Standing in the Gap

Sitting in a classroom on a Saturday morning with the seventh grade class, I’m finally able to listen. Not teach, not lead, but sit with the students in plastic chairs in a crowded classroom, and listen. We talk about the story of Moses.

The teacher asks about the miracle of the burning bush, and asks why Moses had to take off his shoes in that moment. The kids answer.

He took off his shoes because the ground was holy.

He took off his shoes because God looks at the heart, not at our appearances, not at our clothes or our shoes. He sees us exactly as we are.

And he took off his shoes because in that moment, there was nothing between him and God. Everything laid bare, everything out in the open. He was completely present and one with God in that moment. God spoke to him there.

What He told Moses in that holy, sacred moment was that He heard the cries of His people. He saw their tears and their heaviness. And He would answer.

It was after the encounter with the burning bush, that the deliverance came. Deliverance from the years of pain and abuse and bondage. Deliverance for the people of God.

That burned on my heart all this week.

Here in Kenya, sometimes I feel like I’m in the presence of a burning bush. The ground here is sacred, holy, somehow.

Like I’m standing in the gap between the hurt and the healing, the bondage and the deliverance. Waiting on God to work and to move. And in this place, in this waiting, there’s the presence of God. Gentle promises spoken.

I have to take off my shoes. Have to acknowledge before God that there’s needs here I can’t meet. There’s problems I can’t fix. I’m inadequate. And God sees me in my inadequacy and still, He allows me in His presence through the grace of Jesus. Let’s me witness what He’s doing here. Let’s me stand in that gap alongside hurting people, while we wait together to watch Him work.

I sit with a friend, and she shares with me her grief. Soft spoken, deep pain that she’s held in for so long. There’s a part of her inside that feels hopeless, dead, like she’s not sure what’s still pushing her forward. We share tears together, share the weight of dreams that have died. I don’t know when her deliverance from this pain will come. There in that moment, I feel God’s presence. We stand in the gap, and it’s holy ground.

I look into the eyes of a little boy, and he stares back at me, his expression blank and listless. He’s maybe four, maybe five years old, and he can’t communicate, doesn’t even acknowledge his own name. It’s the result of a curse called down on him by his own parents, when they sacrificed his healthy, whole mind to demonic presence, in the hopes of gaining wealth for themselves. I smile at him, but I want to weep. God, where is his deliverance? Why is he allowed to suffer? In that moment, I can’t change his past, can’t change his family situation right there and then. I’m standing in a gap, and God’s there and He sees the pain. I beg Him for some kind of miracle. And we wait on Him to answer. The ground is sacred.

A little boy calls my name across the schoolyard, comes running. He laughs as I show him his picture on the screen of my camera, and I want to freeze that sound. It’s the sound of beauty out of ashes, the laughter of a child who shouldn’t even have been here. His life is the result of the tragic rape of a teenage girl. She goes to high school now, in the hopes of providing a better future for herself and her son. He lives here, the smallest child in boarding at the school. Raised by teachers and the school matron. He’s loved and cared for, but still, there’s a gap. He’s only a small toddler, without a parent in his day-to-day reality. I kiss his face because I don’t know if anyone else has done so yet that day. I hold him and play with him, and every time I hear that laughter, it makes me catch my breath. I’m watching God at work here in His life, and standing in the gap in the meantime. I know I’m not big enough to fix this situation. Giving him hugs and kisses, playing with him and taking his photo won’t change the reality of his life. But for today, we’re here, together. I’m watching God’s unfolding miracle of deliverance. My shoes are off.

I sit in a quiet school office and go through the files of these kids in the rescue program. It’s my first time reading their stories. I’m blown away. These are the kids that I spend every day with. Their pasts are unthinkable, and yet they’re real. As I go out and I then interact with these kids, their stories echo across my heart and I feel the heaviness of it, even as we smile and laugh and play together. For some, deliverance has been unfolding already in their lives. They’re well on their path towards recovery, even though the scars will always remain. For others, though, they’re still standing in the gap, waiting. The pain is still so fresh. We hold out in the faith that God sees every tear and He knows the weight, knows the bondage, knows the scars. He’s standing in the gap there with us, holding out His hands and urging us all forwards, closer to Himself.

Some days, I would give anything to be able to close these gaps, or erase the pain. Instead, all I can do is listen and sit broken alongside my precious friends. I don’t have the answers. So I take off my shoes, because my Creator sees me exactly as I am. Weak and inadequate in the face of so much pain. I stand here in the gap, together with my brothers and sisters, and we’re all laid bare and just seeking the presence of God. Crying out at injustice and wanting to know when the deliverance will come.

On this holy ground, God speaks. “I AM who I say I AM.”

He is the God who keeps His promises.

He is the God of miracles.

He is the God whose grace is bigger than all of our shortcomings.

He is the God who loves us.

He is the God who gives just enough strength for today.

He is the God who will deliver us.

I believe that there are miracles at work here. Some already playing out, and others yet to come.

