roots of my heart

One of my great memories is of church in the Maasai villages.  Now, if I am going to be totally one hundred percent honest, I kind of have to address this from my perspective as a child and my perspective as a grown woman looking back.

Sunday morning: I would get up and get dressed.  The appropriate clothing for church in the village is a sturdy, long skirt/dress (usually denim), a lightweight t-shirt, socks and good walking shoes.  Attractive?  Well, if you know me, you know I’m ever the style-conscious fashion plate.  The point is, the clothes needed to be comfortable enough to sit on the ground modestly and walk a good distance.

There was no particularly set time for church to begin.  Things started when a few people arrived and someone started singing.  Singing time went from whenever someone started until someone stood up to preach.  A sermon might last anywhere from 5 minutes to 1 hour.  There is not one designated pastor, but several godly men who generally shared a thought or message.

We usually sat on the ground, women and children on one side and men on the other, as is culturally appropriate.   As the service went on, the kids would gather closer and closer to me.  They loved to touch my hair, rub my arms, touch my clothes, and hold my hand.

Honestly?  As a child it bugged me.  I kind of feel awful writing that.  I just didn’t want to stand out.  I wanted to sit with them and play with them and just not be different.  A lot of times I felt hot and tired and I wanted to just go home.

Looking back, that’s not what stands out, though.  I remember warmth of the sunshine on my back while the sounds of loud praises are raised to the sky. I remember trying desperately to read the words in the song book and keep up and being thrilled when they chose a song I’d memorized so I could join in. Whoever was preaching would stop mid-sentence to greet latecomers. I remember goats wandering through and nibbling on my shoes.  There is no stained glass window backdrop more beautiful than a live thorn tree.  There is no pew harder than the packed down earth.  There is no better way to commune with my Father than to sit and worship Him in His beautiful creation. Welcomed into a community of people to join with them in joyfully praising one God who is bigger than culture, borders, language, and traditions.

Pure and simple, raw, beautiful, honest, worship.

Here are a few more brilliant costume shots.  To be honest, I don’t even really know what we are in this first set.

The Mouse and Superman were pajamas that doubled as costumes.

You already know all about the witch and the ghost.

Halloween in Kenya: where ingenuity, creativity, and whatever-clothing-is-at-hand-and-can-double-as-a-costume meet.

You also already know, if you’ve scanned a few of these posts, that my mother is remarkably creative and fun.

Sometimes my parents were fun and creative even when life was hard.

In a relatively short amount of time, a series of devastating events took place.

We moved to a very remote (beautiful, but unquestionably remote) corner of Kenya.  Entasekera is the place we lived that took about eight hours to get to from Nairobi.  Although it was lovely, there were no more daily visits from missionary friends.  Unquestionably lonely.

My aunt & uncle (Mom’s sister) moved back to the U.S.

My grandparents (Dad’s parents) also moved back to the U.S. after working in Nairobi for 2 years

Our friend, Ray, was killed in a tragic motorcycle accident.

My grandfather (Mom’s dad) passed away suddenly and we didn’t hear until after services had been held.

I’m not saying that all these things were happening during this particular Halloween, but I am saying that life was not always idyllic and easy.  We were able to celebrate small holidays in big ways and have fun in the midst of difficult life circumstances.

This is a little family picture taken when we visited Kenya at Christmas in 2004.

I’ll get back to Halloween sooner or later.  But today is special.  Today is my best friend’s birthday.  I get to be married to him.

Bill and I were raised on opposite sides of the world.  In fact, pretty much everything about our childhoods are opposite from one another.  He was raised in Southern California by a very hard-working single mother.  I was brought up in rough-hewn homes in the very remotest parts of southern Kenya.

We met in college.  Laughing together is our favorite pastime.  It has been from the beginning.  He is a very funny guy.  I love that about him.  There are a few other great things too.  I think I could list hundreds, but the number of “loves” here is significant.

I love his humor.

I love his strength.

I love his dedication.

