.

This adventure is quickly coming to a close. In a few hours, I will board a plane that will take me back to a land where cars drive on the right, women can respectfully wear pants, and diet cokes are available at every gas station. I love reflecting on the many ways prayer requests have been answered and ways I have changed since arriving to Kenya just eight weeks ago. I was able to form instant connections with the physician missionaries at Kijabe and hope to return in February (more on that later) to continue those relationships. I had asked God to give me a portion of His heart for the people I would serve and in countless moments while in Kenya, I felt my heart ache and soften for the people here: my patients, the staff, the villagers, and the deaf community. God has answered prayers of safety and companionship in unexpected and wonderful ways. I have again felt a call on my heart to work and live in an area of deep need and felt flashes of a deep sense of fulfillment I haven’t experienced anywhere else. God knows I’m always up for another adventure, discovering more of who He is, who I’m made to be, and how to relate to people and world in which I’m surrounded. I can’t thank my supporters enough-whether it was through an encouraging e-mail, financial support, or prayers, I feel blessed in the many ways I have been sustained through the love of those around me. I pray that God will “watch over (all of you) as you come and go, both now and forevermore.” Psalm 121:8