Swallowing the sun

July 8, 2014

Let me tell you something.  

Kenya is the scariest place that I have ever been. 

I live in New York City. 

I grew up in the Midwest, which is a close second. 

I've taught in the deepest depths of the bateyes in the Dominican Republic. 

I've worked in the mountains with the indigenous people of Colombia. 

I camped with the Bedouins for a summer.  

Nothing compares to this. 

Nothing.

It's not the lack of power in the home where I am staying. 

It's not the lack of clean water as far as the eye can see. 

It's not the Mosquitos, which whisper threats of malaria with every buzz past my ear.

It's not the latrine just outside my door, nothing more than a hole in the ground. 

It's not the threat of wild animals in the night, the pride of Africa. 

It's most certainly not the people. They are among the nicest, most hospitable, gentle, peaceful, and loving that I have met in my journeys.

The reason that Kenya is terrifying to me has to do with the extreme level of love that I have felt in being here.  

It's too much.

It's way, way too much. 

I arrived in kisumu on Friday morning and drove two hours to the orphanage.  Upon arrival at the orphanage all 180 children and 20 staff members waited for me at the gate. They lined each side of the street.  They sang.  They danced.  

My driver, the bishop of this tribe, looked at me, told me I was to look to my left and wave, and then he rolled my window down to a parade of people that I imagine Bono and Angelina Jolie see on a daily basis.

I exited the car, greeted each child, danced, sang, and smiled until my face hurt.

We proceeded to meet as a staff, more of the same.

We went to every classroom, more of the same. 

And everywhere I've gone ever since, more of the same. 

Women are greeting me with hugs and telling me that they love me.

Men are telling me that I am quite literally the answer to their prayers. 

I catch children are staring at me when i am not looking.  They must think I'm some sort of alien from another planet.

Everyone is serving my every need as though I dropped from heaven.

It's completely disarming. 

It's like swallowing the sun.

I can't take it.

I wanted to stop the car on that first day.

I want to stop every person in mid-sentence. 

I want to tell them, "listen. I came here to serve you.  I came here to learn from you. I came here to wash your feet.  I'm not the answer to your prayers.  You are the answer to mine.  Stop.  Stop all of this madness."

I want to tell them, "lower your expectations.  I'm mediocre at almost everything that I do.  You're falsely putting your hopes in me.  Stop. Stop all of this madness."

It's scary.

But it's the kind of scary that pulls me into the best version of myself.  It makes me want to be the person that they believe I am.  It makes me want to spend hours upon hours planning lessons to train the teachers, planning art projects for the children.

I don't want to disappoint them. I don't want to let them down. 

It's a heavy burden. 

It's like swallowing the sun. 

I can't take it. 

I didn't come here to be a hero. I'm not oprah. 

I came here to teach people that they their own heroes. Already. 

They have the power. 

I came to work with them, to bring that out. 

If I could answer their prayers, if I could dig the wells, if I could build the schools, I would be failing them.  What would happen if I leave?

I didn't come for that. I'm not that person. 

I can't swallow the sun.

But.

I will give my all while I am here. I will love fearlessly.  I will serve unconditionally.  I will pour myself into teaching.  I will hold up a mirror and expose inner strength.

I will help to build capacity.  I will help to empower.

My prayer is that that will be enough.