“Money may be the husk of many things, but not the kernel. It brings you food, but not appetite; medicine, but not health; acquaintances, but not friends; servants, but not faithfulness; days of joy, but not peace and happiness.” - Henrik Ibsen
"Not all of us can do great things. But we can do small things with great love." - Mother Teresa
I am
remembering an afternoon just a few months ago back when I was in Kenya. Afternoons were always very busy at the
home. After Ray and I would leave with
the kids for the clinic run by three, we’d get back around four or four-thirty. I’d administer whatever medications were just
ordered (which usually required someone to hold the child to keep them calm so
I could give a shot or two) and then prepare and administer dinner meds before
having the meal of our own.
I’m remembering an afternoon that was
like many before and many since. Once
the predictable washout was drained from the sky each day around the time of
the clinic run, and the air was made fresh with the breath of clean rain and an
ionized breeze, the heavy and dark clouds would often part and lend a warm and
golden light over the compound before sunset.
I remember this being my favorite part of the day. I loved standing at the table in the medical
room in this early evening, with the windows open and a yellow-orange sunglow
pouring through the window, bathing the wall to my right. It lit up the room and created an inviting
atmosphere in my “sickbay” (as we sometimes called it) that countered its usually
cold and unimpassioned character. I felt
like the earth was doing me a favor and making the place more cozy for the hour
during which my babies were usually the most anxious, getting their shots.
It was on this type of afternoon
that I joined my team for dinner in the common room, as was per usual most
days. It was the perfect evening. The uproarious happenings of the children’s
supper on the veranda spilled down our hallway and filled our common room with
the dull reverberations of a hundred-or-so children babbling, jeering, and
shouting in mixtures of English and Swahili.
We were all usually tired and worn from the day – I knew the sound would
sometimes even annoy me at times, hoping for a quiet minute over dinner, but
I’d often find a smile on my cranky face when hearing punctuating volleys of
laughter amid the riotous dinnertime chatter.
A few of us missionaries sat around
and ate supper – most of us eating the meal of the night which prepared for the
masses, rice and “green grams” (something like lentil stew) – and made jokes
and lighthearted conversation about the day.
It had been a long day and a lot had been accomplished: cleaning and
organizing, treating sick kids, loving on the babies, and I think I even made
myself sit and read some from one of a few medical texts I have. I was surrounded by adults and children I
loved, in a foreign place I had come to call home. Those perfect little moments went such a long
way to burn a new path in my spirit on a journey of faith that catalyzed my
decision to give my life, for the foreseeable future, to this mission. My spirit found its home and my heart had put
down roots in this fertile ground God had revealed to me.
Too bad I was the only one in the
room who wasn’t really home.
Wait, hold on. Go back.
What was that last thought, mind of mine?
I remember experiencing the
discomfort sneak in the back of my brain and whisper a fear into my heart. I thought it as I looked around the room, now
full of all six of us (and two kids, James and Lavender, who joined us nightly
out of ritual and need, respectively) all sitting around smiling and talking,
making fun of each other, and eating. It
was then that I realized that I was the only one in the room who didn’t really live there. All the rest of them (the two directors, the
preschool teacher, the builder, and the jack-of-all-trades) were funded and,
for all intents and purposes, had unplugged from their “old lives”. Then there was me: I was there for my six
(turned two-and-a-half) month internship and was funded only for that
time. I remember what I thought next,
and how disquieted I was by the thought.
“I’m
not sure I’m capable of asking people to support me monthly, for the
long-term.”
It was as simple and as prideful as
that. I remember feeling mildly
uncomfortable raising money for the six months by gathering one-time donations
from friends, family, and people from my church. It wasn’t that hard, though, because it was
for a well-defined purpose and length of time.
It seemed that people had little problem giving money when it was a
one-shot deal to a “good cause”. By June
I had raised almost everything I needed and had set aside enough myself
otherwise to cover the difference. But
it was something deep within me that evening that became dislodged and started
to travel through my heart like a spiritual embolus, a clot of resistance in my
soul to the mission to which I knew I was called, and it became burdensome.
I felt like those moments in our
common room, on an ordinary African evening set on the backdrop of the sun
setting through the acacia trees and fields of maize, are burned in my mind as
still images. I knew I wanted to live
there for the long haul and make these days at In Step a career and a
life. I now see that these memories of a
joyful scene are juxtaposed with the worrisome and anxious thoughts of the very
same time, as I realized I was confronted with choices that seemed impossible
to me at the time. As I look back now,
I should correct myself in that I know there really were no choices whatsoever,
and that I was just accepting an unwelcome inevitability of my future.
