Worship Films

A Miracle at Embulbul
By: Daniel Hoehne, Worship Films

A Thought for Days

          A short while ago, a friend and brother in Christ Father Edward Muge sent an excerpt from the Second Vatican Council, Pastoral Constitution on the Church in the Modern World. (Gaudium et Spes), 1965 [# 88] “The greater part of the world is still suffering from so much poverty that it is as if Christ Himself were crying out in these poor to beg the charity of the disciples. Some nations with a majority of citizens who are counted as Christians have an abundance of this world's goods, while others are deprived of the necessities of life and are tormented with hunger, disease, and every kind of misery. This situation must not be allowed to continue, to the scandal of humanity. For the spirit of poverty and of charity are the glory and authentication of the Church of Christ”.
          Although these are the words of the leadership of the men, they are more the reflection of the words of our Savior, Jesus Christ. (Mathew 10: 5-8, Luke 16:19-31, Mathew 19: 1-30) In spite of the number of times I have read this, I find myself struggling, not so much with the meaning of the words but with the challenging question it poses to me. What am I going to do about it? For most of my life I have heard and believed the message that one person cannot change the world. I have come to believe that, although one mortal man may not change the entirety of the world, each of us who will claim the name of Christian has both the burden and blessing of changing what we can for the glory and honor of the Lord.
          These are not my own words or my own thoughts; they are in fact the Great Commission of the Christian Church. Mathew 28:18-20 Then Jesus came to them and said, "All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Therefore, go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age”. So the question remains in my heart, what am I going to do about it? How far am I willing to go and to what lengths will I extend my frailty as a man to the will of God?
          I never gave any real thought to this at all before we traveled to Kenya to film two documentaries for the SMA (Society of African Missions Societas Missionum ad Afros) at different mission sites. I never thought about much of anything in a Christian mindset other than being thankful for the Graces, which God has given Diana and I in our lives and marriage. We had traveled to so many places and lived through so much together I imagined that I knew the truth about where we should be going and what we should be doing with our lives. The truth is, six months away from our first experience in the Third World I still wonder what any of this means.
          Today, Diana and I continue to grow our ministry, Worship Films. We have made so many wonderful friends through this work and pray that God will continue to bless our work and make us good stewards of the tasks that are set before us. I decided to write this essay, for lack of a better word, in order to share with you our freshman experience in Africa and to help shed some light on the struggles that these and millions of people around the world are facing every day. John 5:25 says, “I tell you the truth, a time is coming and has now come when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God and those who hear will live. We have so much work to do together in His name. Let us begin with open and grateful hearts.



Something of Home

          We have been home for months. Two video documentaries shot in Kenya, a CD of the Turkana music and a new website for our ministry are finished and in distribution. The problem, or should I say, the struggle, is that home no longer feels the way it once did. There is a sense of clarity now that is shedding light on the illusion my life in America really is. What I have known of life in Illinois seems somewhat more distant now than a small, African village where we stayed such a short time this past summer: Embulbul.
          Diana and I never intended on visiting this place for more than the day it would take to acclimate to the time change and rest from the nine thousand mile flight to Kenya. We were going to the Turkana district of northern Kenya to film with Father Edward Muge of the SMA and Embulbul would serve as a one day stop over on our journey to the desert region in the north. That was the plan. Long before we would leave for Kenya, we would meet Father Fabian Hevi, also an SMA missionary priest.
God has a way of changing our best-made plans. We were hosting a dinner party for Father Ed who had been in the country for several months. We had met and quickly became close friends. Father Ed called the day of the party to ask if he could bring along a friend, Father Fabian, who was also in the country doing some fund-raising for his mission work. Father Ed assured us he was a good guy and would enjoy a chance to meet with us. There really was no need for Father Ed to vouch for this man. If he was associated with Father Ed, he was a good man. Enough said.
          Father Fabian is one of those people whose first impression is the true impression of the man. Actually, it is not an impression at all. It is simply and wonderfully, Father Fabian. He is a native Ghanaian and a gregarious man. To hear Father Fabian laugh is to hear the truest sense of joy expressed from deep within the human heart. I have never heard a laugh like it. In fact, when we had finished the documentary we would eventually shoot with him, no one would need to ask to know he was in the background of a shot. His laugh is as unique to the ear as his friendship would become to the hearts.
          Our dinner had finished and we gathered in the cramped space of our living room. The conversation was light and energetic. It was a joy to see these two old friends, Father Fabian and Father Ed, together in the same place. It had been some time since they had seen each other and the spiritual bond of Christian brotherhood was obvious, almost tangible. As I listened to them speak the thought came to me, "If we are going to travel half way across the planet to film in Kenya, why not shoot two"? I suggested the idea to Father Fabian and the plan was quickly set. The plan was set but the planning had yet to begin. Diana and I had no idea how far over our heads and past our experience we were about to step into. Nearly a year later we would discover the meaning of the old adage, be careful what you pray for, you might just get it.

