Last month I traveled to Kenya with Mercy House. I had grand visions of posting every day during my trip — but spotty (at best) WiFi made that impossible. So I revised my plans and took notes for all the posts I’d write as soon as I got home — but my heart or my head or my something has made that also impossible. This post is the first thing I’ve written since returning less than two weeks ago, so it’s a bit rough. Thank you for sitting with me, anyway, as I work out some of what I saw and learned in Africa.
As we stood in line at the airport, we took turns filling out luggage tags, glancing at the Homeland Security guy and his dog, and asking each other what we were supposed to do next. It turns out getting 15 people with nearly 60 bags checked in for an international flight is, well, just about as difficult as it sounds.
But we were excited, and even hearing that our flight was delayed didn’t faze us much. (Learning our carry-on bags might have a weight limit did, however, as most of us were packing a week’s worth of snacks in our backpacks.) We worked together and breathed deeply and smiled as we figured out how to get all the right bags on the right plane.
It was easy to be patient with the luggage situation, I think, because half of the bags weren’t ours. Those suitcases and duffel bags belonged to Mercy House, and they were full of supplies for the girls and babies we were going to visit. No matter how confusing the process seemed, it was hard to stay worked up about doing what was required to transport things that would help people. After all, it’s why we were there.
***
When we drove through the gate and around the corner, I gazed up at the ivy-covered brick house. The irritating tears I’d been holding back all day burst forth again, slipping down my cheeks before I could even register their source. It was our first day in country, and we’d only begun playing the Song Lyrics game — the one I delighted in well past the point I was entertaining anyone else in the slightest, the one that kept us laughing-not-crying during a lot of Moments-with-a-capital-M over the next several days.
If I’d already dedicated a corner of my brain to constantly search the song lyrics archives, at that moment I’m sure I would have inappropriately thought of — and then sung — a bit of the Loverboy chorus: “Almost paradise, we’re knocking on heaven’s door. Almost paradise, how could we ask for more . . .”
Paradise? {A love song?!} Inappropriate, given where we were and why we were there and why anyone was there at all. Still, I won’t deny that my first thought as my eyes took in the colors and the trees and the front porch was, “This must seem like paradise to them.”
We’d driven to this haven straight from the slum, and the dichotomy was too much for my eyes, for my heart, for my brain to compute. They go from THERE to HERE? And then they go BACK THERE?
Too much. It was too much.
***
After we ate a lunch of food I nearly recognized (but not quite) and all the Coke products our exhausted bodies could handle, our group was given a tour of the house. Again, my brain felt like a broken record as my eyes, blurry from exhaustion and confusion and more of those tears, took in the warmth of this home and the chill in my heart as I saw everything they lacked. Well, every [material] thing. Though I’ve heard some of their stories or stories of girls like them, I realize I can’t possibly grasp what intangibles they lack.
But I could see their bare bookshelves.
In the one post I was able to share on my own blog during the trip, I confessed — with no little amount of shame — that I wasn’t moved by the babies at Mercy House. I’m not a monster; I know they are cute. I held a few at various points during our visit, and I smiled and cooed and told their mamas how beautiful they were. Because they are. They are miracles and beautiful and testimony to the work God is doing and every reason I left my own babies for ten of the longest days of my life.
But those bare bookshelves moved me more than the babies. I’m crying as I think about them right now, in fact. But probably not for the reason you think.
***
It’s no secret that I am a book nerd. My first job as a teenager was at our local library, and my current job includes writing books. (Fine, just one book so far, but the plan is that it’s the first rather than the only.) My favorite thing to do is read — to relax, to learn, to be entertained, to get lost, to hide. Since I came home nearly two weeks ago, I’ve read more than a dozen novels, hiding in the electronic pages of my Kindle. Electronic because paper books are too close to the notebook I scribbled in, with plans to share all the Big Things I was learning there — but can’t seem to force out of my fingers or my mouth when deadlines loom (and pass) or friends ask, “How was your trip?”
I love books, but that really has nothing to do with the way I latched onto those shelves and the empty space that I just knew needed to be filled. Filled with books, all the books I don’t need anymore or maybe the ones I intended to read but never got around to or possibly the books in the discount bin or the ones on sale before school starts. Those shelves are so empty, and they need to be filled. I need to fill them!
***
It’s been said by some that I’m overly sensitive. That I take things too personally and I get too invested and I cry too much and why do I cry so much and I need to calm down. That you can’t save them all and it’s not that bad and it’s just how the world is and why do you read it if it’s just going to make you cry. It’s been said by some.
It’s been said by me.
I can’t be moved by those babies.