The only way I was going to be able
to live as a missionary is if I, first, accepted the fact that I would no
longer bring home a paycheck, and second, humbled myself enough to ask people
not just to donate money once, but to
support me on a monthly basis. My
long-term livelihood was going to come to depend on the financial support of
individuals, families, and churches. My
financial security was going to become inextricably founded on the support provided
by other people. In essence, I was going
to have to give up control of my finances in two ways: I was going to have to
stop making money, and then ask people to give me money every month for
God-knows-how-long (literally) so I can cover my expenses and little else.
I felt my stomach turn over on my
rice and green grams as I swallowed a flash of awareness in what would “have to
be” if I were to become “one of the team.”
I did not want to ask people for more money. I did not want to feel like I was indebted to
anyone. I did not, did not, did not not want to be able to control how much
money I made. I did not want to give up
control like this. I did not want to become
like a character out of Tennessee Williams’ A
Streetcar Named Desire and embarrassingly state, “I’ve always depended on
the kindness of strangers…” Most of all
I did not want to “just have faith that God would provide” or “leap into the
net yet to appear” or “let go and let God.”
Can’t do it. Won’t do it.
Obviously now, on the other side of
fear, and on the other side of the world, I’m doing that. All of that.
It looks different than I thought it would.
Idealistic phrases bubble up to the
surface of my mind after having been drowned in college seminars about my
“financial future” or “marketability” and “transferrable skills”. I rejected these types of phrases for a long
time, thinking myself foolish or naïve. These
phrases were “follow your dreams” and “you be whatever you want when you grow
up” and “do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.” Some of these phrases still leave my heart unsettled
when read them, wondering if its too good to be true. Most of me knows its not, since I’ve
experienced it.
I remember what it was like when I
worked as a nurse in an intensive care unit for a couple of years. It was my “real job” I had as a “grown-up”
where I punched a clock for twelve-and-a-half hours every night, usually. It was a challenging job full of joys and
tragedies. It was as rewarding as it was
demanding: spiritually, emotionally, mentally, and physically. There were days I looked forward to it and
days I didn’t; days I walked out of there feeling like I accomplished something
and others when I wondered why I had even gotten out of bed to come in for the
shift. I know that on the days I simply
didn’t feel like going to work that there were a few things that I would think
of to help motivate me. I would think of
the families who would appreciate a loving and attentive nurse, of the
satisfaction I’d experience knowing that I was comforting and caring for a
patient who was suffering, of what I’d learn during the course of the night, of
the fellowship and camaraderie our staff often enjoyed. A few times when I didn’t feel like mentally
entertaining any of that, I tried to think of the “real reason” I was going to
work (it’s not the real reason, though it was an important one) which was that
I would be getting paid. I can tell you
that this, I found, was the number one way to short-circuit any motivation I would
have for the night, to drain me of my desire to do the job, and to usually put
me in a worse mood. I don’t understand
it, but having the thought that what I was doing was for the money (which I
considered generous and competitive for our area) seemed to rob me of any
incentive to want to do it. Coming to
understand this, sometimes I’d pretend that I wasn’t working for money at all,
and that this was a volunteer job that would surprise me with a check every
couple of weeks. This really helped me
work better, to focus on the task at hand, and to be present in the art of what
I was doing instead of realizing I was doing a “job”. It was a lot easier for me to work out of the
joy of my heart when I wasn’t thinking about money than when I was.
I want to say that I was never much
of a “money person”. At the same time,
I’m not sure what a “money person” would look like, and yet, I know I have
spent a lot of time fantasizing about the ownership of material goods that I
solely wanted and never needed. I’d
consider myself to be spoiled materially since I feel like I “am the one
percent” of the world, being an over-privileged Caucasian woman from Long
Island who never wanted for much physically.
I’m no shopaholic either though, and have made it a point to save money,
but at the same time I know that I know nothing personally about poverty. I guess what I mean when I say that I am not a
“money person” is that I’m grateful I just haven’t wanted too, too many things,
and I’m happy to haven’t been motivated into a career because of money.
Some people are surprised to hear
that we don’t get “a salary” when we work at the children’s home. I’m not, and I explain it like this: every
single dollar (or shilling, the Kenyan currency) that passes through our home
for absolutely anything, like food, building materials or medicine, has come
out of the pocket of a donor. Supporters
donate money to our children’s home in general, or to sponsor specific
children, or to sponsor specific missionaries.
