Kwaheri, Kericho.

What if I can't eat the food? What if I can't learn the language? What if I don't adjust to the weather? What if I accidentally drink some of the water? What if I don't like my class? What if I don't get along with my host family? What if I don't make any friends?

Millions of thoughts just like these flooded my mind about two months ago as I drove to Kericho, Kenya for the very first time. My mind was racing with hundreds of thousands of negative "What if I" statements that I didn't take time to even consider the positive experiences. As soon as I stepped out of the car and into the new life I would be living, all of those questions vanished. When I met the loving children and the friendly staff for the very first time, I automatically knew that I would fall head-over-heels with the young people I would call my pupils. The moment I met the couple and the children I would be calling my family over the next couple of months, I undoubtedly knew that everything would be good.

However, I did not know HOW good my time at Kericho would be.

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She pushed aside all of the children holding my hands and hugging my arms. She forced everyone near me to leave my side and step away at least an arm's length, but she did not use words. She used her eyes and her actions to remove all of my little friends from my side. At that moment, she looked up longingly into my eyes, wrapped her tiny arms around my waist, and proudly proclaimed to the other children, "This is my mother!" She contentedly nestled her tiny face against me and smiled as she closed her eyes with satisfaction. I hugged her back; I had fallen in love with this young girl about one month prior. I smiled, tears threatening to roll down my face. The other children simply watched for a moment's time, but all at once, the other baby class students followed her actions. "This is my mother! This is my mother!" they shouted in unison as they ran to me and threw their arms around my waist, my neck, my legs, my ankles, anything. The tears welled up, but I was determined not to let them be seen.

"So I am your mother?" I asked.

"YES!" they cried back simultaneously.

"Sawa. So are you all coming back with me to the United States?"

Another united "YES!"

"Sawa. Alright, here is the plan: I am only taking one suitcase back with me, so you are going to have to squish yourselves into tiny squares for all fourteen of you to fit. Okay?"

The "YES!" wasn't quite as united this time, nor was it as jovial. But there were still positive responses.

"Sawa. Okay, and when I go back to university, you aren't actually allowed to live with me in the dorm. So you must not ever leave the room and if anyone visits me, you all must hide somewhere. Sawa?"

At this point, many of my attachments began to loosen themselves from my person and back away. A few of them, however, still responded positively.

"Okay. And I don't make much money, so I'll have to feed you grass. Sawa?"

They all backed up with fearful looks in their faces. But one face remained as happy as ever, and a hint of determination shown within its eyes. Out of the mouth came a joyful, ready-to-face-it-all "YES." The owner of that persevering face was none other than the dear little girl who started all of this "mother" commotion. When I looked down and saw this small friend who was willing to give up everything she knew to come to my foreign land, the threatening tears began to spill over. I walked away.

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After a full day of school, running around and saying goodbye to many sweet souls, and becoming emotionally drained with the thoughts that I may never see some of the people with whom I had so deeply fallen in love ever again, I was exhausted. It was my last night in Kericho and my last time with my whole family. After exchanging some items for remembrance of each other, I was beyond ready to go to bed. When I sat on my bed, though, I heard a small squeak coming from a wooden chair right next to my room. I checked to see who was still awake, and at the table sat my sister whom I adore.

"I can't find sleep," she explained.

Though I could have easily "found sleep," I didn't want to miss any last minute with this sweet girl. My mind rushed to the first time she asked, "Can I braid your hair?", to our first viewing Disney's Frozen, to the many times we would burst out into song together, to the time I was so nervous riding a matatu at night, but she so contentedly slept peacefully on my shoulder. My love for this girl is insane.

"Neither can I," I lied. But those precious moments I spent with her were worth so much more than a few minutes of extra sleep.

I said goodbye to all of my little friends on Thursday evening since I was sure that Friday would be too hectic to properly wish them well. I waited to say a true farewell to my parents on the next day. My mama, my wonderful cultural influence, was the hardest person to leave. She has taught me oh so much. She repeated multiple times that I was a blessing to her and her family. No. I can never truly express how much they have blessed me and so beautifully enriched my life. As we embraced for the last time, my mind raced from one memory to the next from these last couple of months. And I couldn't keep the tears from forming a tremendous waterfall that flowed down my face and onto my neck. Her love, her acceptance, and her willingness toward me was only by the grace of God. Honestly, I was so nervous when I first moved in with my family. I didn't know how to eat their food, I didn't know how to wash my clothes, I didn't know how to speak their language, and I didn't even know how properly bathe. But with time and lots of questions and willing explanations, I found my place.

