3rd and 4th Weeks of Advent: Love and Joy

Blog Post

12/21/09

"Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all."

-Emily Dickinson

Hope you are all doing well and are given the gift of time to enjoy the season. I miss home a lot- even the snow. “White Christmas” played recently on my matatu route, and I chuckled to myself out loud. Christmas definitely looks a lot different here- not only with it being summer instead of winter, but also there is just less. Less Christmas lights strewn about, less presents under the tree, and less stress. I think there is more emphasis and attention paid to our Advent pillars here of love and joy, mostly because, well, there isn’t as much other “stuff” to crowd it out.

I had a fantastic week. I met and worked with Susan, a social worker that operates HARC- The Hope and Reconciliation Center in Kibera. I donned my new title as children’s party planner and we got to work for the preparations of the end-of-the-year Christmas party for 150 children that she runs a weekly Sunday School for. I also was granted the opportunity to visit a women’s micro-finance group for the parents of those children earlier in the week.

It was my first time in Kibera, which is arguably the largest slum in Africa: home to about 1.5 million people. I was glad for the opportunity to be there, mostly because I feel as if it’s framed my whole experience in a much broader context. We’ve spent our fair share of time rubbing elbows with the upper classes here, relationships granted mostly because we’re Americans and we speak English. I value this experience as well for what it is. It’s important to realize that Kenya’s identity is not wrapped up solely in its poverty level, but it is also important to realize it is part of its reality and the country’s struggle.

The view was breathtaking, but not in the good sense. We weaved our way in and out of tin shanty after tin shanty, many huge garbage heaps, and feeble bridges covering the sewage streams. It wasn’t just my parasitic fever that started to make me shaky, but rather its harshness. We eventually made it to where we were going, which was another non-descript shanty that blended in with the rest on top of a hill. All I could see for miles were these tin roofs reflecting the harsh sun. I felt swallowed and small.

Contrasting the disparity, the sound of singing made its way down to where we were standing. It was a beautiful tune, joyful with clapping, signaling the start of the women’s meeting. The 30 + women welcomed us into the dirt floored meeting room with no windows. I couldn’t understand the Kiswahili, but I think I understood what was happening. After a few more songs, there were prayers, and then a speaker gave a message. At one point, she was swept away by emotion and started crying during her speech. Then, most of the women started crying together. Simultaneously, prayers began to break out. Loud ones that everyone uttered in desperate tones at the same time. Then silence.

It was somewhat out-of-body, and mostly confusing, but processing it later, it spoke to me on a couple of levels. It made me think of this Emily Dickinson quote, “Pain is missed in Praise.” All too often, the church overlooks the important process of grieving, or even simply recognizing the depth of suffering encountered every day. I think this neglect is particularly destructive here where situations are sometimes blamed on those who are suffering because they did not- pray enough, give enough, aren’t “saved” enough. But this was refreshing in that what was needed was a good cry. Experienced in the communal context, it was healing and it was honest. They have a harsh reality- situations largely bigger and beyond their control no matter how hard they’ve ____ enough.

The ancient writings of the Desert Fathers speak of “the gift of tears,” and I think this was true here. The ability to mourn their losses and struggles made way for joy. Because what followed after the silence was a prayer, then a solo voice, then a loud chorus broke out with dancing. Usually, I am pretty self-conscious of my mediocre moves, especially in front of people I don’t know, but I held nothing back this time. I wouldn’t be able to recall another time when I needed “to dance it out,” more than that moment. I was surprised to find my own anxieties and fears working themselves out in that room, singing and dancing with women from the other side of the world that didn’t speak my language. God this way, “turning mourning into dancing,” in this case, literally.

"While I dance I cannot judge, I cannot hate, I cannot separate myself from life. I can only be joyful and whole." -Hans Bos