I can’t be moved by those babies because if I’m moved one bit, then every bit of me will fall to pieces. I can’t look them in the eye because I can’t handle it. I can’t wrap my mind around it — not because my brain isn’t able, but because my heart isn’t. I know myself enough to know that if I face those girls and those babies and those stories and that part of the world head on, I won’t be able to stand up. If I start crying about the babies, I may never stop, and how is that helping anyone?
So I keep thinking about those bookshelves and how many books I could ship to Africa. I keep remembering that I never asked if they really even need the books and that we’re not supposed to hurt with our help and that I was supposed to be there for the babies.
And in the split second that I’m brave enough (when the deadline I flew past is holding my face and staring into my eyes and demanding an answer), I think about how all the books in the world won’t solve a thing and about how the 15 bags full of supplies aren’t what they need, either.
Do NOT, for one second, misunderstand me. The clothes and money and books and diapers and WHATEVER it was you gave that we carried is VITAL to the healing and living those girls and their babies are doing right now. But what my heart is barely beginning to understand, after walking into their home and holding their babies and looking into their faces as they shared their dreams, is that what the young mothers living at Rehema House in Kenya need most is the thing we all need: hope.
We all need hope.
They need hope that someone will hear their stories and care. They need hope that someone will care enough to buy earrings or send money or donate clothes or get on a plane. They need hope that someone will join their cries to God, will whisper their names, will remember them tomorrow.
I need hope that my journey was not for nothing, that God will use my time and my experience to accomplish even a small part of His purpose. I need hope that I’m not a broken person for being more moved by bookshelves than babies, that even my admission of this whole thing will make a difference to someone. I need hope that what’s being done in Kenya, and in all the dark corners of the world, makes a difference, that it’s more than a drop in the bucket, that one person really can start an avalanche of change.
We all need hope.
Don’t we? We desperately, deeply, need hope that we can make a difference, that the worst things are redeemable, that God can turn ashes into beauty. Hope that we are enough, even when we are not what we — or others — expected. Hope that saying yes to God is never a waste of time or money or heart, and hope that He will finish the work He’s doing when it’s the exact right time.
I’ve read some about hope and thought about it some as well. I’ve highlighted the words that say hope is the one thing we cannot live without. I’ve considered that and been both devastated and encouraged by that. I wish I had more coherent thoughts, more thorough explanations or compelling exhortations, more resolutions or ideas or plans. I don’t. But I have hope.
And even when I brace myself and think about those babies and all of the pain that hovers in the background of my memories of a trip that was too short and too long, I have enough hope to share.
If you would like to share hope with impoverished women of the world — including teen mamas and their babies in Kenya — please do not hesitate, do not pass go, and do head straight to Mercy House. The work they are doing is real and necessary and incredible. I’m praying (and hoping!) I find words to describe it better for you in the near future. Until then, you can read about how (in)courage has partnered with Mercy House over the years. I’ve been re-reading those stories myself. They are beautiful . . . and full of hope . . . and helping me open my shaking heart to babies as well as bookshelves.
The sunrise photo is courtesy of Darren Pedroza, my new friend, fellow traveler and talented photographer.
Leave a Comment
Bev @ Walking Well With God says
Mary,
Like you, I am a very sensitive soul. I can cry at sentimental commercials. I work with orphans in the Middle East. Like you, there’s a part of myself that I find I’m holding back because if I look too hard, I will see it in their eyes. They desperately need hope. Their living conditions – well we can’t even begin to fathom it here in the States. What they really need to know is that someone cares…someone cares about their story….someone cares whether they look at tomorrow with despair or with hope. Giving them a way up and out is literally throwing them a lifeline. Oh how I wish I could get on a plane and hug them all…but the way our world is right now – I can’t. I can still tell them I love them via Skype. I can tell them there are people here who DO actually care. Jesus loves them and yes, there IS hope. Bless you and Mercy House in the hope and love you are giving…the world needs so much more!
Blessings,
Bev
Michele Morin says
Bev, as I read this, I was thinking about your sensitive heart, and knew that I would find you here in the comments. Thank you for all that you bring to this community.
An says
Thank you, Bev, for that beautiful, God-given, sensitive heart you have, dear sister π
Mary Carver says
Bev, thank you for understanding! Yes, just knowing that someone sees them and hears their story is huge, I think. <3
Kelli Mcknight says
Thank you for sharing a view from the inside. I totally get where you are coming from and appreciate your honesty and courage. Hope is truly the anchor to which to cling.
Mary Carver says
Yessss, an anchor is the perfect metaphor for our hope in Christ.
Carrie says
Thank you for sharing! Your words put into words what I can’t find words in my heart to say. Hope. Such a powerful word – wherever you are and whatever you do … hope is needed and yet so difficult for many to find. We all need to say “yes” to God more than we do, and I thank you for saying “yes” to what He asked you to do. Don’t stop!
