Shoes.  That’s rich…my inaugural trip into one of the largest slums in the world and all I could do was stress about my shoes.

I didn’t want to take my boys in there.  It’s tight and dirty and people are constantly pinching or pulling some part of their bodies.  I had wanted to go in for the first time without the stress of reigning in their juvenile tendencies and curious questions.  However, after our transportation lesson this afternoon our guide, James, told us that he actually goes to church in Kibera and is a part of a thriving ministry there.  Considering one is rarely offered such a qualified escort into this aspect of the slums (and considering a babysitter was a bit out of the question at this stage of the game), we jumped at the opportunity.  Besides, the main entrance is only but 100 yards from the gate to our development; it would be good to know our “neighbors”.

We were only about 50 feet down the slimy pathway when I grabbed a glance at my youngest, holding tightly to my left hand.  I was somewhat embarrassed to see him with the collar of his t-shirt pulled up over his nose and his eyes scrunched together in a disapproving squint.  But I couldn’t blame the kid – I’d have done it myself if I didn’t think it completely demeaning to those who watched us intently from the doorway of their homes.  I was already calculating my steps as to protect my overpriced Merrills when the unthinkable occurred – it started to rain.  What was once a clay-like mud composed of the worst ingredients imaginable suddenly softened into a material I’ve only seen on a good episode of “Dirty Jobs”.  Of course the moisture only provoked the aromas and I soon found myself employing a breathing technique I’d mastered on the spot for the sake of my stomach and all its contents.  As the drops grew bigger and more frequent I could rarely even look up as I struggled to follow the careful steps of my husband (who had elected to wear brand new shoes today so was also being quite cautious).  Occasionally I saw a pair of suffering eyes ridicule my efforts as if to say “try living here for a day”.  My kids, strangely enough, were entirely oblivious to any abnormalities and merely narrated their journey to one another, pointing out the wandering dogs, chickens, and “cob on the corn” cooking over little filth caked pots.

Finally the rain forced us to take refuge in a small barber shop flaunting pictures of hairstyles no one in this community would ever consider practical.  For a moment I thought my shoes were safe, until a small child (always hard to tell the gender just by looking; many of their heads are shaved and gender-specific clothing is an unaffordable luxury) bolted through the doorway in pink rain boots and utilized my feet as a stopping block.  I smiled quietly and wondered if the chunk of sludge would soak through and stain.

It was only a few minutes before the rain turned to just clouds and we continued our journey, now leaving the buffer of the train tracks we’d been utilizing as higher ground.  On two occasions there was no option but to step directly into uncharted puddles and feel the filth soak in through the breathers and under my arches.  It was here that I found myself amazed by an anomaly: in the United States we go through great efforts to sanitize invisible bacteria at just about every public site known to man.  Here I was in the most filthy environment I think I’ve ever been in and I had to laugh – there were SO many people crowded in this bacterial Disneyland – how on earth were they alive without a wall mounted Purell foaming station every 50 feet?

Finally we came to a faded blue metal gate that read “Church of God – Kibera”.  James shouted a greeting to the other side and we ducked through the door big enough for a 5’5 and 135 pound woman.

Here, my feet found refuge.  But my heart did not.

The compound was graded smooth and a group of school age children were playing soccer with a trash ball they’d fashioned to look remarkably like its official counterpart.  Behind them was a pile of concrete rubble sheltered by a tin roof.  James explained that the church congregation had grown to more than 500 people and so they are expanding the roof to cover them.  To our left was the official Kibera office of Compassion International that now serves nearly 300 children just from this slum area.  He then directed us to a 20 foot train car that was brought in (over the same terrain we had just walked) to house a small clinic.  Inside we met two women; one was the clinic’s only nurse, the other, Eunice, the only staff member of the adjacent orphanage.  She is singlehandedly serving as the mother to 4 girls and 6 boys ranging in age from about 5 years old to the oldest, 18 year old Mary.  In her last year of high school Mary will be attending the University thanks to the ministry of Compassion.  Statistically, Mary represents a group of young girls who most likely would be pregnant and infected with HIV by now.  But more practically, Mary now represents hope.

Cole dropped his shoulders and whined “ah Maahh” when I called he and his brother away from their new friends and their very serious soccer match.  “We’ll come back again, Coley Bear, and you can play some more”, I promised.  James echoed, “yes yes, please, you can come anytime”.

Isaac dressed as a Maasai market store keeper - sold Daddy every craft he made throughout the 3 weeks of Orientation!

