Transatlanticism

206 eyes stared at us, some filled with water that fell onto the cheeks beneath. Two more, 11-year-old Gideon’s, were stuck looking down at the ground, as he stood behind Sky like a miniature shadow, never stepping more than an arm’s length away from him. We were saying our final good-bye of the summer, and the waves of emotion hit hard and seemingly without remission. We rolled the windows down as the car pulled us away, multiple hands still reaching for ours to connect one last time. I felt thankful for the sunshine, a legitimate reason to put on my sunglasses and, conveniently, cover up my own tears.

Ndanu, Purity and Mutuku

We spent our final four days before our safari at Mukaa. As you pull through the gate, the compound is so beautiful and quaint you might believe you were at “It’s a Small World” from Disneyland instead of a Kenyan Children’s Home. Both Sky and I had spent time at Mukaa on our past trips; our hearts were full and refreshed as we reconnected with little ones whose faces line the walls of our apartment, whose precious lives we have lifted in prayer countless times. In their physical growth and spiritual warmth, we saw clear evidence of a God who has been gracious and faithful in answering those prayers. Even so, we did not feel ready when it came time to shake each of those 104 hands good-bye on Wednesday.

“Transatlanticism” is the name of my favorite song by one of my favorite bands. I’ve loved it since high school. It’s sweet, simple and sad, and that’s where I am right now. The singer laments:

“The distance is quite simply much too far for me to row, it seems farther than ever before. I need you so much closer.”

It’s hard being home, transitioning back into so much comfort and trying to make sense of everything we’ve experienced this summer. It was also hard being away, missing some of my best friends’ engagements and babies being born. But this is the reality of being a spiritual being in a physical world—the reality of leaving a too-big piece of your heart in a place that is literally an ocean and most of a continent away. You are always missing someone, never quite settled. It’s strange and painful and still, it’s a wonderful blessing to be able to experience it—to experience knowing and loving someone so much that their absence is felt.

Our biggest comfort during this very uncomfortable transition home is knowing that our good God is bigger than our physical limitations, bigger than the “transatlanticism” we’re experiencing. He is here in the US with us now, holding our hands as we process the ups and downs of the past two months. At the very same time, He’s in Kenya, guiding and guarding Gideon, Festus, Cynthia, Clinton, and every other dear heart we’ve parted with this summer.

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your father’s care. And even the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” –Matthew 10:29-31

God gave me this verse four years ago, as I returned from Kenya back to the US for the first time; it quickly became one of my favorites, and it continues to comfort me today. Today I am thankful that God doesn’t experience “transatlanticism,” and that someday, we won’t either! While we are already missing the children we’ve written about here, and many we haven’t, we rejoice in knowing that they are in loving hands, cared for by a God who knows every hair on their heads. We find solace in knowing that this beautiful God who loves them more than we ever possibly could has remained even though we have gone, and that one day we will all be worshiping in Heaven together, with no more oceans separating us.

^“ For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” –Romans 8:38-39

We don’t know if or when God will call us back to Kenya, but we do know the difficulty of being apart whether here or there. However, we are thankful that despite the separation we experience that is inherent with this physical world, we are never separated from the love of Christ. And that this is true for our brothers and sisters in Kenya, and for you even as you read these words. Our prayer as we shift back to life here in the states is that Jesus would be “so much closer,” and that we would continue to experience His presence, His peace, and His joy as we did in so tangibly in Kenya—and that you would too!

We so appreciate you walking alongside us this summer, for all the support you’ve provided and for taking the time to hear our hearts. We hope that you have been as blessed as we have by the work God is doing in Kenya. We are so grateful to have been a very small part of it, and that through your prayers and care for us, you have too.

Because My Father Died

At my feet, a dog laid lazily. Flies swarmed around the pup’s black snout as it whipped side-to-side. The aeronauts showed their skill as they piloted the changing landscape and the tiny air show continued in blazing heat.

Sitting in a chair on top of a dusty hill, I gazed over the land that Meshack owned. I envied this man and his two acres, his well and his house, his garden and his irrigation ditches. Reminiscent of the great American author, John Steinbeck, he proudly described his longing to be close to the land, “I love agriculture. Nothing is wasted; it’s all used. I love learning about how God made the world.”