I love that he’s hardworking.

I love that I can respect him.

I love that he respects me.

I love that he has let me drag him all over the world.

I love that he loves being “dragged” all over the world.

I love that he is forgiving.

I love that he wants me to be my best.

I love that he is learning to love Kenya because of what it means to me.

I love that he has never pushed to try to understand my life, but instead has tried to learn to understand me (No easy task, I assure you).

I love that I get to parent beside him.

I love that he likes road trips.

I love that he teases me.

I love watching him with our boys.

I love that he is intelligent.

I love that he is kind.

I love that he wants to make me laugh.

I love that he is determined to break patterns from his past.

I love his fascination with history.

I love his ability to teach.

I love that his ability to teach extends to me.

I love that his great brain houses great stores of trivia.

I love that he’ll eat whatever I cook and thank me for my efforts (even when my efforts yield strange and inedible experiments).

I love that he wants our children to have incredible life experiences.

I love that he knows my dreams and encourages me in them.

I love that he is my number one fan

I love that he is honest with me when I need to be spurred on to greater things.

I love that he is handsome.

I love that he is funny. I know I already said that, but laughter is really that important to me.

I love that he loves his job.

I love that he prays for me every day.

I love that he has told me he prays for me every day.

I love that he constantly strives to follow the Lord more closely.

I love when he reads Bible stories to the boys.

I love that he answers with full, philosophical answers to our kids’ mundane questions.

I love you, my friend. I am thankful to be on this safari with you. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happy Birthday!

I think our family’s unofficial motto is “Celebrate small things as though they are big things”. We got very good at making a big deal out of every holiday. And I do mean EVERY last blessed holiday. May Day? Yes indeed.

Halloween was no different. Sometimes our costumes were really incredibly creative. Our toilet paper came in bales. Probably about the size of a pack of Costco’s toilet paper, but a giant paper bag. One year we made our costumes out of these huge bags and some construction paper.

This particular picture makes me smile. My original one-of-a-kind witch costume is made out of my mother’s old nightgown held up by yards of twine. The hat was created with construction paper and tape. The lovely ghost by my side is shrouded in a piece of white fabric from my mom’s sewing stash. And that is our faithful dog, Toby behind us. We even carved an unripe little pumpkin.

Even in the middle of nowhere, Loita, Kenya we got to go trick-or-treating. We didn’t have neighbors who celebrated Halloween with us, but we did have beautifully creative parents. They sent us from door to door in our own house. After my dad would give us candy in the kitchen, he sent us to my mom in the dining room while he dashed to our office in the back house. When my mom sent us to the office, she would dash to the school room beside the office, and so on.

In creating the costumes, we felt the anticipation of the holiday. We hung little pictures of pumpkins and black cats and skeletons. In the dressing up, we felt pride and exhilaration. We got the thrill of feeling our little bags fill with goodies. We felt the rush of a sugar high. It was all very Halloweeny and normal…sort of.

Sometimes there were large groups of people at our house, and we celebrated big. Other times, there were four of us at our house, and we celebrated big. So, celebrate the small stuff. Celebrate the big stuff. Just celebrate!

Sure life in Kenya had its inconveniences, but there were some mighty fine perks too. Tourism is one of Kenya’s main industries. The stunning landscape and exotic animals draw people from all over world.

Every once in awhile, we indulged in the luxury of a tourist location. Here we are at one of the lodges in the Amboseli Game Reserve. Here we sat surrounded by concrete evidence of God’s creativity in the broad landscape, the endless sky, and a clear view of Mount Kilimanjaro in the distance.

Thousands of people paid thousands of dollars to see this place I was privileged to call home. At the time, I only had eyes for the swimming pool. Although I was surrounded by natural beauty, pools were a rare extravagance to me.

Now I look at that landscape and my throat constricts and the back of my eyes get a stinging feeling. I am so grateful that this was the backdrop of my life.

What a luxurious childhood I got to live!

