Nurse in Kenya: home away from homecoming

“I live in my house as I live inside my skin: I know more beautiful, more ample, more sturdy and more picturesque skins: but it would seem to me unnatural to exchange them for mine.” - Primo Levi

The sun set hours ago. I moved to close the windows and looking up at the sky I see bright and brilliant pitches of light puncturing the black night. Crickets chirp loudly and melodiously as the lukewarm air of the darkness patiently rolls in toward me just before I grasp the worn metal window latch and pull the glass in and close it. I don’t want to let the mosquitos in.

It was just a little over a week ago that I was navigating a frigid and wintry world of pavement and infomercials, of sprawling grocery stores and glistening shopping malls, and of pedestrian crosswalks and “no turn on red”s. I was so pleased to be in the company of almost all of my friends and practically all of my family, at one point or another throughout the past month. We celebrated a new year and then shortly afterward I got on an airplane and flew away into the future, to the place of my most intimate and most public daydreams.

I arrived here in Kenya in the cool morning hours to the familiar scent of this African city’s air – exotic trees, petrol, incinerated plastic, and red clay dust. I smiled as I recognized it. It was like encountering someone you’ve loved after being away for too long. After four long and really challenging months, I was back. It had happened as I attempted to believe it would. It all really happened.

Jeff and Beth Ann picked me up after I flew over to Eldoret from the capitol. The day quickly became hot and dusty. After running errands, I was safely delivered to the home in the early afternoon. As the Land Cruiser bobbed and swayed through the last patch of rough terrain on our way home I felt a swarm of butterflies flying around my stomach. I felt unprepared for the welcome I wondered if I would receive, that I knew I didn’t necessarily deserve, and that I was so anxiously awaited for weeks and weeks. It was more than I ever could have asked for.

As the truck pulled through the gates I felt my face contort into an embarrassingly childish and overzealous grin. I saw a group of children literally jumping up and down and I could hear them through the window saying “Julia! Julia!” again and again. Apparently they had been notified that I was incoming, and they welcomed me with only the most warm and loving affections a young lady could ever hope to receive. When I got out of the van and walked over to the group of them they stood there, still and quiet now, some smiling and some confused. I walked over to them and they charged me. I knelt down to hug them and I was practically knocked clear off my feet as they all came at me at once. They said things like, “Julia, I love you” and “Julia, I miss you” (some of them are still working on the whole “past tense” thing in the English language) and “Julia, you come and sleep here?” Some of them said, “Julia, you go back to America now?” and “Julia, where is Ray?” I explained to them the facts: “I love you too” and “I missed you too” and “yes, I sleep here now” followed by “no, I’m staying here for now” and “Ray is still in America”. They kissed my cheeks and hung on my arms and legs and I felt in that moment that I was the most fortunate human being on the face of our big beautiful planet.

There was another group of children over by the swing set and I made my rounds over toward them. They reacted very similarly to the first group except these kids, being older, did well to actually knock me off my feet and I found myself sitting on the grass and dirt while they all greeted me. Their faces looked so familiar and yet each of them was a bit more defined – they had each grown up a little bit while I was away.

After I retrieved my things from the truck I was assisted by my very courteous “bell hop” Churchill, who has become quite the diligent gentleman from time to time in his advancing age of ten years old. I walked inside the main house and stood in front of my door and saw a very large sign with three words printed clearly on it, surrounded by more than a hundred and forty names. Some of the names were printed neatly and others were larger, awkwardly written in a variety of colors, with backwards letters and misspellings. The sign welcomed me with the three words that I literally dreamed of someday reading – I had actually spent time in my head over the past year and a half hoping I would someday get my very own sign that said these exact words.

“Karibu Nyumbani Julia!”

It means “Welcome Home”.

I never realized how much those three words would mean to me after the past few months. And here, I had thought that the most powerfully affectionate words were “I love you”. This meant much, much, more than that on this day.

These words meant that, after many weeks of working toward the goal of raising enough funds to return and securely remain here for a particular length of time, it had happened. They meant that the work I had done here over the summer was effective, valuable, and worthwhile enough that I would have the opportunity to continue its course. They meant that there were literally hundreds of people who not only believed in what I was doing, but who have supported me spiritually and financially to the extent that they, in the most practical and tangible of ways, sent me back to Kenya. They meant that the prayers I had said in the mornings and afternoons and evenings, and in the middles of the nights, had been heard and answered by the Loving God who I’ve trusted and relied on in countless seemingly petty and in countless obviously critical matters. They meant that it my determination, faith, and persistence had paid off as evidenced by the red clay dust that now brightened my sandals. They meant, as obviously and as privately as the words themselves state, that I was home.

It’s a different home than my dad’s living room or than my mom’s kitchen table, than the streets of Binghamton or highways of Long Island, but it’s a home for me in a way that ignites my soul and calms my heart. I consider the aforementioned places home too, in certain ways, but when it comes to a place that describes where I feel like I most naturally belong, and where I want to be most of the time, this is it. Perhaps it’s only because I’ve known other warm and comfortable places worthy of calling “home” that I know how to recognize this one for what it is.

I’ve been here for a week and a lot has been done already. Of course, there’s so much more to do. We have one-hundred-and-forty-five kids now and it seems that every time I turn my head someone is calling my name and showing me a new injury or presenting me with a new physiologic complaint. The precious little babies who were just crawling when I left are now walking, tottling around an inexpressibly adorable manner that melts my heart every single time. One of my favorite moments this week was when a few of the little boys (Babies Ayub, Ray, Adam, and Nate) came up to me while I was walking through the veranda and all smiled and laughed while they hugged my legs and tried to gnaw on my jeans. They looked up at me with their dark, soulful eyes, and joyful faces, and I could have lived in that moment for absolutely ever.

It’s very much the same place I left, and very much a completely different home. Some people who were here when I was here aren’t here now. Babies have grown from being thin and ill-appearing to being chunky and playful. Some of them even have fat rolls at their wrists (or “wrist rolls” as those of you who know me well have heard me adoringly discuss such matters) and tiny teeth and babble with little words I could listen to all day. Some of the older children are taller and speak more clearly. Even the dogs grew up while I was gone.

Maybe that’s the thing about going home: even though it changes, it’s always the same place to you in your heart. It’s that place that nobody can take from you once you’ve experienced it – it’s the place that grows something within you that is perfect and hopefully everlasting – it’s a place where the space-time continuum collides with the eternal universe in a way that sparks a life in you. It’s a physical place that cultivates in you a spiritual place where you can go anytime, anywhere, no matter how you feel or where you are. I’ve known such homes before and I encounter it totally anew here.

Home doesn’t have to be perfect place either, I’ve found. This home is certainly not perfect, and that’s part of its appeal. It’s loud, often in a language I struggle to understand, with the unavoidable cries of children of all ages. Apparently the only insects permitted to enter my room must be two inches or longer before they’re admitted – that really got me laughing. There are monotonies and there’s rote work to be done, but it’s purposeful and satisfying. Each staff member, each missionary, and each child has a personality that doesn’t always elegantly interact with the other, but we do our best and we sort out our conflicts the best we can at the time. There are challenges and confusions and miscommunications here just like in any other home, but the dynamic interactions of this system catalyze and care for my spirit in a way that is undeniable and irresistible. That way is the call I believe God has “put on my heart” to serve, to love, and to live.