“If a man owns a little property, that property is him, it’s part of him, and it’s like him. If he owns property only so he can walk on it and handle it and be sad when it isn’t doing well, and feel fine when the rains falls on it, that property is him, and some ways he’s bigger because he owns it.” Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

We drifted in and out of conversation until with sudden conviction he said, “I’m here because my father died.” The words floated to my ears as I watched with waning interest the cloud of flies around the mutt. The dust felt dry as I slowly absorbed what was being said. “I’m here because my father died.” Suddenly my mind became sharp as the abrasive truth of the words snapped me back to reality.

I watched him sit in his white plastic throne as he ruminated: “I grew up in a mud shack just like my neighbors and friends. It’s only because my father died that I got to go to the children’s home.” He leaned forward in his chair and continued more intently, “It’s because of trauma that the children need the home. It’s also why the children need to know that they are in the homes for a purpose, that there is a reason their mothers and fathers are dying and they’re alone. They need to know that God has them there for a very specific purpose.”

Meshack recounted how the Mulango Children’s Home took him in after his widowed mother ran away with his youngest sibling. He was left alone, but because of the children’s home he was able to go to school and eventually graduate Moffet Bible College. Refusing to relocate to the city, as many up-and-coming pastors do, Meshack remains a pastor of a “village” church in desperate need of the gospel. He is now married to Winnie, the manager of the Kitui Baby Home and regularly visits Mulango to encourage the children. He just recently bought land and built his house. We were standing on his land when he proclaimed, “I look at where I was and where I am now and I’m amazed. It’s only God.”

For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope. Jeremiah 29.11

Meshack’s story is God’s story, and it’s only one of several that I could tell. I could tell of Festus, manager of Mulango, and his journey of abandonment, rescue, and redemption, from orphanage child to orphanage manager. There is a cloud of witnesses surrounding the Mulango Children’s Home, speaking of God’s power and love through impossible circumstances.

Ash and Sky planting trees at Kitui Baby Home

It Rains Every Time We Do Laundry/Easy Living

Can I be honest for a minute?

We’re tired. Physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually. We have traveled so many miles in such a short amount of time. We have been consistently dirty, disheveled and even discouraged. It’s not all sweet reunions and happy tears.

After six hours of driving, including multiple stops and minor car troubles, we arrived at Mahiga Children’s Home on a rainy Monday night. I felt like I had reached my limit. My dirty hair was tangled; I hadn’t seen my brush in two days. I couldn’t tell if the tops of my feet were tan or just dusty. Between barking dogs, loud music from neighboring homes, and the early rising of the children, we got little sleep that first night. Sky and I rose, groggy, on Tuesday morning and washed our clothes for the first time in almost a week. As we finished, ready to hang them on the lines, the sun disappeared behind dark gray clouds. “Of course,” I thought.

Sky and Ash out on home visits

On Thursday the manager, David, and the assistant manager, Gladys, took us on five home visits. Five guardians for the children at Mahiga welcomed us into their homes. I have almost spent a collective nine months in Kenya and have done dozens of home visits, but they never get easier. Shaking hands worn by decades of work and sitting in the sunlight falling through the cracks between the wooden slat walls wears on the heart and tugs at the mind. One of the parents we visited this week will remain with me long after we get home.

After visiting the first three rural homes, we drove into town, already heavy, having stepped into and out of the reality of poverty a few times. Our fourth stop was a small, dark room, barely big enough for the grown man living inside, the man named Julius. Julius is tall and dark with bright eyes. He cobbles and shines shoes for a living, so the scent of shoe polish hangs thick in his room. There is no electricity, no running water, no window. Julius is HIV-positive and lost his wife to AIDS four years ago. His primary-school-aged daughter lives at Mahiga, as Julius struggled to care for her after his wife passed. With a Seattle Seahawks cap on his head and a half-moon smile gracing his face, he explained to us that God is good, and that he practices “easy living”—taking the challenges of his health and grief one day at a time, and thanking God for each day as it comes. We left quiet and convicted.

How embarrassing to have been so offended by those clouds a few days ago.

No one likes to be uncomfortable. A few days ago I realized what I had thought to be a bug bite on my cheek is actually ringworm. Sky and I are stuck sharing a towel for the rest of the summer since, over the course of so many transitions, one mysteriously disappeared. But these minor discomforts—dirty clothes, little sleep, mosquito bites—are seriously small potatoes. God has been so good to us. Even beyond our material blessing, our health, the dear friends and family that we get to miss, it is an indescribable gift to be here to share the joys and the sorrows of the staff, children, and guardians of these homes. We are serving a God who is good. A God who is good in the middle of AIDS, poverty, loss and every struggle on every side of every ocean. We don’t always understand it, but we know it to be true.