We lived among the Maasai people in the southern region of Kenya.  You’ve likely seen their pictures in magazines, as they are a colorful tribe.  They are a beautiful people rich in tradition and culture.  Other Kenyan tribes generally fear the Maasai.  They are viewed as a savage tribe of warriors.  I believe they are terribly misunderstood.

The reputation is not entirely unwarranted, however.  They were once a nomadic tribe, travelling with their cattle to the places where their herds could flourish.  As they travelled, they often raided the villages of locals and stole their cattle.  According to ancient legends, all the cattle in the world had once belonged to the Maasai, so when they came upon a village that had cattle, it was clearly the duty of the Maasai warriors to take back what had rightfully belonged to their ancestors.

But the Maasai I know are warm, kind, and happy people.  They are hospitable and generous beyond their means.  We never visited a village where we were not invited into at least one home, served a large mug of scalding hot of chai, and embraced as friends.

They were patient in teaching us their language, culture, and traditions.  They were tolerant of our strange and foreign ways.  They smiled readily, laughed heartily, loved deeply, learned quickly, taught patiently, helped willingly, and embraced us warmly.

They dressed brightly (favoring red above all other colors), sang loudly, walked quickly, used sparingly, and shared generously.  When they asked, ‘how are you?’, they expected at least a five-minute response fully outlining the wellbeing of the entire household

I could spend days writing about the customs and traditions of these lovely people, but really I just want you to get an overview.  I want you to know that they are gentle and kind and that they embraced us so warmly.

I consider myself truly blessed to have been raised among these remarkable people.

My friend writes a really funny Mommy Blog called Queen of the Jungle.  She invited me to write a guest post for her.  I’ll post part of it here and then you can read the rest of it over there.

Hello, Queen of the Jungle Readers!  My name is Carrie.  I’m friends with the Queen of this domain and she invited me to write a little something for you, her readers.  Normally you can find me blogging over at roots of my heart about my childhood in Kenya.  You’re welcome to join me there any time you like.

If you came over to my house in California today just for a little coffee and a chat, I would be delighted. (You’d have to excuse the mess because housekeeping is not my strong suit.)  If, when you came, you brought me a little gift, I’d be even more delighted.  If that gift was a large bunch of green bananas, I would smile politely and thank you all the while wondering if you’d lost your ever-lovin’ mind.

Read the rest here: 

I loved the days when our Maasai friends could come and play.  The game of choice was cars, but we also played with dolls, learned which flowers had sweet nectar to sip, and picked blackberries off the brambles behind our house.

There was one boy in particular that liked to come and play at our house in Siapei.  He couldn’t come very often because it was his responsibility to watch the sheep and goats for the family.  This was fairly common among the Maasai tribe.  Before a boy is entrusted with the family’s precious cattle, he must  prove that he can handle a herd of goats and sheep. He would drive the little herd out of the village in the morning, find a patch of grass or bushes for the goats to munch, and then drive them back to the village at dusk.

Sometimes, this boy would herd his goats and sheep over to our house and then come play.  When we got carried away playing, his little herd would gradually spread out and venture into areas they shouldn’t.  Then we would have to go and try to gather them into a cohesive bunch again.  Those were my favorite days.  I loved the challenge of gathering those skittish animals.  I loved the sense of responsibility I felt to help my friend.  I especially loved the feeling of accomplishment when we did manage to get them back, because goats don’t like to be herded, as you might imagine.

The jaunt into Nairobi was far enough that it warranted several days there in order to see to all the necessary business.  This meant that we needed a place to stay.  The solution to missionaries being in the big city is called a Guest House.  It is a cross between a Bed & Breakfast and a hotel.  Many of the larger organizations have a guest house to house the missionaries with that same organization.  But CMF was a rather small organization, so we stayed at whichever guest house had space available, offered the best rates, and was nearest to the side of town where most of the business was to be conducted.