As we journeyed back via the train tracks I gave up on the welfare of my shoes and began to take notice of my surroundings.  Everywhere I looked there were small children, most often without any parent nearby, gazing intently on this family of “mazungus” disturbing their normalcy.  Every so often a group of them would shout “how ahh yooo?” flaunting their entire repertoire of the English language.  My boys, well trained by this time, would reply “nzuri” and the group would laugh hysterically.

We emerged from the entrance by which we came and I am ashamed to tell you I was relieved.  The same street I once called “third world” suddenly felt civilized and welcoming.  A farewell to James and short walk later we entered through our 3 padlocks and I instructed the boys to hit the showers.  As I used my filthy feet to test the temperature of the water I remembered a verse used by the On Field Media team in one of their most compelling videos about Islam in closed access nations.

“How blessed are the feet of those who bring good news”

Father God, forgive my self-absorbed feet.  May I one day be worthy of bringing the Good News to these people.

I told Brian I needed to sit down and write for the blog.  My greatest writing task to date.  What can I possibly say?

And this is just what we took on the PLANE!!

Every day we wake up in Africa and can hardly fathom, much less express in words, the surreal elation of finally being where we’ve been trying to go for two years.  And that’s just the task of expressing how we feel – never mind the impossibility of capturing the sounds, smells, and sights of each passing moment.  I carelessly assumed I would communicate to you all the notable moments of our life here, forgetting that for the foreseeable future, EVERYTHING feels notable.  The ants here are notable…laundry here is worth discussing…the people here could headline any periodical.  So where on earth do I start?  What will you want to know more than something else?  This is extremely difficult.

Hopefully the pictures can give a brief glimpse at those things I chose to file away for a slow news week in the coming years.  For now, I think ” a day in the life” might allow you to peruse the tsunami of our new lifestyle.  (I’ll be as brief as I can and

You pack it, you pull it! Train 'em young for a life on the road!

highlight key words so you can skip the boring stuff if you feel the need!)

TODAY

6am – awaken in my 62 degree dorm room for a spitting shower in one of the four cement stalls on this floor (careful not to swallow the water, even though the staff swears it’s cleaner than Nairobi’s sources).

7:30am – join the 40 other orientees for another breakfast of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and chai tea (Kenyans are baffled by our need to distinguish between breakfast foods and other meals)

8:30a – forego educational moments by the molting chickens and malnourished goats to drop the boys at their own orientation classes two levels above our classroom

9-10:30a – Worship (much the same as an unplugged vespers), devotional and special guest speaker and Kenyan national Joy Mindo teaches us on the African World View (see if you can unravel the meaning behind this African proverb: “A crocodile’s strength is in the water”)

10:30am – High time for chai time…again…(thankfully Cadbury makes a sufficient counterpart to Nesquik) with samosas

10:45-12:30p – Finally shed my jacket as the classroom reaches a comfortable 68 degrees (with the help of internal heating sources: 6 glasses of chai tea).  The leggings under my ankle-length skirt stay, however (in Machakos any woman making known she has two legs is quite risque)

12:30p -  make a brief stop by the “duka” for two orange Fanta’s and two Cokes to bring to lunch as a special treat – only 25 shillings each (about 35 cents).  Mystery meat stew over rice with side of cooked cabbage slaw…not terribly offensive but certainly no Taco Bell!

2p – 4p – Joy continues her lesson as remnants of Jet Lag threaten to embarrass the weak-necked Americans

Our house in Nairobi - room enough for you...somewhere!

4:00pm – hmmmm…what did we d….oh yeah…chai time…again (this time with lovely Kenyan donuts – helllloooo???  BREAKFAST FOOD!!!)

5p – 6:30p – head cheerleader for the futbol game between Abled Bodied Europeans and I Wish I Were Americans (the only thing more sad is watching Isaac and Cole strike a game with the Kenyan boys that ended when they grew impatient with the white boys always picking up the ball and running with it)

6:30p – final meal of the day means holding the boys heads up long enough to put some noodles and stewed tomatoes down the hatch with a 1/4 circle of chipate bread (wheat flour flat bread – a staple in Kenya)

7:30 – fight 20 other computers for bandwidth before pouring tikes in PJ’s while mommy washes face in one-spicket bathroom sink – frigid cold!!  No exfoliating possible with retreated pores!

8:00p – 10:00 – maybe a trip around the campus to keep ourselves awake until it’s rational to go to sleep

10:00pm – Unisom….climb to top bunk (two narrow and dangerous for the lil ones to be trusted)….insert earplugs….cover with blankzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

**2:00am – (for the first 3 nights Brian and I caught up on our reading till 4 or 5am.  Now we manage to go back to sleep after each interruption!  Phew…thank God for sleep aids!)

