Ways To Give

Fuel for the Days Ahead

Written by Candice Fast

Impatient to get to Women’s Bible Study, I only buy $10 worth of gas.

The hill to the river is steep. Hard rain makes the river dark with mud. A Kenyan woman appears at the brim. She is large with child. Pausing before descending, she focuses on a tree – fuel for the days ahead. Machete in hand, she slides slowly down the bank.

I sit at a table near the back of the room because I come in late. There is a guest speaker for the meeting today, Christine Stanfield, a missionary from Kenya. She is already talking. I scoot out my chair and set a plate of food in front of me. The cream in my coffee swirls and churns, the glaze from homemade cinnamon rolls stick to my fingers, I slide my Daily Organizer into better view.

In the Kenya that Christine is describing, anytime is the perfect time for people. Women stop to talk on the roads and pathways, their heads laden with baskets and babies strapped to their chests. Children run and play underfoot. Life in Kenya is about work and relationships, all at the same time.

The friend next to me has handed me a note reminding me that we never seem to get together. I whisper back, “I know, I know. I tried to call you a couple of times last week. Let me check my schedule. Usually Tuesdays or Thursdays are good days; I try to keep those open.”

Life is lived as a balance among the extremes: flood or famine. It is in the shelter of the families, the neighbors, and the friends where the Kenyans look for help. And now, some seek out prayer.

The missionary, Christine, is also a nurse at the hospital. As she opens her door, slumping into her arms is her friend and helper; a Kenyan who has just lost her daughter to an epidemic that has swept the area. She is sad, angry, confused, “Pray for me.” She begs. The pain is so thick, the wailing from the hospital so loud, all the missionary can do is hold her friend and tell herself that soon, she will be able to pray, but for now she can just cry.

I am taking notes, I write in the margins of my paper: The largeness of the pain in Kenya must be suffocating. How can she see all that sorrow and not allow herself to grow cold and removed? (Is she looking towards me when she answers my silent question?) “To love is to share pain.” As a missionary, her call is to Kenya, and through the grace and power of Christ Jesus, she answers the call by loving just one. Loving just one at a time.

On the muddy banks of the river, the woman has labored most of the day to cut down the tree and hack it into manageable-sized logs. Some are nearly the size of circled arms. She gathers six or eight pieces into a rope. The smaller kindling is bundled on her head. She eases her back into the rope of logs. Sliding a little down the hill allows her burden to rest on the large of her back. Slowly painfully, taking many pauses, she trudges up the slippery bank. Almost an hour later she reaches the top, ready for her walk home.

It is a week later. I invite a close friend over for the day. It is a relaxed day. We fold clothes, throw together a lunch while the kids play and nap. I walk her out to her car and as I turn to go back inside my house, the setting sun glints off the windows of the house beside mine. A solitary mother carries her child to the mailbox and back. I am suddenly reminded of the woman in Kenya and I follow the urge to walk to my neighbor’s doorstep.

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