“But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation.
I will sing the Lord’s praise, for He has been good to me.”
–Psalm 13:5-6

It really has rained almost every time we’ve done laundry. And already, how quickly we’ve forgotten to be thankful for the rain, as we were at Ogada. And not just for the rain, but for the bug bites, the car troubles, the tears, all the beautiful little pieces of what it is to be here in this country that we love.

Do You Dream?

When I left Kaptagat four years ago, all I had to hold onto were my dreams of it. I left a fledging home with thirty children and minimal staff, but my dreams were filled with grandeur: many happy, healthy children running around a luscious, flourishing compound, playing games. Uncertain if I would ever return, my dreams became the most concrete remnant of a place a world away.

I walked a lot while at Kaptagat in 2011. I walked to schools, to matatus (public transportation in Kenya), to shops, to homes. The most important walk I took was with my close friend Cosmas Lagat, the dedicated social worker at the Kaptagat Children’s Home. We had discovered two brothers in a local primary school who were lacking proper clothing and food. It was apparent that they were suffering from malnutrition and so we determined to visit their home to investigate further. As we walked together with these two brothers, Festus and Ian, through the dim, gloomy Kaptagat Forest, our concern grew for the well being of the boys and family. We stumbled upon their home, greeted by weathered mud huts and broken wooden fences, by poverty and filth, and by HIV/AIDS. Out of their poverty they gave us what little they had in the form of chai (Kenyan tea mixed with milk). Out of our wealth we gave them a few small food items. It was a quiet, somber trudge home. We struggled with leaving the brothers behind, convinced that something had to be done.

I usually walked with Cosmas, which was difficult because he is a tall, lanky Kalenjin whose legs carried him much farther and faster than mine. We often walked the same well tread path regardless of our destination. On the side of the path was a dilapidated mud hut with thatched roof, usually accompanied by two small girls in tattered clothes and bare feet. They would wave as we walked by. On one of our walks we stopped instead of passing by. We brought some sweets for the girls and food for the family. As we talked, we learned that Cynthia and Sylvia were being cared for by a single mother, struggling to make ends meet, struggling to pay for school, to provide food, shelter and clothing. When we left, we felt something had to be done.

On July 22nd, 2015, Ashley and I pulled up to the Kaptagat entrance. Memories came rushing back as Ashley and I tried to contain our emotions. As the familiar gate swung open, so did all the feelings of love that we had for this place. Tears flooded our eyes and overflowed onto our cheeks; we were home. The open gate revealed a crowd of children and staff. The car could go no further, we were blocked in! Jettisoning the vehicle and joining the masses, we stood in total wonder as the voices of the children began to rise in melodious song and we were adorned with wreaths of fir. It was impossible not to cry as we walked through the aisle created by the crowd. We poured into the cafeteria and the children choired greetings, the boys marched in the battalions; Ashley and I sat in awe.

My dreams were put to shame. They were totally insufficient and fell short of what was happening at Kaptagat. I sat in the cafeteria, stunned and humbled, as a small hand grabbed mine. I looked over and heard “Sky, do you remember me?” It was Cynthia! She was here. “My sister Sylvia is here too. Do you remember when you brought me sweets?” Lifting her up into my embrace, I suddenly looked around. Intention in my eyes, I landed on a healthy, well-dressed boy. He was looking at me with familiarity. He walked over, “My name is Festus, and this is my brother Ian.” They were both bigger than I remembered and I smiled as they recounted our long walk to their forest home.

Festus, Sky, Ian and Ash

It’s a rare occasion when reality shames our dreams, but I felt that four years of dreams fell utterly short of three days of reality at Kaptagat. Overwhelmed with thankfulness to God, I imagined how short my dreams of Heaven must fall and I realized that the best of man’s dreams falls utterly short of God’s reality for us in Heaven:

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things have passed away.” Revelation 21.4

When There Is No Water

“Why do you love such a dry, dusty place?”

The manager, Erick, asked me with a laugh. The question caught me off guard. I haven’t loved Ogada for the droughts, the trips to the river for water, or the bucket baths when the water tanks are empty. It’s not so much the place that I love. It’s the children I’ve known and loved, the ones I carry with me in my thoughts and prayers.