Any money that would come from the children’s home to us as missionaries
would mean a cost to the home, and therefore would amount to less capital for
the children’s or the home’s needs over time.
This is why each missionary raises their own support on which they live
while they work – this covers their expenses, and maybe even a “want” now and
then too. This isn’t pay for working; we
don’t raise our own salaried support. We
each raise our own support, usually monthly, identifying the amount each of us
needs individually and uniquely, and it differs from person to person.
At my old job I could always try to
pick up an extra shift or work overtime if I wanted some more money. Living at the children’s home is different –
work is a part of life in a way that feels natural and organic. I never punch a clock; I don’t work a set
number of hours or meet any kind of quota.
I can be “on call” twenty-four hours of the day and sometimes treat
patients in my pajamas, without even having brushed my teeth, in the middle of
the night. I say, “I love you” to my
bosses, coworkers, and patients alike, and I’m even than allowed to hug and
kiss them too (well, I’d only choose to do that with some of them, like the
babies and Mama Carla, Beth Ann, and Ray too if he’s lucky). I feel like a mom sometimes, a big sister
other times, but a nurse all the time.
Technically I’m like an employee, but really I feel a lot more like I’m
just part of the family. And it sure is one big family… one big happy, human,
sometimes chaotic, always resilient, Kenyan-American, Jesus-loving family.
Right now I’m not an active member
of the family, really. Of course Ray and
I are still part of the family but since
we aren’t able to be present because of these circumstances it’s consequential
that the children don’t get to experience the fruits of our work there, nor
does the rest of the team. When family parts are strewn across
distances, physical or emotional or mental or spiritual, there’s a strain and
an imbalance created by the absence of the part. It reminds me of what Paul talks about in
chapter twelve of his first letter to the Corinthians – he talks about the body
of Christ, of there being different parts of this body which serve different
purposes, and of the interdependent
nature of these parts. I feel that
imbalance here in my own life in America, and I know Ray does too. I know the team over in Kenya experiences it
too.
I don’t know what the kids are
feeling, if they sense any change at all since their needs are still being met,
but I’d bet that a good handful of them really miss us and wonder if we’re ever
coming home, or if we’re just like the rest of the wazungu (white people) who come over for a little while and then
disappear back into their real lives.
These kids are blessed by visitors and get used to people coming by and
going again. It breaks my heart that
they could think of me in that same category because that opposes my intention. I
recognize the deep need of the child’s mind and spirit to create predictable,
stable, safe points of psycho-emotional attachment, and it is important to me
that I allow God to use me to promote the ability to have that attachment and
love. I need that too, I guess. Don’t we all, child or adult? Yeah, the kids need their nurse, and I need
them too. I want to go home to those
kids for so many reasons and my heart breaks out of missing their adorable
chunky little brown faces and pure hearts.
The desire I have in my own heart to return to them is difficult to put
into words and is much easier to put into actions.
What I am doing right now is one of
the actions motivated by this desire to go home to those kids and work for
their needs. I’m trying to share with
you in this entry what its like to live out of the calling, and in a minute I’m
going to address you and ask you for help.
I don’t feel comfortable doing this but I know that sometimes we have to
make sacrifices to help our family that requires us to set aside fear and
embrace vulnerability at a time when we may already be feeling rather
exposed. I’ve made the decision to be so
open and frank with you in a forum public to the whole world because I believe
that if you’ve taken the time to read this far into this entry then you
obviously have an interest in this mission, are likely already supporting them
or me in one way or another, and that you care.
You might have read these entries in the past, or maybe just looked at
photos, or maybe not. You might have
heard me rant for hours about the Kenyan babies. Maybe you were at In Step yourself and have a
heart for the place. Maybe you’ve never
heard of any of this before and are just a friend or a family member who is
trying to understand what and why I’m doing what I’m doing. Whyever, no matter.
I’m just going to tell you the
facts and not sugar coat this. The immigration issues with the Kenyan government
have been resolved for me and I will be allowed to re-enter the country
legally. I’ve decided I’m going to
be the nurse at In Step indefinitely. I
can’t go back until I have raised enough support, in the form of monthly
sponsorships. I’m trying to connect with
people, groups, or churches, who are interested in supporting a
missionary. You might be one of those
people, or you might know one of those groups. You can make a big difference in the lives of these children by helping
me get back there and stay there. If
you are one of the people, groups, or churches who feels like this mission is
something you’d like to get involved with and support then I want to make sure
I give you all the information you need to do that. I am
asking you to consider making a small monthly donation to this mission so I can
now resume this work in Kenya.