Mary Carver says
Yes, Carrie, hope is so powerful, isn’t it? It’s funny you say I put something into words that you couldn’t – because I felt the same way when I read someone else’s article today. Sara Hagerty wrote about hope in a devastating and breathtakingly honest way that resonated with me. Seems like maybe we all need hope – and each other to share it!
Pearl @ Look Up Sometimes says
Mary… I don’t have the right words…maybe just two: thank you. Still processing. But it’s given me hope that I’m not the monster I feared I was. Sometimes the heart goes into hiding…behind loud, too cheerful, books, whatever…how to find it and coax it out to be of use to others in the degrees of pain it will require? Perhaps it takes only one brave soul to pioneer the way…
An says
Pearl, thank you for your wonderful and gracious words…sometimes it does only take one soul, one yes π
Mary Carver says
I am sure you are not a monster at all. And “still processing” are the two words I’m using a lot lately. π
Shelly says
THIS. Sometimes, as much as it makes us feel like and criticize ourselves as “heartless” beings, we hesitate to open our hearts because we know all too well how much it will take out of us. I had this conversation recently with a friend who has struggled with not “being able to feel the same sympathy for all the terrorist attacks as I do for Orlando” (she lives in Orlando). I realized in that conversation that, like you with the babies in Kenya, I can’t face some situations and people because I know, deep in my heart, how much I care and how much it will hurt to care.
This isn’t about not wanting to care; it’s about caring so deeply that you just cannot emotionally carry it.
In my conversation with my friend, I told her how I’ve gone too far the other way in some situations, to where I DO feel but I have to mentally “shut off” the compassion tap…and anyone who knows me knows how deeply I feel, how “personally” I take things, and how that well of compassion and empathy is so deep, and I’ve only been dipping little bits.
What I’ve also realized lately is that, at least in my case, God is calling me to give even when it’s going to destroy me emotionally, because he gave me that compassion and empathy for a reason. He has been working in my life to strengthen my relationship with him, work through my abandonment issues, and teach me selflessness. It’s difficult (especially as a 30-year-old single woman with the heart of a mom) but he doesn’t give us compassion for no reason. π
This was a BEAUTIFUL post. I’m actually asking a friend of mine (who has friends in Kenya and has been there twice) if he knows of this house. It sounds like an amazing place to experience.
An says
Shelly, thank you for these words that speak so much to my heart. I understand what you mean by giving until there is nothing left, to pour out all, to “hurt to care.”-its His grace living in us that we can only say yes to because He is bringing His purpose through it. Keeping being the beautiful you that the Lord has made, letting Him refine you. I’m reminded that He is faithful and will never let us be consumed because of His compassion, He is greater than our feelings, and because of this, we can, like the author of Lamentations, have hope. My heart is with you, praying…:)
Mary Carver says
Shelly, thank you so much for understanding what my heart was trying to say! This is something I was already wrestling with before my trip and now it’s just about all I can think about – even though I can’t find all the right words to explain it. I’m grateful God continues to push us into growing closer to Him and closer to the women He created us to be (even when it brings on all the tears and tied tongues!).
Linda Seppa Salisbury says
Oh Mary, thank you! Thank you for your authenticity and courage to make the trip
and then untangle the learnings as you returned home. Your words brought back a
flood of memories as I lived in El Salvador and saw families living in boxes during the rainy season.
Your words brought back memories of Renya, a small girl living in someone’s garage, which
was in fact a luxury place to be. When we took Renya for an outing we wanted to get her a “treat.” We,
in all of our well-meaning ignorance, imagined she might ask for a doll. Instead she requested only a loaf of bread,
her own small loaf. And then she saved most of it for her family. That moment is etched into my mind and heart.
That time in El Salvador changed me just as your time at Mercy House is changing you. As you share your experience
as hard as it was, you help all of us to open our eyes and soften our hearts. Your words help us to hear God’s whisper
in our own hearts asking us, “And what would you do to love my children everywhere?”
God Bless!
Mary Carver says
Oh wow, just a loaf of bread. That is heartbreaking and eye-opening. Thank you for sharing your story and heart with us!
Crystal Storms says
Before I go off to check out the work Mercy House is doing, I wanted to say, Mary, that your words impacted me. They reminded me that the hope I have in Jesus is more vital to my survival than the necessities that sustain my body. And while books, diapers, food, clothing are only material things, they are given with the hope that they will reveal Jesus in us.
Mary Carver says
Thank you, Crystal. And YES – those material things are not the hope we need, but they reveal Jesus. That’s exactly what I was trying to say!
