A Dominican Walk Through Kenya (Part 5)

A Reminder as Small as a Sparrow

In light of so much activity, there were also moments of quiet rest, walking through the natural landscape.

“As the sparrow finds a home and the swallow a nest to settle her young, my home is by your altars, Lord of Hosts, my king and my God!” Psalm 84:4

I remember being impacted by the passage in the Gospel where Jesus talks about God’s provident care even for sparrows. This passage, meaningful for my mom as well, was in the back of my mind as I was packing my bag the night before leaving for Africa. And sure enough, when I arrived in Kenya and walked through the shamba of the Priory, I was delighted to see many sparrows hopping around the fences in between the bushes. Just a small sign of God’s love, but it was one that did not escape my notice either.

Flower in the Slum

“Give thanks to the Lord, invoke his name; make known among the peoples his deeds! Sing praise to him, play music; proclaim all his wondrous deeds! Glory in his holy name; let hearts that seek the Lord rejoice! Seek out the Lord and his might; constantly seek his face.” Psalm 105:1-4

Another 6:30 a.m. depart time. Ok, so by 6:45 a.m. (Africa Time), Alfred, Benedict, Peter, Augustine, Andama, and I were buckled into the Dominican minivan headed down the road to Kibagare for Mass at St. Martin’s Outstation Parish. Whizzing by compounds down the highway, we began to slow down as we approached the church, jostling from time to time on potholes like a ship on choppy waters. (I figured that the off-roading capacity of our minivan was maxed out.)

The buildings we saw on the highway were replaced with shacks as we looked along the dirt roads and kids running between the alleys of the local shops. Stopping at the parish, after being let in by the guard (as is common at almost all large entrances here), we made it over to the Church for Mass. However, that was not before we stood outside the Church to greet the roughly 120 girls from St. Martin’s school coming in from Mass with their red uniforms and bright smiles. Offering a handshake and Swahili “jambo” or “habari ya asubuhi,” they responded with a “poa” or “good morning” when they recognized we were giving a good effort but could just as easily converse in English.

Taking our seats in the back of the church, we knew the liturgy was going to be lively as the choir began to warm up to the sound of drums. Indeed, the Mass was full of song. The joy apparent on the faces of the students rhythmically shuffling up to the altar matched the joy on the faces of the rest of the congregation as well. At the end of Mass, we went up to make introductions, noticing that Peter pronounced his name “Petah” with an explosive, crisp “t” to match the African version of his religious name. After walking around the school, we made it back just in time to greet the people from the mid-morning Mass who were from the surrounding Kibagare neighborhood. I was amazed and motivated by the welcome of the people as they came up to meet me and my brothers by the main doors in the stone plaza outside the church.

Noticing their authenticity, an interior prayer came from my heart: “Jesus, what was it like to see your face while you walked the earth? Won’t you smile at me now?” And he did. We greeted grandmas with weathered, yet tender, faces with kids darting around behind them. Following their grandmas, the kids came up to give us handshakes and greetings with purity and joy in their expressions. A number of men made sure to give us a firm handshake before walking out with their families, and the “karibu” of the mothers was occasionally accented by the look of the baby tied to their back with a blanket. You know, there is a wonderful grace and presence of the Holy Spirit in a community of humble Christians gathered together. Like the experience of being knocked off your feet by a powerful wave in the surf, there is no question that what you experienced was unforgettably powerful.

We went with Br. Benedict to join the youth group and introduced ourselves to the classroom of students of varying ages that were assembled in the school building adjacent to the Church. In the classroom where we were gathered, the chalkboard still had remnants of 3rd grade long division, as it stood in front of a row of girls about high school age, three to a bench, braiding each other’s hair. At the same time, a group of guys were trying to play it cool with the girls there, as they congregated together. A young mother, with a one-year-old on her back, let the kid out and then proceeded to catch him as he scampered around the room. Nancy, a student leader greeted the group in Swahili and phrases of English (I assume, for us) as she explained their project of walking around the school compound to pick up loose trash. I was impressed at how easily the whole group went up in laughter, and the amount of social interaction that occurred among the youth as pieces of plastic were being gathered into buckets around the playground and classrooms.

Walking by the parish, we saw Sister Grace, a religious probably in her twenties, with plenty of enthusiasm, singing with a collection of little kids and teaching them to dance. I could see where they get their natural rhythm and musical ability. Continuing on, I kicked a rock with a few kids on the path, who will probably be excellent football/soccer players one day. We didn’t end our time with them before singing a song (“May the Spirit of the Lord Come Down”) and praying with a girl named Janice, who was celebrating her 13th birthday.

We then set off right outside the St. Martin’s gate to go on a sick visit with Br. Benedict. We walked in Kibagare down the dusty road lined with shops and kids and motorbikes and goats. Shops, not in the sense of a storefront with a parking lot, but really stands with grandmothers and mothers, and various people selling bananas and eggs and tomatoes. We passed by a local “kinyozi” shop with happy customers talking as the barber brushed out hair with one of those stick brooms. Initially, I couldn’t help but wonder where the people slept and stayed with their families as I saw the word “hotel” painted on sheet metal on the front of a structure no bigger than a single apartment kitchen. This was new. Likewise, the people in this densely packed and bustling slum area did not see Americans like us in Dominican habits walking through the streets every day.

We arrived at the house of one of the parishioners with Br. Benedict and a few others from the youth group who had walked with us from the parish nearby. A tarp floor, timber pillars, Lionel Messi poster, and a leaning piece of sheet metal were the materials protecting Kevin as he rose from the one and only bed there, still recuperating from a work injury (minor burns). A young kid of about 15 with a simple t-shirt, Kevin seemed happy that the six of us had crowded into his place to visit him at such a time. Br. Benedict asked him a few questions, and then we prayed over Kevin: a very heartfelt and moving prayer, aided by the Holy Spirit in such a moment and in such a place. I’ll just say that the desire to be close to Jesus of some of the people we met, like Kevin, offered the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, plenty of room to act.

As we finished praying with Kevin, preparing to walk back out into the alley, I took one last glance at the handmade shelter, just to impress it in my memory. I saw a few pots on a ledge, a small curtain, a few other tools in the corner by the door. Turning my head to leave, I almost missed the poster in the back corner, which I had yet to see. There, a Divine Mercy poster of Jesus stood with the rays of light coming from the heart on those words, “Jesus, I Trust in You.” Wow. I was glad I turned all the way around.

What a place to really put that trust in Jesus into practice. What is it like for these people, sometimes owning next to nothing, struggling for food, trying to sell this or that just to get by on ugali and cabbage and a little goat meat - to trust in Jesus? What is it like for the man named Steve I met who works to feed his two kids as a temporary Matatu conductor earning 200 Kenya Shillings a day (about $2 USD) - to trust in Jesus? What is it like for these grandmothers, with tired faces and lively eyes to look at their grandkids and wonder what the future holds for them - to trust in Jesus? What is it like for me to trust in Jesus?

In the humble trust of those people, Christ was present. If I could picture the look in the eyes of Jesus, full of joy at some moment in Galilee with his Apostles, I think his eyes would hold a very similar expression as some of these people we met. And I came to notice that it is not poverty alone that allows for this. In fact, I encountered a number of other people with faces that were hostile and bitter. This is where my effort to describe the people living in this rough economic situation here falls short. How do I describe the fact that I do not wish these people to be lacking needs and security while also pointing out that Jesus was so evidently at work in their hearts? Marked by struggle, they were filled with joy, and I found that it was in the response and desire to build Christian community, in such a neighborhood, that was the most beautiful.

Like light shining in the darkness. Like a flower budding along the road of the slum.