Before the miracles, though, before the freedom from bondage, before the parting seas and the manna from the sky, there this miracle of a burning bush.

The first miracle is always, always the miracle of God’s presence.

It’s here, on this holy and sacred ground, that we find the strength to walk forwards toward hope. It’s when our shoes are off that we can recognize our own inadequacies, and yet the depth of God’s grace in spite of it. It’s here that we can experience the presence of God. And then He can work. I AM will deliver us.

For today, maybe you’re standing in a gap between your own bondage and deliverance. Wondering why it seems as though God can’t hear your cries. Friends, He sees you. He hears you. Take off those shoes and get real and authentic before Him. It’s ok to admit that you’re inadequate, that you’re not strong enough. You were never meant to be strong enough on your own. Your Heavenly Father wants to speak hope and life over your broken situations. He wants to blow you away with His miracles.

For today, though, the miracle might just be the waiting, the gap, where He wants to meet you. It’s the miracle of the burning bush. Be there and be present, and wait for Him to work.

May 5th-12th: When God Talks

Weekly Update (written Friday, May 12th)

My best friend and I often recall, with a lot of laughter, our childhood adventures during Tuesday night Bible studies.

I won’t recount to you all of our adventures—you would never look at me the same again—but I will tell you this one. While the adults met downstairs, us kids would turn on our little tv in the attic. Every week, we would watch the same video. I don’t remember the concept of the video entirely. But what I do remember is the one song that would come on in the middle of it, that made us all go a little wild. “When God Talks Creation Rocks.” Picture half a dozen kids under the age of ten, running, singing and dancing as loud as they can, and you’ll get the picture. When the song was over, we would rewind the video to watch that one song again, and again, and again. And every time, there would be dancing and craziness. I’m pretty sure the adults could hear us from the first floor.

As for the rest of our adventures, what happened on Tuesday nights, stays on Tuesday nights. Trust me, it’s better that way.

This one I tell you, because the one line from that crazy song still echoes in my head today. When God talks, creation rocks.

This week, God talked. In the face of my doubts and questions and fears and hurts, He talked. My Jesus; He’s continually rocking my world, in the best way possible.

I closed out last week weary. Heavy. Feeling a little bit lonely and uncertain. A good friend had broken my trust. I didn’t know who to turn to. Not only my Mama, but my entire cottage family had been suddenly taken out of the picture. I wasn’t sure what was next. There were too many goodbyes. I struggled with forgiveness. I tried to search for truth, something solid to stand on.

So I felt heavy. Some of the things on my heart were real hurts (valid reasons). Some were my own complaints and grumblings (not valid reasons).

Sometimes I ask myself why God doesn’t just leave me in my doubts, and in my questions. Why doesn’t He get frustrated and walk away? Why doesn’t He just keep quiet and sit back, wait for me to work out my problems? Why does He have to keep being so good to me, when I have questioned His love and His plan, over and over again?

Mesisi Enkai—praise God—that He doesn’t tire of picking me back up again. Mesisi Enkai that my Father wraps His loving arms around me and pulls me close when I’m hurting, close when I’m angry, close when I’m scared, close when I’m broken. Mesisi Enkai that He’s a good, good Father.

This week, He spoke into the middle of my doubts and calmed all of my fears, by pouring out blessing after blessing. He reaffirmed His goodness this week. He didn’t have too—goodness knows He’s reaffirmed it to me over and over again throughout the years. No, He didn’t have to remind me of who He is. But He chose to, because He’s a good and loving Father, who never tires of showing His love to His children.

Mesisi Enkai that He never stops speaking His goodness into my life.

I saw His goodness this week in the faces of my class—the very first classroom that I will ever call my own as a teacher. I saw His goodness in the faces of my thirteen little kindergarteners, every time they flashed me one of their beautiful smiles. I saw His goodness when, by day two, I was greeted at the classroom door in the morning with hugs from each child and a “good morning Teacher Kaela.”

I saw His goodness in every student who passed me in the schoolyard, smiling big and brave in the face of all their broken pasts.

I saw His goodness in the 20 preschoolers all fighting to hold my hand at once. Even though at times it nearly turned into a legitimate war, it still filled my heart to see them all crowding around, and to know how blessed I am to be able to love on each and every one of these precious little people over the next three months.

I saw His goodness in the 60 kids, grades 5-8, who were introduced to Bible Quizzing for the first time this week, in our first of many Bible Quizzing classes here at Lenkai.

I saw His goodness when I unexpectedly saw Sakoine, whose smile matched my own when I passed in the school van and we waved to each other. I saw His goodness in my sister, Lilian, who I saw in the market and had the chance to talk to, another blessing I didn’t expect. I saw His goodness in her sister, Esther, who welcomed me to come to her home some day, though she hardly knows me. I saw His goodness in Pastor Koromo, when I met him unexpectedly at Lenkai and we nearly ran to greet each other, in sheer excitement.

I saw His goodness as I had the chance to communicate back home and talk to loved ones on the other side of the ocean. I saw His goodness in hearing from my Kenyan Mama, that she reached home safely. I saw His goodness when a friend unexpectedly reached out and told me that she was praying for me, exactly when I needed it.