An says
Mary, how I praise the Lord for these vulnerable words that you shared. Thank you for going and being Christ’s hope, for shedding tears, being the sensitive person the Lord made you to be for those at Kenya House. Thank you for helping me to work out some things.
I understand why the books; I am sensitive too and find myself not able to handle somethings too some days. It takes time to unravel and process it all lest we get overwhelmed by it all. Like you said “We desperately, deeply, need hope that we can make a difference, that the worst things are redeemable, that God can turn ashes into beauty. Hope that we are enough, even when we are not what we β or others β expected. Hope that saying yes to God is never a waste of time or money or heart, and hope that He will finish the work Heβs doing when itβs the exact right time.” We need each other in the unraveling that the Lord does so that He can take the unraveled knots and embroider the threads of our lives into His masterpiece. One small baby stop, baby stitch at a time.
Its so hard to hope some days and perhaps that is why Paul said that perseverance leads to character and character to hope. Our hearts break in the openness and vulnerable and it seems hard to hope in those broken spaces, but His love helps us to keep being open thorough hope. I don’t know, but ask the Holy Spirit to teach me so that the hurts teach, inspire, and not hinder. Mary, keep being the beautiful who the Lord needs you to be, that His fruits are seen as they already are.
May we each keep persevering in the hard, being open and vulnerable to the Lord and all the seeds He wants to plant, each stitch He wants to sew, and each masterpeice that He wants to create π
Mary Carver says
I like how you said we need each other in the unraveling. Yes, that is so very true, An! Thank you for your kind and encouraging words today.
Rebecca L Jones says
I love books! I hate to see children messing them up and to think something we take for granted is unheard of in many places. Goodwill had a sale every year at one of our malls. You’d be surprised how many Bibles and childrens Bibles too and too. I could spend a few dollars and have to have help carrying out shopping bags, I gave them to lots of people. Of couese, we all need hope, and what better hope than Jesus. Don’t worry about crying and being sensitive, my concern is people who aren’t.
Lisa-Jo Baker says
Oh Mary! This post is so powerful and honest and true and I just get it 100%! I’ve had similar experiences – wrecked more by the everyday parts of my life that I take for granted than the shocking realities I’m walking through in another place or country or story. Thank you for this beautifully honest and telling invitation to admit what’s going on in our hearts and how Jesus uses all of it and all of us. Love you friend!
Mary Carver says
Thanks, LJ. I’m so grateful He uses all of it and all of us!
Shannan Martin says
I loved this glimpse into your trip and your heart. It’s so very strange to be in such a BIG moment and feel as though our reactions don’t measure up. I have been there. But God moves in his own time. It’s obvious Kenya has a piece of your heart now and I can’t wait to see what God does with that.
Mary Carver says
Thank you, Shannan!
Beth Williams says
Mary,
I am a sensitive person also. I can cry at the drop of a hat. Truly understand not wanting to look into the eyes of the mothers of babies. I would want to bring them all home with me. Everyone needs to have hope to hold onto. We need assurances that someone hears our stories and cares for us.
Blessings π
Jennifer Frisbie says
Mary,
I’ve been waiting for these words. Not because I’ve been anxious to hear how your trip went, but because I wanted so desperately to know if you felt the way I felt after returning from Rehema House not quite a year ago. I, too, had such intentions of penning words during the coarse of the trip to share all that I saw and all that I felt.
When I came home, I had a friend who is involved in missionary care, ask if I needed to talk. I told her I was fine. “Just processing…” I said. Months went by and the “just processing” became “I just can’t talk about it yet…” Finally – I spilled unending tears to a friend in her car as we drove up the Interstate. She asked, “So, it’s been months and you’ve never really told me anything. How was Kenya?” My throat swelled, I took a deep breath and began spewing it all. I still don’t know what to do with what I’ve seen…
Last weekend at the Declare Conference I took some time to chat with the ladies at the Sole Hope booth. We exchanged a few small stories and both of us, unable to really even put our emotions into words, settled on tears and hugs and acknowledging the fact that it’s ok to be completely wrecked about what we saw. That it’s ok to let our heart break for what breaks His. Even if we can’t explain it yet. Even if we can’t ever explain it.
I don’t know if I will ever fully be able to come to terms with it and to share the stories in the manner that I want to share them. I hope I can. But until then, I just keep loving and praying and doing what I can to help from within my four walls half a world away.
And may I just say in response to your words above… “Me too, friend. Me too.”
Mary Carver says
Hey Jennifer! Thank you so much for sharing your heart with me. It’s so encouraging to know that I’m not alone – or a failure – for not having answers for people who ask about the trip, for not having words to describe even the small part I’ve processed, for not having processed hardly anything. Your “me, too” means so much. Thank you. <3