But the manager was right. Ogada hadn’t seen rain in a month when we arrived. The stress of having to care for 100 children with limited water was rising. When there is no water, it is difficult to bathe and to do wash. Floors, feet, and clothing get covered in dust every day. The gardens die. Spirits fall.

I began sponsoring a 7th grader named Clinton in 2010 after I visited Ogada for the first time. His sharp features, quick wit and theatrical personality separated him from the crowd. Over the years, through visits and correspondence, our relationship grew. He wrote to me about going to day school for secondary when he had finished his primary education and expressed his dreams of being a doctor; I shared news of my changing jobs and marriage to Sky in 2012. But better still, I was able to encourage Clinton in his faith, to send Bible verses to him, to pray, not only for him, but for his older siblings and grandmother as well.

We were driving to visit one of the secondary school boys at boarding school when Erick made a quick phone call. I only caught bits of what he was saying in Swahili to a stranger on the phone. “Habari sho-sho?”—How are you grandmother? “Na kuja, asante sana.”—I’m coming, thank you very much. Upon hanging up he asked, “How would you like to meet the granny of Clinton?” We told him we would love to meet her, and agreed to stop to pick up a few small groceries to thank her for having us.

Edna, Clinton’s grandmother, is 84 years old. She was married with 10 children, but her husband and many of her children have died, leaving little ones behind. With only a small vegetable garden and one dairy cow, Edna absorbed the responsibility of caring for many of her grandchildren after their parents passed. Clinton was one of them. Edna told us the story of Clinton’s parents, showing us their photos, and sharing that they both passed away in the 1990’s when Clinton was still small. She shared what a blessing Ogada Children’s Home has been, not only for Clinton, but to her family.

Edna, Ash and Sky

When she was told that Sky and I have been sponsoring Clinton for years, Edna was moved. Immediately her eyes filled with water and thanks spilled from her lips, drenching us. We were so humbled to have this beautiful saint, still caring for three of her small grandchildren today, pouring out blessing over us and thanking God for ordaining us to be the ones to care for Clinton through sponsorship. It was one of the most powerful, God-filled moments I have experienced.

Sponsorship is vital to these children. Their sponsor is more than just a check in the mail or a name on a page; many of these children call their sponsors “Mom’ and “Dad”—and mean it – as they are the ones who are providing for them. But sponsors don’t just provide school fees and three warm meals a day, they provide hope of a life so filled with Christ’s love, that, like Edna, it overflows out and covers the dusty ground so desperate for water.

“Whoever believes in me as the Scripture has said, streams of living water will flow from within him.” –John 7:38

We took a walk with the children on Sunday after church. Just before we got back to the compound, rain drops began falling. By the time we reached the compound gate, it was pouring. Seriously! Imagine how we rejoiced with the children, dancing and singing, “Kuna maji!”—There is water! But even more important than rain, is the living water we have seen evidenced in the lives of the children here at Ogada. This past week I was so proud and so thankful to see Clinton, now a senior in high school who towers over my husband, leading worship for the small children and preaching the gospel during devotions. Kuna maji! Praise the Lord!

Ash, Clinton and Sky

If you are interested in sponsoring a child through Chariots for Hope, visit http://chariotsforhope.org/child-sponsorship/

Moved

Oh Lord, our Lord how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory above the heavens, from lips of children and infants ordained praise. Psalms 8.1-2

Our faces carried the weight of over two-hundred hellos and goodbye’s as we drove across a narrow, forever winding road. On the side of a mountain, adjacent to a cliff, the roadway revealed a panorama of the Rift Valley, a place famous for the Maasai tribe of Kenya and also its immense size and beauty. Peeking out of our boxed-in car windows, we would occasionally see a baboon wandering in the dirt. Beyond them, we strained to see across an unending valley, and we wondered what kind of magnificent God could create all of this. Moved by the majesty of God displayed in His creation, we stared.

Victor, Gladwell, Nancy, Ash and Sky

The iron gate creaked open revealing a place of familiarity for Ashley. We had arrived at Maai Mahiu, a place that Ashley had been to numerous times before, but I had never been. A woman with kind eyes greeted us and welcomed us into her house. Moments later, a tall man entered, welcoming us and inviting us to eat with them. We spent the next two nights with Victor, the manager of Maai Mahiu, and his wife, Nancy and their two daughters Gladwell and Abigail, enjoying food and conversation. More than that, we were filled up by the love Victor and Nancy displayed in their relationship with Gladwell who has both Spina Bifida and Hydrocephalus. Victor’s patience, diligence and genuine care for Gladwell revealed intimately the beauty of the relationship of a Father and child, and pointed us back to the majesty and goodness of our God. Even after only 36 hours, we felt like good friends and struggled to say goodbye yet again.

