Marlin's still in the land of golden streets and money trees.
At least that's how some Kenyans view the land of my birth. They think that as Americans we don't have hurts, or pain, or heartbreak, and that our Nike clad feet stroll over streets that belong in heaven. They will smile when we talk of how to live through tears but they will admit readily, and have admitted, that we can go back to our America where the money flow never ends and people rarely die. Somehow our hurts just aren't as deep. Or so they think.
|Jennifer's Gardens. A beautiful retreat where the missionaries can escape the pollution of the big city and soak up some serious beauty.|
They are wrong. But from the viewpoint of mud huts and constant death, i understand. Or as much as i am able with the luxury of my heritage and the wealth of my homeland. There has to be a way to show them that we hurt and cry as hard as they do but i'm afraid that until we share their mud huts and live their pain, they won't believe.
If they have a child dying from dysentery, they can't call the mission board or family, and be flown across the wide blue sky to hospitals where the floors are spotless and the medicine advanced. Sometimes tho, i wonder if we don't also suffer from having so much handed to us. Our faith becomes flabby and our rights tightly held.
There's times I wonder if we fight too hard to keep ourselves alive. People spend thousands and millions on loved ones, saying you can't put a price on life. I agree. Completely.... but if the death of a saint causes God to rejoice at a loved one of His coming home, why do we fight and scream at God when it happens.
I think of Hadassah. From the moment we heard she was going to die, we knew we needed to release her. To pound the gates of heaven and demand a miracle just wasn't an option. Sometimes it is. Sometimes God asks us to challenge Him and to ask for healing. Sometimes He seems to ask us to simply let go and believe that death is not the worst that can happen. Either way the pain is cutting and the hurt real, just as the healing and triumph over death is also real.
|Some missionary children that keep hanging around. :)|
This week a Kenyan whose testimony really touched our lives as a family, went home to Jesus. If you have ever read the book, "A Good Different" you will remember Musikala. A drunk and a wife beater who got delivered and set free. He died of a lung infection this week and part of me wonders why God took him when there seem so few for real christians in Kenya. But i can't grieve for him. I find my heart rejoicing that he is in the presence of God Himself. I grieve for his family. Being a widow is not an easy thing and being a widow in Kenya brings a level of hard that is not easy for us to grasp.
I can't help but wonder if we could see past this veil that keeps us from seeing heaven, if maybe we would release our loved ones quicker.
Unless they aren't ready. Then we storm the gates of heaven and weep for God to have mercy. We struggle to believe that His hand is bigger than the lies that bind the hearts of unbelief.
|I wonder what their future holds????|
Somehow tho, we keep living, one day and one faith crisis at a time.