And that place became better and better each day. By the end of my time, I felt so connected to, so in love with, and so with one with the culture that surrounded me. Leaving my new family was one of the most difficult feats to ever overtake.

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"Teacha! Don't leave us!"

It wasn't my intention to make every pupil cry as I told them how much I loved them on that last day. The time was meant to be happy. We had a little party, I gave a few gifts, and I was going to encourage them while telling them how much they meant to me. But I couldn't handle that last part without thinking back over all of the glorious moments, both good and bad, that we shared. My heart spilled out of my eyes and down my nose. My voice started shaking as I told them for the last time that I loved them. And all of the faces I had grown to love displayed the same thoughts that I was feeling: I don't want to leave. I don't want this class to find a new mama. I don't want to go a long time without sharing joy with these incredible kids. My heart longed to be with them teaching, singing, and laughing uncontrollably.

As each child hugged me for the last time, their dirty little tear-covered faces left brown splotches all over my white shirt. But  I didn't care. These children, these loves, these souls: they stole my heart. Forever.

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"Love is a funny word. If English was not so strange, it would be pronounced 'low-vay,' which sounds even funnier. In Kiswahili, there are two ways for this word to be used: mapenzi denotes the noun usage and kupenda is the verb.

"Love is a verb. It's not just some feeling of affection. That seems silly. Since love is a verb, it should be followed by action. True love, thus, is shown by the works, the deeds, the struggles, the hardships, the impossibles attempted, endured, and accomplished by the lover for the benefactor.

"The word we have been confusing for this so called 'love' is affection. Affection isn't love. It is an admiration, a silly little feeling one gets in the pit of his stomach. Love is accompanied by deep accomplishment. I think that is why the Apostle Paul stated, 'And the greatest of these is love.' Faith and hope really aren't actions. They are a state of mind, a phase of heart. But love is so much more than that.

"I can say that I truly love these kids, these teachers, my family members. I don't see these children as cute faces with which I can take incredible 'selfies.' They are my heart, my mind, my being.

"They are my love."

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Those "What if I" statements that I thought at the very beginning of my trip returned at the end. But this time they were different. They became "What if I never see these kids again? What if I never want to eat anything other than rice and beans ever again? What if I never have a chance to use my Kiswahili knowledge when I return to the US? What if I cry anytime I look at a picture of one of my pupils? What if my heart literally rips in half because of the pain I am experiencing due to leaving this home?"

Kericho has changed me. It has added on to my personality, my knowledge, my experiences, and, most importantly, my love. I can't be content until I spend more time with my family and friends in this beautiful land. I suppose, though, that my heart will just have to wait until next time.

Until then, I'll have the chance to pray for strength for my pupils each day, for wisdom for the teachers in charge of the classrooms, for the joy that my tiny friends shared with me, and for the family that opened their arms so wide for me.

I am loving more than I thought possible. My heart is full of the memories made during my time in this blessed land, and my mind is often reminded of the tiny arms wrapped around my body, saying, "Mother Bekah, I love you."

I can't wait to see those faces again.


Loving always,
Bekah

Falling in Love

On my way to the airport on May 11, 2014, my mother spoke to me more seriously than I can ever remember. Most of her speech was about how proud she was of the Greenwood three; she had prayed about us since we were babies that we would go into full time ministry or even missions. She said that now that the day has come, it was harder for her to pray those things because it meant that we would no longer be within her arm's reach. But she still reveled in how amazing God is and how He answered her prayers that started over 23 years ago. The most memorable part of our talk, though, went something along the lines of this:

"Bekah, I gave Rach this same talk when she was leaving for Chile last summer. I want to tell you, too. Maybe the love of your life is in Kenya. Maybe you will find a love so great that you never want to come back. But please guard your heart until you find that love, whether it be in Kenya, the United States, or somewhere else."

Mom, my lovely, I want you to know something: I have found the love for which my heart has been longing. I have discovered a love so great that I hear whispers in my ear, saying, "Bekah, don't leave. Stay." I have experienced a love so deep, deeper than I could have ever imagined.

Mom, the love of my life lives here in Kericho. I guarded my heart like you instructed, but when I realized how great this relationship could be, my heart was opened. And even though I only have a few, short weeks left here in Kenya's tea capitol, I know that the love we have for each other will only continue to bloom and grow.

What is the name of my love, you ask?