Many late nights, early mornings and wonderful conversations with staff and kids have brought us here. Just hours after leaving Maai Mahiu, we arrived at the Mogogosiek Baby Home, a place renowned for its beauty. And with sincere joy in our hearts, we said hello again. Priscillah, one of the longest tenured managers of any Chariots homes, gave us a tour of the compound. As we strolled down a green hill, the sound of laughter became louder. We saw suddenly, as we turned the corner, dozens of little children swinging, running around in circles, gliding down the slide, climbing the monkey bars, and enjoying the soft grass. When they saw us, the shouted “Mzungu!” and sprinted up the hill, grabbing us and using our bodies as a jungle gym.

Sky and Cynthia

We went in to see the younger babies and were introduced to Cynthia and Sheila, twin baby girls about 18 months old. Priscillah explained how they came to the baby home. The twin’s mother was a young girl when she became pregnant by a casual relationship with a co-worker. After giving birth prematurely, the woman secretly snatched her frail babies from the incubator room, and ran away from the hospital. She gave the twins to an old lady that she worked for and disappeared. Fatherless and motherless, and unable to be properly fed and cared for, the twins came close to dying of malnutrition. The old lady brought the twins, weighing 2.3kgs and 2.1kgs, to the baby home, where they were taken in and cared for. Slowly, they were nursed back to health. Now, the twins live a happy life, eating three nutritious meals a day, playing with other age-mates, and cared for by loving people. I was holding a healthy, happy Cynthia as Priscillah narrated the story.

From lips of children and infants [He] ordained praise

During the morning devotions, we sang songs of praise with the children. Priscillah shared Psalms 8:1-2 and encouraged us to consider the majesty of God. We felt moved to consider how God declared that “from lips of children and infants [He] ordained praise.” Similar to the Rift Valley and Victor and Nancy’s love, the children’s praises moved us to consider God’s majesty. God’s word is true and it was proven again by the songs of children. When we consider all that God has done, we’re in awe at the magnitude of God’s love for us.

A Still, Small Voice

We were walking back to our room after helping the children with their homework, laughing about the first grader, Teresia, who had applied white chalk dust to her dark brown cheek like blush—an attempt to look like a mzungu, like us. In an instant, everything went black. The power was out and all I could see was a faint tree line along the edge of the property. I instinctively grabbed for Schuyler’s hand, and we baby-stepped blindly along, slow and unsure.

Teresia

During my last trip to Kenya in 2011, I was given the Kamba tribe name Nzilani—meaning “on the way,” since I had come and gone three times in about 15 months. In the dark, a tiny voice called from the girl’s dorm: “Auntie Nzilani! Good night!” Though this little one couldn’t see us, she had heard us talking, and knew that we were just outside her window. And though I’m sure it wasn’t her intention, her voice helped us to get our bearings and acted as a guide.

“The watchman opens the gate for him and the sheep listen to his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.”
–John 10:3

Our time at Kangundo has gone too quickly. Though this was our first time at this home, it did not take long for us to become grafted into life here, working in the office with the manager, David, and assistant manager, Tabitha, during the day, and playing hand games and football with the children after school before devotions. A day or two ago, a little boy called Sky “mzungu” (“white person”) and an 8th grader, Sharon, corrected him, saying “No! Not mzungu! Muendo!” (Sky’s Kamba name meaning “love,” given to him at Mbooni as he is so loved there.)

As we anticipate another tearful good-bye tonight—our second in the span of a week—I am struck by the weight of the unknown. It is always difficult to leave the homes, though the children will be well cared for by the staff here. It’s baffling how these kids can weasel their way deep down into the roots of your heart with their jokes, stories and games in just seven short days. We know from experience how we will miss them, and we find ourselves burdened with their struggles: Mary, with a broken leg, Thomas, who has been plagued with migraines since we arrived, and three small brothers (Baron, 1st grade, Kioko, preschool, and one-year-old Wambua), recently admitted after being abandoned four weeks ago, still transitioning into the daily routines of the home.

