Homestay

My eyes open and adjust to see a queen-sized bed frame at my feet. My body feels a mat stacked on the wooden palette under me. Over top of me is a thin sheet- plenty of cover for last night’s breezy 75-degrees. Acting as a pillow under my head is a bundle of the skirt, shirt, and head wrap that I wore yesterday. A sky-blue mosquito net is extended over the frame, and lightly grips the bed’s corners.

It feels so early, but when I look up I see light filtering in from the corner of the tin roof above me, and from the noise outside I can tell I am the last one in bed. The noises are distinct- children speaking indistinctly to my western ears is the most noticeable. Then comes the washing of utensils that clank and clothing that quietly splashes. A few goats bleat. I suddenly hear voice upon voice pile on top of one another to practice the sounds “Mor-gan and Clai-re” over and over again Remembering names is important. I smile.

Mama and Baba's home and yard.

Morgan is waking up beside me too, and we dig into our backpacks to get ready for the day. Pushing past what we brought that we don’t need, grappling for another dera, headwrap, a can of bug spray, a roll of toilet paper, toothbrush and toothpaste. We’re headed for the school’s bathrooms.

Walking outside, we are met with broad daylight that softly highlights the coconut treetops, clothing hanging on the lines, the cement slab that at least six children are lounging on. Mama and Baba’s oldest son and their nephew are washing clothes right outside of the front door, and they greet us with a well-oiled English “Good Morning” and a handshake. We attempt a greeting in Swahili that isn’t half-bad.

Mama is outside and greets us with a handshake and a hug, along with some words we don’t quite understand. We smile and say “salama,” hoping that does the trick. We tell her we are going to the toilet, and suddenly the children gather around us. They are all giggles and yesterday’s clothing, both bright and shy smiles, fine dirt nestled into every wrinkle on their tiny toes. One hoists a heavy backpack onto her tiny shoulders, others proudly assume responsibility over our water bottles that we’ll use for brushing our teeth, and the rest grab our hands. We walk through the narrow dirt path to the school.

On every side of us is green- green weeds, some leafy greens growing beyond, and green stalks of maize that dominate most of the surrounding land. Grass and leaves stick out thick onto the small path and tickle our ankles. We don’t mind much at all.

Part of the path to the school.

The school is made up of a fenced in collection of stone buildings, and as it comes into view so do hills and mountains beyond Kwale county. Palm tree upon palm tree falls and rises with the scenery, all set against the backdrop of blue sky. I want to stop for gazing, but the kids see no point in that. They are on a mission to get us to the bathroom!

Through-the-mouth-only breathing ensues as we near the toilets; holes in the ground. The girls’ side has porcelain around the hole, a familiar touch that we foreigners appreciate. We brush our teeth outside the stalls and spit into the weeds that grow outside of the school’s fence. The kids are waiting for us on the metal seesaw and merry-go-round outside. We know they love to walk with us, but they also love to play when we arrive at our destination!

On the walk back, we stop to greet Wawa- grandmother. She is sitting outside and ready to respond to our “shikamoos” with a “marahaba.” A moment before we were only passing by. Now we are invited to sit outside of her home in foldable wooden chairs. We are not sure what Wawa is having us wait on. It may be Chai, bread, mandazi, or maize.

Chai with Milk and so much sugar!

After taking food with her, we are released to go back home. This all sounds very formal, but we are smiling and relaxed the whole time. Greeting or visiting with elders who appear on your path is the most normal occurrence there could be.

When we return, a party seems to be happening at Mama and Baba’s home! Only having spent one night here, it is nearly impossible to sort the family’s children from the others- there are so many. Big and little, boys and girls; they all come to spend time at this home. The family doesn’t have a big sign that says “HI! We’re Christians, come spend time with us!” They don’t need one. They have a pull that seems to touch all of the village. It is a pull that others do not have.

While walking from the school back to their home, the rest of the village is relatively motionless. People are outside, yes. They sit and talk quietly, slowly and often apathetically accomplishing the day’s work. Once in eyesight of this family’s home, the scene is entirely different. One of their sons, Abraham, holds tight to a small blue radio, alternating between hip-hop and Christian stations. When the Christian music comes on, the family is ready. Their voices rise and fall in harmony with the scratchiness of the radio. When the radio is shut off, Mama is still singing. She will sing at any time- sometimes softly, to herself; sometimes boldly, so that others can join in. And join they do! The child who sings loudest is Deborah (Deb-OR-ah), the baby of the family. She can’t be more than 5 or 6, yet her voice is strong and rich. It rises to mingle with her mama’s, who she is the spitting image of in every way. Sometimes they dance, always shamelessly. What would they have shame for? They are saved by the blood of Jesus.

The pull this home has is the joy of the Gospel. Why do the other children come to be loved and taken care of at this home specifically? Why are there games and laughter in every spare moment? Prayer time before chai and meals? It is the blood of Jesus. Jesus, sweet Jesus. He alone provides.

Baba’s only job is to care for his small church. He sits in the dimly lit home after dinner while a huge smile unfolds beneath his nose. He looks up to his tin roof and softly says “God has blessed me.” Baba came to know Jesus in his 20s when God worked on his stubborn heart- a heart that had only ever known Islam. He says that his family was so unhappy when he was young. He says this while his own daughters giggle and dance and are laughing. He smiles at them and makes silly faces back. Joy could nearly burst out of the home as he continues to say that becoming a Christian was very hard. His family could have rejected him completely. His Baba passed away with a heart still hard to Jesus. But eventually, his Mama (Wawa) came to salvation.

As his faith grew, God called him to live among and minister to his own people; the unreached Digo. He knew they needed Jesus, and he would be Jesus’ vessel to draw them closer to Him. Other homes in the village resemble how Baba explained his life growing up. We pray that will change. We rejoice in the Mamas who come to church every week, risking everything to follow Jesus; slander and abuse from their Muslim husbands and families, cultural isolation, and loss of face as a result. But come Sunday morning, they are filled with joy. It is evident that they believe to be with Jesus makes any pain, any suffering, so momentary. I see the church that gathers together in this village outside of Kwale town, and the words of 2 Corinthians 1:5 ring so clear. “For as we share abundantly in Christ’s sufferings, so through Christ we share abundantly in comfort too.”

This is the church. The home where I woke up that morning, the chai time with Wawa, the dancing and goat herding, the stories after a dinner of chapati and beans, the worship that leaves me breathless and Baba’s bold preaching of the Word. It is small in this corner of the world, and even in this corner of Kenya. It exists quietly under the weight of Mosques that give noisy calls to prayer, but it does not despair. We know this church is stronger than all of the false idols around it. God is with this village, His work here is surely being accomplished, and it will not fail.

Part of the family on a bright Sunday morning.