As a little girl, I loved the Mennonite Guest House (we called it Menno for short) best of all.  The rooms were quaint and comfortable, they served my favorite food (hot semolina porridge and papaya with limes), and the staff was friendly and cheerful.  There was a playroom full of old books and wooden toys.  Our favorite was a wooden marble track that brought us hours of entertainment.

When it was meal time, one of the cheerful gentlemen would wander around the grounds chiming out a song on a small hand-held xylophone.  At around 10 in the morning coffee was served on the lawn and at 3 in the afternoon tea was made available in the same place.  Sometimes there were powdered sugar doughnuts at tea time, and those days were just heavenly!

The generous, sprawling grounds were the best feature of this guest house, though.  There were hollow hedges in which to build forts or play hide-and-seek, and lawns shaded by countless Jacaranda trees.  (I love Jacaranda trees and I think I could write an entire post about them.  But not today.) There was no official playground there.  But there was one giant tire swing, large enough to accommodate 4 or 5 kids at once, hanging from the hefty Jacaranda branches swaying in the gentle breeze.  One other swing made of an old 2×6 board hung from another tree.  I loved the way purple Jacaranda flowers rained down on me when I would swing high in the air.

This picture is blurry, but just look at those branches! They must be climbed. I think we were probably playing Star Wars. It was our favorite game to play in the trees

Menno had the very best jungle gym in the whole wide world and it was provided by Mother Nature, herself.  There were these two trees that were so gentle and welcoming that a child was left no choice but to climb.  Their branches were so sturdy and dependable, their bark so smooth and gentle.  Those two trees really kind of ruined me for all other trees.  I climbed plenty of other trees, but they were just not as friendly.

I am so thankful for the sweet elderly couple, Paul and Erma, for the love and hospitality they provided at Menno.  Thanks to them, I have a thousand very fond memories of this beautiful, warm place.

I have a little sewing to do today, which always makes me think of my mom.  Once upon a time, Home Ec was a real college major.  Stop laughing. It really was.  No really.  Ok, moving on.  There are kids in school who don’t even know what Home Ec is.  Home Ec is short for Home Economics and emphasized a lot of skills in sewing, cooking, budgeting, and baking.

When my mom first went to college, she was a Home Ec major.  She had no plans, nor any desire for that matter, to go to the mission field at the time.  She couldn’t have known that her knowledge and skills would come in so handy.  I gave you a tiny glimpse of this in Baking Day.  There was no cooking challenge too great for her.  In fact, she taught a series of classes to Maasai women about cooking over a small charcoal burner called a Jiko.  And her cakes! Oh, merciful heavens, her cakes! I’ll have to tell you about them sometime.

But I digress.  I was talking about sewing.  My mother is a very skilled seamstress. Much of my wardrobe came right off her sewing machine.  Dresses (everyday and formals), pants, tops, bathing suits, and even some of my  “delicates”.  I truly think she can sew anything.  All the homey touches in our houses were courtesy of her skill. Curtains, pillows, quilts, and wall-hangings.  Most of the ladies in our *mission (see footnote), at some point, wore a custom-made bathing suit courtesy of Linda.  She’s pretty incredible.

This is a picture of me in a dress she made holding my Birthday present.  She made this doll for me.  The pattern called the doll Little Bo Peep, but I named her Amy.  I really wish I had a better picture, because this one doesn’t do sweet Amy justice.  She had a dress full of ruffles, bloomers, and a bonnet.  Her chest had a little heart embroidered on it.  Piles and piles of yellow yarn skillfully tacked to her head made her hair.  She had soft pink circles on her cheeks that framed a sweet embroidered smile.  Precious little white shoes I had worn as a baby adorned her feet.

So, I’m off to sit in front of my little sewing machine.  The beautiful comforting whir will take me back to a time when I sat on the floor playing with the button box while my mom created something beautiful.

* Our mission refers to a group of people rather than a goal or a place.  When I say ladies in our mission, I mean missionaries in Kenya who are affiliated with the same sending organization.  Our mission was Christian Missionary Fellowship.