It can be such a struggle to trust our Good Shepherd in the unknown, especially in the darkness of this broken world. But we know our Shepherd’s voice; He calls us by name—not only us, but each of these precious children! God has told us in Psalm 10:14 that He defends the orphan. In Matthew 11:28 Jesus promises rest and an easing of our burdens if we only come to Him. We know from Matthew 18:12-14 that our Shepherd seeks out even one sheep who has gone astray. We are now challenged to daily return to these promises, to believe that our God is still God even in the unknown, and to trust our Shepherd’s still, small voice to guide us through the darkness.

There Is Red Dirt Embedded In My Toes

The red wouldn’t wash out as I scrubbed vigorously. The dust had somehow penetrated my shoes and socks and was now firmly embedded in my toes. I stared, realizing for the first time that I was in Kenya and that the stubborn soil was a blessing.

Do you ever have those moments when you are more aware of something than you have ever been before? When I saw the red soil on my toes, I had one of those moments which caused me to be thankful to God for being in Kenya.

We left Nairobi last Friday and traveled to the Mbooni Children’s Home, a journey that took about 5 hours, including traffic and car troubles. We arrived just in time for afternoon chai with our new friends then watched nervously as the car (and our link to familiarity) drove away in a cloud of dust.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.”

The first few days at Mbooni went by with such velocity and intensity that all of us on the team felt exhausted by day three from sensory overload and little sleep. Ashley and I wondered how we would be able to continue at such a pace for the entirety of the summer. But the Lord provided for us in our weakness just as He did for Paul in his distress when He said: “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” (2 Cor 12:9)

We settled into a rhythm of work at Mbooni, with the interns doing assessments of the children while we worked on assessing the general health of the home. Our hosts were very generous with their time and energy, going above and beyond their typical duties to help us complete our tasks. We all took turns “preaching” during evening devotions and enjoyed the sweet sounding voices of praise coming from the children. It didn’t take long for us to learn more about why some of the children come to the children’s home. We were even able to visit the home of the guardian of a little girl named Zipporah.

Zipporah playing at Mbooni Children’s Home

Zipporah is one of three children. When their parents died, they began living on a small plot of land with their grandmother. She was unable to support Zipporah and her two siblings, so Zipporah was admitted into Mbooni Children’s Home. It was such a blessing to see Zipporah’s pride as she introduced us to her family, and even more, to see how she is thriving in the Children’s Home after coming from such difficult circumstances.

The children at Mbooni recite during their devotions: “God is good all the time, all the time, God is good and that is why I’m alive.” What a testimony for these children to be preaching this truth to us. Each day we are here, we are continually reminded of God’s mercy and grace. Like the stubborn red dirt on our feet, we pray that this confidence in God’s goodness will remain with us. Bwana asifiwe! (Praise God!)

With Love,
Sky and Ash

Twende!

We made it to Kenya! Bwana asifiwe! (Praise the Lord!)

After a day and a half of travel, we arrived late last night with our six interns intact and every piece of luggage accounted for! We have so enjoyed these past four days of orientation with our team, getting to know them and helping to prepare them for life at the Children’s Homes. We have already witnessed God’s hand at work, watching the team interact with one another honestly and graciously. We can clearly see God’s faithfulness in bringing this particular group together.

The Chariots for Hope internship has been appropriately named “Twende!” which means “Let’s go!” in Swahili. After four days of education and travel, we are all feeling very ready to go and dive into life at the homes. We leave tomorrow morning with Melissa, Cassidy and Alex for Mbooni Children’s Home. Sky and I have both been to Mbooni and cannot wait for sweet reunions with precious staff and children we have known and loved. The other half of our group, Abbey, Brianne, and Alissa will first be traveling to Maai Mahiu Children’s Home. We will meet up with them in a few weeks.

(Left to right) Cassidy, Brianne, Abbey, Ali, Melissa, Ash, Sky and Alex

Please be praying for our interns’ transitions into life at the homes! Culture shock is very real. It takes a few days to get into a rhythm and find your niche. Pray that they would be open to what God has for them during their time here in Kenya and that He would strengthen their hands and hearts for the work ahead.

You can also pray that Sky and I would have increased wisdom and discernment, as we so want to lead our team well. Our personal goal this summer is to pour ourselves out to be filled with more of Christ, which is why we named our blog after John 3:30, “He must become greater; I must become less.” Please pray for opportunities for us to grow into Him and out of ourselves, both individually and as a couple.

Thank you for walking alongside us on this journey! Your prayers are felt and appreciated. Mungu akubariki! (God bless you!)

With Love,
Sky and Ash