Blegur foe oiwe goiwe bjlelkaoub….

Our preferred method of travel to Kenya...if only!

No, that is not Swahili – it’s my thoughts.  After weeks of packing, three days on the road, and a tsunami of emotional goodbye’s, I just cannot seem to carry one thought from start to finish.  My body is tired, my brain is tired, my heart is exhausted.  Like the last coat of paint in a new room, however, it’s the kind of tired where you drop your brush, sink to a spot in the middle of the floor, and marvel at the freshness of new possibilities.

Life is all new.  This morning Brian and I were asked “so where do you hail from”?  We looked at each other for a moment unsure of the correct answer.  Then Brian gripped reality and said, “from our suitcases”.  For now, that’s probably the most accurate answer.  Even though I am surrounded by memories and comforts of my life growing up in Sioux Falls, the reality is I certainly don’t feel as if it is mine.  Charlotte doesn’t feel mine either – if I were to return there, where would I feel comfortable walkin’ around in my skivvies (you know, the true litmus test of “home”)?  Nairobi WILL be home, but for now, I can’t fathom walking around without my shoes on much less in my underwear.  I guess I don’t know how to appreciate this feeling – this sense of homelessness.  But, as in all things, God has an agenda for me even in this time.  One more cliche that is starting to make real sense.

Heaven is my home.

You’ve heard that, right?  You’ve sighed at the beauty of the notion and probably faked a smile to whomever challenged you to buy it so they’d never suspect you wouldn’t pay a cent for it.  But when you drop down on your couch and flip the channel to American Idol while downing a sweet tea or your favorite pop (see how I suddenly feel the need to cater to the cultural varieties of my audience?), the truth is you feel…home.  I did.  But when your TV is packed under myriads of boxes for the next 4 months and you’ve never actually seen your couch (long story…our couch would not fit through the front door of our house in Nairobi so we had to sell it), suddenly “home” feels like a myth.  And truthfully, each time God whispers “I am your home”, I find myself plugging my spiritual ears and singing “lalalalalalalalalala” .  I don’t like what I cannot comprehend.

Maybe some of you more mature and seasoned Christians have this figured out.  But I would venture to guess that for most of us, earth feels pretty comfortable.  To imagine our drivers license carrying the state symbol of heaven….well, hard to grasp.  And yet, there’s no doubt in my mind that right now The Father is calling me to cast aside my memberships and identities and really submit to my true citizenship.  It’s hard for me – I have never been to heaven, I have no memories there, I don’t even know what it looks like.  Well now, wait just a minute…if heaven can be defined as “the presence of God”…Hmmmmm…I have been there! Lots of times!  And while it’s hard to imagine it being “home”, technically Adam and Eve started out in the presence of God wearin nothing but a smile!  Heaven must be home.

It is our honor to inform you…. We have received our financial clearance – the goal was met!  Praise God!

We leave Charlotte on July 7th to travel to South Dakota and say goodbye to family and friends there.  Then, on July 22nd, we leave the country – ON SCHEDULE!!

Thank you to all of our financial supporters – you mean the world to us!!

Yes...that is Brian flying that plane!!

To say that Art has had a rough life would be an understatement of epic proportions. Hard living, alcoholism, addictions, and child abuse are just the highlights. So, when my grandparents chose to take him in several years ago, when he had nowhere else to go,  I honestly feared for their safety. I feared for the safety of my own family. Art was not stable.

Through the perseverance, tough love, and faithfulness of my grandparents, however, Art accepted Jesus Christ as his Savior 4 years ago and the turnaround began.

Art, for the most part is on his own now but he still has his good days and bad days.  He sometimes finds refuge at my Grandparents, so when I sat down to dinner at their house last week and found out Art would be joining us, I knew he must have been looking for a friendly face. I’m not proud of this but, honestly, I cringed inside. I never know what to expect from Art and generally feel uneasy whenever he’s around. Dinner was uneventful, however, and the conversation turned toward a discussion about our preparations for Africa. Art, for the most part was silent, as he usually is; more interested in leftovers than conversation. But he did ask where we are going and when we are leaving. The conversation wound down and, after thoroughly finishing the contents of the entire table(minus the brussels sprouts), Art looked directly at me and simply asked, “How can I pray for you?”.