Maybe the actual question should be, "What is your love?"

The love that has stolen my heart comes in the form of 34 pairs of filthy little hands that won't allow me to exit my classroom at the end of the day before I give each hand a high five or six. It comes in the form of bodies that those hands are attached to that crouch by the door of my classroom, waiting to jump up and surprise me each time I enter. It comes in the form of dark, beautiful faces attached to those bodies that become so bright and smiley each time I tell them the artwork they have put so much effort into is the most wonderful thing I've ever seen. It comes in the form of many young children who do not attend my school that wait for my leave each day just so  they may say, "Teacha! How are you!" and follow me to the door of my house. It comes in the form of a little boy too sick to go to school who grabs my hand every time I see him and says, "I am coming with you to school today!" with the brightest smile I've ever seen. It comes in the form of a precious special needs girl who used to be afraid of me but now so gently holds my hand anytime we meet and longingly looks into my eyes for minutes on end. It comes in the form of my friend who owns a shop next door who is too afraid to enter a church building but still wants to know what this Jesus thing is all about. It comes in the form of sharing tea with a sassy yet loveable four year-old every day after school. It comes in the form of neighbors who so longingly desire to teach me their customs and ways of going about life. It comes in the form of my adoptive family members who care so much for me that the mother calls me "my girl," or "my daughter Bekah."

This love is unfathomable.

It's unfailing.

It's unending.

Even though I will be leaving this area in less than three weeks' time, I know that my heart will continue to love this area and these people.

I am spending the day in bed away from the dust that has caused much sneezing, coughing, and nose-blowing, and I spent a good bit of the morning crying. Not because I am tired of this allergy taking over my body. Not because of the headache accompanying it. Not because of the amount of toilet paper I have used over the past four days that has been dedicated to my snotty needs. I cried because the thought of leaving this place, no matter how controlling this dust allergy has become, hurts my heart. Being unsure of the next time I will see this beautiful land and these captivating people frightens me.

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My favorite spot in all of Kericho is at our church. If you venture to the backside of the building, you may notice a little patio by a side door. It's not much, but if you stand on it, you can see a breathtaking view of the town, the tea fields, and the nearby forests. And if it has just rained, you can almost guarantee that a rainbow will stretch across the sky and over the landscape. Needless to say, I spend quite a bit of time there, simply sitting and thanking my Lord for placing me in this beautiful area. One day as I was reflecting, one of my good teacher friends stopped to talk to me. We spoke for a few minutes, but then got down to business.

"Why Kericho? How did you get here?"

I paused to think about that question. While I was still making plans for Kenya, my dear, dear missionary who has now become like family asked where in Kenya I would like to be placed. She gave me a few options, one of them being Kericho. I was familiar with the other parts of Kenya, but I thought to myself, I've never been there. Maybe I'll give it a try. She told me that I would be staying with a family from the church. At the time, I was slightly nervous about being so far away from her, but she assured me that if I ever felt uncomfortable, I could return to Nairobi and spend the rest of my time in one of the schools there.

I explained this to my friend. I also mentioned that God knew what I needed before I knew.

This friend smiled and said, "God did know what He was doing. I'm so glad you're here."

At the end of last week, I went to this same spot again. That week marked my one monthiversary of teaching at this school. That same friend walked up to me and shared the view I was enjoying. We looked out over the town in silence for some time. But the silence was broken.

"So... You are leaving in three weeks?"

"Yes." was all I could say.

More silence.

"I don't want you to leave."

Neither do I, I thought. But if I dared to whisper those words, I knew that the tears threatening my eyes would spill over onto my cheeks.

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When most people think of Africa, they imagine exotic animals. They imagine trees so big and plants to green that not taking a picture would be considered sinful. They imagine people dressed in tribal apparel, chanting and dancing around a fire late into the night.

When I think of Africa, though, I see the faces of the students in my class, smiling, singing, laughing. I envision the times we spend at break playing football and becoming covered in dirt and grime. I picture the tea fields so vibrantly green in their harvest and the laborers who spend their time picking the fields by hand.

My Africa may be different from your Africa.

While yours has incredible sights to be seen and fantastic animals to be spotted, mine has the word "love" written in every shining eye, in every gorgeous smile, in every eager handshake. The animals and the sceneries are just a perk of this great land.

As the beloved apostle Paul wrote in his first letter to the believers in Corinth, "...the greatest of these is love."

And, ooooh boy, was he right.


Loving, loving, loving always,
Bekah