I know you have, or someone in your
family has, worked hard for the money you make decisions about so that you can
take care of the people you love. I’ve
felt conflicted about “why it has to be this way” that I have to ask other
people to support me so I can take care of the people I consider to part of a
family that God has called me to be a part of.
I want to invite you to contribute to a cause that is so close to my
heart that it has literally become my life.
Out of all the things I know I could be doing, this is what I choose
with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind, and all my strength.
Your monthly donation sends me to
Kenya and keeps me there, but what happens on that journey is what matters. Let me
tell you what your monthly sponsorship does.
Every single cent of your donation goes straight to this cause of my work, and allows children to have
their nurse back.
Your monthly sponsorship allows these kids to have another person
who lives at the home who loves them,
who cares for them, and who works for their needs.
Your monthly sponsorship provides the children with prompt
care virtually any time of the day, to have their own personal set of eyes and
hands assessing them and treating them when they are the most sick.
Your monthly sponsorship blesses the other missionaries, who
have given [up] their lives to fulfill God’s calling in roles they play caring
for the children, to receive attentive, focused, and timely medical care in the
comfort of their own home so their work
can continue as uninterrupted as possible.
Your monthly sponsorship gives the Kenyan staff of the home
with the opportunity to receive health information, medicine, and treatment for
injuries on site, thereby preventing losses of productivity and maintaining a
healthy work environment.
Your monthly sponsorship will eventually make it possible
for the completed In Step Clinic to open and become the new place of practice
for a local Kenyan doctor, then enriching healthcare support for the children
and staff, as well as for the communities surrounding the home.
Your monthly sponsorship helps me devise and implement
home-wide health directives that promote wellness and prevent disease.
Your monthly sponsorship make sure that I myself am cared
for with food, clothing, medicine, and insurance; it makes it possible for me
to purchase phone time and data bandwidth to stay connected to friends and
family, to recent medical literature, and to the internet otherwise; it covers my
travel and furlough expenses; it preserves prudently reserved discretionary
funds in case of emergency.
Your monthly
sponsorship allows a nurse to share her heart, filled with love of God in
Jesus, and her mind, filled with knowledge and experience from an esteemed
university and hospital-system, in a mission to care for a large number of
orphaned children in a safe, nurturing, high-quality children’s home.
I think that covers it. And so my mind wanders again.
Those early evenings in Kenya
warmed my heart, reflecting on days where the smallest things we did for the
kids meant the most in the long-term. We
sat and rested in fellowship at the end of the hard day knowing that although
we may once have had aspirations to do great things to change the world, that
the little things we did in love that day were the ones that left our children,
our fellows, ourselves, and hopefully our God with the most satisfaction. In Kenya with our babies I realized that a
little always went a long way: a little extra love, a hug held for a few
seconds longer, a smile into their eyes when I felt like I was too tired to
give one, an extra sticker when the syringe plunger got stuck and I had to
repeat their injection, a word of encouragement to a downcast spirit. A
little bit always went a long way.
Here in the United States I find that unfortunately a little bit usually
goes a little way, and I want to give you the opportunity to make a little big
go a really, really long way, across time and distance, instilling love and
speaking life over a very special group of precious babies and diligent people.
For more information on how to make
a little bit go a long way, and partner with me in supporting my mission and
sending me back to Kenya, follow the instructions below. If you
have questions for me personally, would like to speak with me, or have me
present this mission to you or a group you know in person, please contact me by email at jfracassa@gmail.com. For as
little as $10 a month you can send me back to work, and change the lives of
more than one-hundred-and-eighty men, women, and children.
Thank
you.
How
to Become a Monthly Sponsor
Online:
To make a tax-deductible donation,
go to https://connect.egiving.com/where-most-needed120/rehema-ministries and fill out the form.
Make sure to select a recurring frequency if you want to be a sponsor.
The drop-down menu can be left at its default setting of
Make sure to select a recurring frequency if you want to be a sponsor.
The drop-down menu can be left at its default setting of
Important: In the "comment" and/or "note" box please type "Missionary Account JF"
Check by mail:
To make a tax-deductible donation,
mail checks to:
Rehema
Ministries
Attn:
Joyce Panzero
1117
3rd Street
Anacortes,
WA 98221
Important: Include in the memo line
“Missionary Acct JF”.
If planning to donate monthly, please indicate "sponsorship" in memo.