My answer was canned at best.  If I am completely honest,  in my mind Art didn’t fit the profile I had created in my mind of a probable teammate. So I simply stated the usual prayer requests of time to pack, the remainder of our support, and our upcoming trip. He nodded and the conversation was over.

Everyday is still a battle for Art; lifelong habits don’t change overnight.  But the reality is, if you ask him how he is doing, the answer is always “Wonderfully Blessed”. With a timid grin he reveals an innocence and purity of faith that Jesus best described in the example of children.  He has a unique commitment to the welfare of others and a desire to offer a lifeline to those who need to be rescued.  When he prays, it is with full expectation of provision and deliverance from the One who rescued him.

So for the past several days the Holy Spirit has been pressing me with this one reality: as a missionary I should have long since learned to see others as He sees them.  But after having lunch with a man I once considered…messy, I realized I was actually in the presence of one who represents the very heart of God .  Here is a man who is a new creation…a prayer warrior…and my brother….  I couldn’t have learned it from anyone else.

Art is a member of our team because God put him there and because we need him there. Whether he understands it entirely or not he is a necessary part of God’s work in East Africa. So when I have the opportunity to fly a missionary, a pastor, a teacher, or a translator to reach some man of Africa whom the world considers…messy, it will be in part because of the sustaining prayers of Art. He has reminded me that God values a mans soul and what is in his heart, not his station in life.

And someday in heaven, an African man will have his big brother, Art, to thank.

It’s too early for tail lights.

According to the ticker on our web site we now have 72 days, 39 hours and 32 minutes until wheels up on our flight to Africa.  On any other day, that feels like mere moments and with all that’s left to do it occasionally feels like seconds.  But when the “goodbyes” start at 72 days out….it feels like an eternity.

For the past two weeks we have enjoyed having Brian’s family here from Canada and, most recently, enjoyed a blissful weekend at the beach with all six Staples kids and their families.  But this morning, two sets of tail lights headed out of the driveway, taking with them a piece of our hearts and part of the ribbon that marks the finish line of all our preparations.  This is the beginning of the end and it’s coming way too soon.  As I closed the front door I couldn’t help but wonder what everyone will be like the next time we see each other.  What will WE be like the next time we all come together as a family (most likely 4 years from now)?  Siblings, who have already grown up overnight, will catapult into the next phase of their lives and we will longingly watch it “virtually” happen thanks to the technology of Skype and Facebook.  And then of course, tangled under the mess of nostalgia, lies the lurking fear that things will change in unexpected ways and we will again watch from the far side of the looking glass.

But I have too much to do today to cope with tail lights.  I have packing to stay on top of, planning for an upcoming trip to complete, a brave expedition through laundry loads, and then close at the restaurant tonight.  Tail lights will have to wait.  I’ll just put them in that swollen ventricle with everything else and deal with them later.

************************************************************

Dear Friends…

I wanted to share the below e-mail with you to show you how God shows up for us in the coolest ways.  I recently sent this to one of our financial teammates.   I trust you will praise the Lord with us for His continued faithfulness!

Dear R…and K….,

You two are so beautiful – why the Lord chose to bestow your love on me/us is just beyond me!  Thank you for your heart to increase your support and thereby move us ever closer to the mark!!  I want to tell you this story as a form of encouragement and affirmation from the Lord.

About a month ago when our director called us and discussed our financial situation, he told us that we would need another $1700/month in support before we could consider leaving.  When we said that number to ourselves it felt impossible.  But one day Brian said, “You know, we have several supporters who give $100/month.  All we need is 17 more and we’d reach that mark!”

So, we began praying for 17 people at $100/month…$100/month became a household number.  We also began praying for NEW contacts as it appeared our own mailing list had been exhausted.  Two weeks ago we fell into an opportunity to share with a little start up church in Indian Land, SC.  When we got there the congregation was about 13 people and a few of them were missionaries themselves.  A year ago, we might have looked at that situation and felt frustrated and a bit disappointed.  But having experience under our belt, we knew the Lord would bless us anyway and we had a FANTASTIC time sharing with that group and receiving encouragement from them.

Then…last week…guess what!!!??  TWO new supporters and now you….all, at $100/month!!!  A big smooch from the Lord to remind us that our job is merely to obey and share the vision….HIS job is the dollars!  Such a cup of cool water to our tired souls!

God is faithful to our silly specific requests!  I just wanted you to know that story….I’m learning so much about how He uses others to represent Himself and His faithfulness and your e-mail today is no exception!  What a wonderful testimony of His provision…..AGAIN!

Love you all and thank you again,

Jami