I sat quietly at the boarding gate for my British Airlines flight to Kenya
and began noticing something odd about my fellow flyers. Most of them were tee
shirted with the names of organizations, all of which were NGO’s. I was
entranced by names like “On Fire For Jesus” and other presumably Christian
humanitarian efforts. All of the participants were Caucasian. All of them
appeared filled with enthusiasm and true belief. Most of them had their founders
with them, primarily doctors or ministers. Not one to miss an opportunity for
field study, I initiated conversations with the founders. “God spoke to me and
told me to …” they matter of factly said, sharing itemized lists of God’s
directives, complete with goals and timelines. Another said, “God told me to
drop everything and become a mother for the Kenyan people. You may call me
Mother Julia of Norway…” By this time I was feeling worthless AND faithless. God
had not spoken to me at all. Not that he NEVER had. After my parents died, a
beautiful young man dressed in white robes appeared to my sister and I while we
were in the hospital. I looked at his face but could not see it, as it was
shadowed by a brilliant blue light that circled his head and melded into a
bright white light at its periphery. “Your parents are not in the ward at the
end of the hall. They are with me and they are fine.” And then the vision was
gone. My sister looked at me, “That means they are both dead.” I put my forehead
against hers and we rocked back and forth, silent tears streaming down our faces
for a very long time.
I hated Jesus and God and anything religious for a long time after. I figured
any God who would take my parents from us on our way back from a funeral (for
God’s sake!) was a cruel bastard with a morose sense of humor. When God and I
reconciled many years later, there was no visual and auditory imput- just a tangible
sense of reconnection.
After all that personal history with Jesus, here I was, in a group of 450
frequent flyers, most of whom had been directly called to this work by their
heavenly father, up close and personal. Their egos seemed quintessentially
secure, confident and intact, as though they had been assured ahead of time that
they couldn’t fail. I was scared and embarrassed that I had no idea what I was
doing and that ultimately, worse case scenario, might do more harm than good,
thus calling down the wrath of that very same God, who had neither spoken to me
nor sent so much as a sheet of instructions prior to the trip.
At every turn was someone more credentialed, wealthier or closer to the divine
than I. The only other person of color was a black catholic nun. I felt
comfortable when she did not regale me with her history of miracles but spoke
about ordinary things. Right before we boarded, I asked, “How did you decide to
become a nun?” “Well, when He wants you, He refuses to let go, no matter what
you do.” she said, looking at her wedding band. Aha, her,too! Another fellow
traveler in direct relationship-a bride of Christ already! I should have known!
Soon I was thousands of feet in the air on the biggest airplane I had ever seen.
I thought about how alone I was- the various mission groups sat together
fellowshipping, sharing personal jokes, really looked like good times. I decided
I would just reflect prayerfully on the miracle of flight and leave it at that.
However, while in Nairobi, I do think I experienced three “God moments.” The
first was at Customs in Nairobi. The officer looked at my five bags with a
raised brow. “Hand me downs for the orphans in Kiambiu.” Mary said and he
motioned us past without asking us to open a case.
The second was at the Serena Hotel. This was at the end of the first week when
nothing had been accomplished. I was looking for a cyber café to e-mail Ron, my life partner of 17 years. At
that moment I saw a man holding a sign that said “Feed the Children.” I had
intended to go to the “Abandoned Baby Center” in Dagoretti so this was a good
thing. “Sir,” I asked ,”How do I get there?” He was ushering a group of very
tall men into a van. “I’ll send someone over.” He said cheerfully. Soon I was
being hugged by the director of Feed the Children, Larry Jones. It turns out
that Larry only comes to Nairobi three times a year and is rarely away from the
ABC Center. I had just managed to be in the right place at the right time for a
quite rare occurrence. He had only come into Nairobi to welcome the National Basketball Association,
thus accounting for those very tall men...clearly, this was a sign.
Later we were at the Center and were told that the director of distribution of
food had just left and would not return. We felt dashed as it had taken 1 hour
and $20 USD to get there. Yet, about 40 minutes later, he reappeared, having
forgotten something in his office. He insisted in visiting with us and awarded
Lecden four months of rice. Another God moment.