a day in eburru

I wake up every morning to the rooster’s call. My eyes open before the sun passes over the mountains, and at first glance the cement hut is darkness. There is not a trace of light, and I have never experienced a darkness like this before. Yet I feel a safe comfort on the floor with my four roommates snuggles in a row on mattresses next to me. I lay in bed, fading in and out of sleep, until sunlight splinters through the cracked wooden door and I hear a quiet knock on the other side. I roll sideways in my tangled sleeping bag to knock back and start my day, while quietly trying not to wake up the others.
After baby wipes, cold tennis shoes and a trip to the squatty potty, the early risers begin our prayer walk in the crisp morning air. We travel down the drive, past cornfields and hospital construction to the road. Up the steep winding hill and down past the trees and cows and barefoot travelers, we share our hearts, our struggles, and thank God for this place. Every direction is astounding; the vast blue sky goes for as far as I can see, and distant mountains paint the view deeper and deeper shades into the horizon. Lush green forests and pastures cover the hills, and when I stop to look up from the rocky dirt road beneath me, it takes my breath away.
Breakfast in the main hut is full of mandazi and french toast and chai, socks with sandals, and stories of late night conversations and yelling and deep posed questioning in the men’s hut (while asleep of course). The hut is built of mud and sticks and tin, and furnished with plastic chairs and tarps that cover the open window frames. The dirt floor hides our spills, and the chickens come and go for any scraps they can find.
Quiet time comes, an hour and a half for just me and the Lord. Bible studying, journaling, worship music in the soft grass on the side of the hill – it’s my time to grow. To come before him with questions. To search for him, and in return hear his answers. It is the fuel for my day. And I don’t know how I made it through 20 years without this time set aside.
I put on my layers; jeans, skirt, t-shirt, track jacket, socks, tennies – and head out the door. It’s a morning of labor at the hospital. This two-story building, made of concrete with beams sticking out of the sides, with rubbish and rocks and trash sprinkling the landscape, with rooms filled of boards and scraps and filth, is to open for business in a week. I cut grass with a machete until my hands blister and bleed, and then I climb the building to wash the outside windows with paint thinner and dusty sponges. The sun beams a blistering heat, and in the next minute clouds open up and the rain pours down. The morning is exhausting, but the labor is worth all our accomplishments and grateful thanks.
Lunch comes bringing PB&J or noodles with carrot sauce, followed by women’s Bible study at the camp. What’s set at 2:00pm turns into 4:00pm African time, and the afternoon slowly passes with the team, watching the boys practice their spearing techniques or by lying in the front lawn between our huts, relaxing and telling stories with the girls. The women from church finally come by foot, some from miles away, to hear the word, eat Russian tea cakes, and make God’s eyes with all the yarn they can grab. The laughter and fellowship warm my heart, and teach me that some things go so much deeper than a language barrier.
When the boys come back from their ministry in the center, the camp is full and thriving. A futbol game in the driveway sparks, and Daisy comes over with her friends to dance and play games with me on the hill where our laundry is hanging to dry. The day starts to cool down as the sun sets over the mountains, and I give my friends a push home while there is still enough light to see the path. Dinner of cabbage and mash potatoes fill our bellies, followed by the scripture study that fill our spirits. Every night is a new verse, every night a new discussion, every night a new flame sparked inside of me. I’m learning this word, and it’s coming to life like I’ve never seen it before.
Darkness has covered the camp now, and night brings a cold chill that I never expected to feel in Africa. The small jiko fire, powered by smoke and burning charcoal, warms our toes as I sit with the lingering few in a tight circle for warmth. The generator cuts in and out, making electricity a gamble and headlights a prized possession. We tell stories and roast corn and play cribbage, and if it’s a special night, Craig will bring out the popcorn kernels and amaze James as he stands wide-eyed over the fire to watch the kernels pop. He has never seen such a thing, and makes me promise to teach his wife this magic trick.
Time lingers on at night, sometimes leaving nothing to do but stare at the wide night sky and watch the stars twinkle. I’ve always heard that stars twinkle, but never have I seen it until now. Not like this. Hank (our night guard) tells me stories, beginning every statement with, “Who me?” and leaving the group only to sneak up on us in the shaded doorways. His old rigid exterior melts away with his wide gaping smile, and pouring time into him is becoming one of my favorite ministries here.
One last stop to the dark tin box with a whole in the ground, known as our bathrooms, then I open the creaking door to the hut and crawl into my sleeping bag. The night is cold now, and the world seems still, but my mind is still turning. I let myself question and ponder all the thoughts of the day, until sleep finally steals me away. Life here is slow, it’s quiet, it’s unpredictable. It’s different than I’ve ever lived before. And it will be very hard to say goodbye to.