Tired as he was…

I am tired. In 31 years of association with Africa (Kenya), I have not felt this emotionally tired. In a two-week span, the dark part of the “dark” continent came crashing down on us. Not us personally, but on people around us, people we care about, people we want to help. And the burden is heavy; the yoke is not light.

It was Sunday afternoon, the point in the week I usually look forward to as a time of rest, quiet, slow recovery. Usually it is a time after preaching or teaching or simply clapping and dancing and trying to keep up with the singing in Swahili or Giryama while concentrating on understanding my second or third language. For me, it is a joy-filled but sweat-soaked experience which looks forward to a shower and a calm, restful afternoon.  But on this Sunday afternoon, it was abruptly interrupted. Our doorbell, a literal bell with a rope to swing and produce the shrill clang of metal to inform us we are wanted at the door, began to clang with force. Phyllis ran to the door, and I heard a commotion of words and cries and sobbing making its way to our sitting room. I gathered myself and went to join the chaos with no idea what was happening. When I entered, I saw one we love, a friend dear to us, sitting on the floor at Phyllis’ feet panicking and crying uncontrollably. I found a seat nearby, and our friend scooted on the floor and laid her head in my lap heaving for breath, wailing and weeping. I took her face in my hands and looked deeply into fear-struck eyes (I am not sure I have ever seen that look before) and asked what was wrong. She could not speak. A series of questions followed…did someone die…is a child hurt or sick…talk to us so we can help you. With great effort the words "I am HIV positive" came from her quivering lips. She moved to a prostrate position on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

For those of us in a sanitized and securitized society that may not seem like the death sentence it once carried. But here, here in Africa, here in Kenya it carries deep sorrow and, even worse, deep shame. And I know shame is as deadly here as AIDS. We sat for hours, called a mutual friend, prayed, promised we were with her, calmed her some, made plans for the next day, assured her of our love and no shame, let her sleep a few hours on a bed in our guest room, and eventually she left. Now that we did not have to be strong for her, the exhaustion of emotions hit us both. We felt tired, spent, empty, afraid, uncertain, alone. We were tired.

The next day we read an article in the Daily Nation newspaper of lions terrorizing a village. We read of a lion pulling a ten-year old girl from her hut, dragging her to the bush, and eating her. It was as horrifying as that last phrase sounds. And it was in Mtoroni, the location of the clinic we opened last year. We were horrified. We could not imagine the horror of the little girl or her family as they listened to her screams in the night and then listened as those screams fell silent. The next day pictures arrived on my phone; yes, those pictures I could live without seeing. Those pictures Phyllis chose not to see. Those pictures arrived with the note we need to go visit the community and the clinic to pray with them and encourage them. I wondered what words would be encouraging under these circumstances.

A few days later we made the one-hour drive, where we listened emptily as we heard stories of the horror, news of two pride of lions, other children attacked, and uncertainty about the future of the area.  I found myself praying silently, not really sure what to pray out loud.  I walked around, prayed, and wondered how this could be real.  Then I remembered where I was.  I was tired.

As I was wandering around and praying, Sophie, the nurse of the clinic, came and got me to come see the patient just brought in on a motorbike. I am not sure why she wanted me to come see the face opened up by a spear thrust or the head cracked open with a blunt weapon, but what I walked in on was shocking. After watching the process of stitching and wrapping the wounds, as our group sat down to pray together, two more victims arrived--one a grandmother with a five inch gash on her head, all members of the same family and victims of land/tribal disputes. Chris Munga, our Mahenzo medical administrator, jumped to work, and he and Sophie began sewing and sweating, wondering what may come next. We pondered the heaviness of it all: HIV/AIDS, lions, children eaten, tribal violence, blood, fear, and anger. We were tired.

The trip home was longer it seemed and quiet as we all tried to comprehend the day, the week we were living in. Chris stayed behind to help; he could not leave Sophie alone in this. We wandered home wondering what we were doing to actually help. Later the update sent to us by Chris included, “Our journey was not in vain, it was a blessing.”

And I remembered words I have taught to so many but sometimes forget myself. Our ability is not the most important thing God needs. He needs our availability. Being a faithful presence in the midst of the darkness even when we have no clue what to do, even when we are tired, that is the ministry of Jesus. 

Somewhere in the midst of those few weeks, one of my favorite texts of Jesus, John 4, the woman at the well hit me with renewed force. A text I had taught a hundred times suddenly captured my mind, my heart, and my weary emotions. John 4:6 tired as he was…Jesus was tired…He was tired…looking for rest, shade, quiet… and suddenly his door bell began to clang, he was made aware of suffering. He was confronted with someone who may have been more tired than He. The women with HIV at the well, the community living in fear of their neighbors wondering where God was (on this mountain or that one), the woman who had lost her husband (or five husbands), the family that lost the child TO A LION! Maybe she was more tired than He… or at least it might have seemed that way to Him. That sounds disrespectful, almost like sacrilege, but maybe…just maybe at that moment they were? I know they are far more tired than I. Jesus met her where she was and “tired as he was” he loved her. Oh, that I may be like Jesus.  Meeting people in their weariness, where they are, and simply loving them there. No miracle remedies, no quick fixes, no programmed response, just me and her and them together… being tired together. Just knowing they are not tired alone… Maybe that is part of ministry, part of love. Maybe that is why I am writing this… I am tired and I feel alone. I have not figured out this burden is light and yoke is easy business… but maybe I am beginning to? Could it just mean we are not alone. Maybe?

May we never be alone in the darkness.  May we never leave others in their darkness alone.  May we be light.

Tired as he was… Blessings, Jim