I saw His goodness in the Muslim children in my classroom, as they stood there singing with the rest of the class, “Baby Jesus, I love You. You are my Savior, every day.”

I saw His goodness in the children that I live with here at the house. I see His goodness in the fact that I get to spend every day with these precious little people, first thing in the morning and last thing at night. I see His goodness when Anna and Olivia ask to play games with me, when Musa vulnerably shares his hopes for the future, when Gerald comes to hold my hand as we walk to class, when Lenkai wants to show me his truck again, or when Sien snuggles sleepy against me.

I saw His goodness when I saw my Kenyan brothers for the first time in over a week, and they told me that they missed me.

I saw His goodness in my roommate and fast friend, Purity. I saw His goodness in the way she welcomed and accepted me and offered out her friendship. I saw His goodness in the safety and acceptance that I felt, when God offered out this friendship to me that He knew I desperately needed.

I saw His goodness just this afternoon, when I went to work on projects here at the OBM office. The joy in my heart, at seeing several of my friends for the first time in over a week, was real. And I saw His goodness, when I looked up to see one more visitor in my “office” door, and found my dog Skip-bo standing there, wagging his tail at me. I hadn’t seen him in over a week either, and I’m not sure how he tracked me down to the office building, but he did. The many reunions that day were sweet.

I saw His goodness when He gave me deep, unexplainable peace, to questions that had been holding me down.

I saw His goodness over and over and over again this week. It was impossible to deny. He spoke into my story, reaffirming this goodness. And it rocked my world and set it back in it’s place: revolving around Jesus.

When God talks, creation rocks. I’m so thankful that He looked at me, His creation, and chose to speak to me right where I was this week. Mesisi Enkai. Amen.

 

[Bonus Note: Please excuse my lack of pictures in this post. Believe me when I say, bringing a camera would have been a pretty big distraction while trying to settle in at the school this week. Trust me, though, there will be photos and photos and more photos, to follow soon 🙂 ]

The Bravest Heroes

Maybe you’re expecting this to be a cheesy post about my own mother, and all of the work that she does that no one sees.

I could write a book about all that my mother does unsung. But this isn’t about that. This is about my heroes here, some of the bravest and the strongest that I know. This Mother’s day, I can’t let them go unacknowledged, unseen, unsung. They deserve the world and more.

It hit me yesterday, when sitting with the girls at the rescue center. The girls asked if they could greet my mother for Mother’s day.

The girl who asked me, she’s never met her mother, and she never will on this side of heaven. Other girls sitting in the circle with me there maybe haven’t met their mothers either. Or maybe their mothers were single parents, too desperately impoverished to be able to provide care for their child. Or maybe their mothers abused them, or were planning to have them undergo female circumcision or early childhood marriage.

In each story, the fact remains that these girls didn’t spend Mother’s day with their mothers. They couldn’t FaceTime with their mothers either, like I did today, though I’m sure some of them would give anything to be able to do so.

It kept hitting me, all throughout today. The reality of these children that I’m spending my days with.

Today at church, I snuggled a toddler whose teenage mother is still in high school. She didn’t spend Mother’s day with her child.

Today, I listened to a three year old girl call for her mom when she was scared. And I asked myself, not for the first time, who she was calling for. Her birth mother–who is still involved in her life, her foster mother, or the constant, forever mother that maybe she dreams of. I don’t know.

Today, I’m thankful for the women in the lives of these children here. I’m thankful for the house matrons that live here at the rescue center. I’m thankful for Madam Dorcus and the work that she’s done in giving these children a safe place, and for the way she’s been a mother to so many who had no one else to speak for them, and to love them. I’m thankful for the teachers at Lenkai who invest deeply in their students. I’m thankful for the volunteers who have come and gone here over the years, who I know have left an impact because I hear their names mentioned so often here. I’m thankful for the mothers here who do invest, who love deeply, who care. There are so many women here who mother, and I want to acknowledge and celebrate them and the work that they do. But they, also, are not the heroes I want to write about now.

My heroes are these children.

Today, any one of those children could have sat feeling the hard and heavy weight of a broken past, and they would have had every right. Sitting and working through your brokenness is a bravery of its own, but today wasn’t that day. Instead, I saw 50 kids dancing and jumping and praising God in church service.  I saw my whole Sunday school class stretch out their arms to show how much God loves His people. Today I saw smiles and laughter from every single child at that school.

Mother’s day might rub open wounds, for so many here. Whether the years have dulled the pain, or whether it’s still a sharp reminder, this is not an easy day for so many. But these children, they are strong. And for a day that could have been so hard, they spent laughing brave and smiling and dancing. Taking more steps towards healing.

This is the middle of brokenness and hope and stories being rewritten. On a day where so many gave roses and presents and cards, these children put one foot in front of the other and they lived.

Today wasn’t about the mothers here. It was about living one more day in a story of redemption. That’s beauty like I’ve never known before.