A Christmas Story

Christmas outside of the US this year was yet another occasion I have learned how to celebrate African style. Besides the seemingly out of place blown up Santa’s or random tinsel garlands, you can barely tell it is a holiday season. Regardless of our various cultures dictating holiday traditions there is one thing we have in common: family gatherings and feasting. Even if a family cannot afford presents or haven’t gone completely western by decorating with a Christmas tree, spending the day with family and eating local delicacies is not compromised.

I spent my Christmas with a Kenyan family I have come to know and love through one of my Kenyan friends back at home. The whole family had joined together to share in one amazing meal of fish, chapattis, two kinds of chicken, rice pilau, traditional ugali, and fresh mango or passion fruit juice. Needless to say, I experienced the usual holiday over-eating and merry heart that comes with it. I was then to return home to repeat this experience with my family I am staying with. But some events happened in-between these two occasions that made the second family dinner pensive and consciously appreciated.

Upon returning to the house, I set out to assist in cooking the second family dinner. One of my friends was asked to meet a friend in the slums to visit a sick church member. (Often times the term ‘sick’ is used to identify someone who is infected with HIV.) My friend hastily gathered a few items from home to share with the ailing friend and set out to only find her laying alone in her house, or rather her pieced together sheet metal accommodation. At first it didn’t appear as anyone was home but then a slight stir came from the corner and a frail, gaunt lady emerged from the darkness. Clothed in a merger spaghetti strap top with only a light covering, it was obvious this woman had lost significant weight and barely recognizable. She had spent the holiday alone forced by her sickness to stay in bed. My friend made an attempt to joke and bring joy in an effort to hide his shock and horror, this was not the person he knew only months prior. In discreet observation, the visitors realized that this lady was out of all vital necessities: hygienic toiletries, consumable staples, and adequate clothing. Upon the commencement of the visit, the visitors were escorted out by a lady, who stepped out of bed for the first time that day, strengthened by encouragement and promised another visit the following day along with much needed supplies.

With my hands covered in cake frosting and the smell of roasted chicken wafting through the air, my friend recounted his Christmas visit. We both sat in reflective silence, as our blessed holiday still wasn’t over. More than any other year, I was reminded that Christmas is not about the presents, the cookies, Santa Claus, but rather the most important gift that we can give each other: the gift of human connection. Unbeknownst to the rest of the family, my friend and I ate dinner in humble contemplation truly grateful for the reason for this season: the birth of a Savior coming to alleviate the pain and suffering of those all too close to us.

Caught Between Two Worlds: Tinsel and Poverty

I haven’t written a blog lately because I haven’t really known what to say. I frequently feel caught in the tension of this world, which silences and gives me pause. Often my heart and soul is the site of a daily battlefield fighting to define my position in this world and my place in it. And even some moments I am at war with myself floundering between my culture and my past with my present life constantly challenging my worldview and core being.

I am currently in Kenya for a three-week vacation and this mental combat zone has followed me. In Madagascar, I left behind a people I have come to love fighting for tomorrow while I am on holiday only to be greeted with the same struggle in another country. They don’t have the ability to stop their lives and enjoy eggnog and tinsel but are fighting for another day of survival. Some moments I wish to reenter my naïve, comfortable bubble and escape the unfair horrors I witness everyday.

Living in such a tension has made me appreciative of the simple, humble joys in life. This holiday season, I am (sometimes painfully) learning and valuing the importance of traditions, relationships, and the merger of where I have come from and where I am now. Last week I was able to travel to the Kenyan coast with a friend from graduate school soaking up the sun, relaxing, and swapping Africa stories. More than all of that, Adam was a piece of home and a reminder of what I left behind, a fact sometimes forced to be forgotten in order to cope with the present. It was a connection I desperately needed to keep going and alleviate some of my holiday homesickness.

Life in Africa is not always fun and adventurous as some would like to believe. This week I am feeling the sacrifice and the holiday pleasures my family and I have forfeited to be here. At the same time, I am reminded of the sacrifice my Savior made to enter this foreign land and join in solidarity with humanity in an effort to change our fate. I am so grateful that he didn’t waiver in his commitment to his people and thus, to Him will I look to as the source of my strength as I too attempt to follow his example.