Getting There Is Half the Fun

          We were in O’Hare International Airport waiting for our flight to London. Three of us were sitting quietly in the corner of the terminal saying evening prayers. I kept noticing a young woman seated a short distance from us and staring intently as we prayed. At first, I thought we might be offending her or perhaps we were just a curiosity, praying there in the airport. Finally, she approached us and asked if she could listen. We welcomed her and she sat with us quietly listening to us pray. Her name was Shoira Usmanova and we soon learned she we was returning home to a city in Uzbekistan. Without prompting, she began telling us the story of how she had found Christ through some Christians she had met while studying in the US. She also told us of how Christians are persecuted in her predominately Islamic nation. She told us of how it would be unwise to declare your Christianity there and that you would be harassed, possibly harmed for being Christian. She spoke of how Christ had spoken to her in a dream and how her life had changed. We became very quiet, perhaps humbled, as she spoke. She continued by telling us that she had seen Christ in several visions that followed her conversion and that, in her heart, she was certain that He was The Way.
          I had been carrying a rosary with me I had owned for some years. I had imagined that I might give it to someone in the desert. There was no spiritual depth to this thought, I was just still in the mindset that somehow we would go and help convert many people in Kenya. It was nice thought, but a thought nonetheless centered on self and not truly in Him. Before she left to board her plane, I gave her the rosary. It was at best an impulsive gesture. It had no real importance to me other than it helped me pray the rosary. Thinking about what Shoira had told us about her home and predominantly Islamic family, I was sure the rosary would end up in her pocket hidden away.
          I left for a moment and when I returned, I wished her well, exchanged email addresses and offered her a short blessing. Her face lit up with this wonderful smile as she pointed to the rosary hanging boldly around her neck. You see, she had already let go of fear. She had already become willing to carry her cross. I am certain, as I can be today, that it was by the Hand of God that we met her in that airport just a day before we would arrive in Africa. There were big lessons I needed to learn and He was teaching me through Shoira. I was still afraid of nearly everything concerning this trip; would I get the video we needed, would Diana be safe, where would we be sleeping, was this work a calling or a spiritual fling?
          The flight went as scheduled. It was long and considerably boring for me. Some would call me hyperactive. Okay, nearly everyone who knows me would say it. Finally, some thirty-six hours after we left our home, we arrived in the Kenyatta International Airport in Kenya. We exited the plane and walked through a series of narrow corridors until we finally reached the customs desk. With all of the talk on global terrorism and the ensuing paranoia about it in the West, I had imagined that customs here would be something of a nightmare to navigate. Quite the opposite proved to be true. We walked through customs without ever being asked to stop, show a passport or declare our destination. At first, I found this to be quite a nice surprise until I had sufficient time to reflect on what this experience meant. Perhaps this was a country without security. Sometime later in our trip, we would find this to be terribly true.
We moved from the customs area to the baggage claim. The place was crowded and bristling with energy. There was a group of Irish boys going on safari and many men and women dressed in Western Christian garb. There were what appeared to be some Kenyans as well. You could tell almost immediately who was from the West and who was not. I wondered where they all were coming from and what they had come for. There were many priests, nuns, and other religious there and I imagined that most of them were there on mission. Surely, none of these fellow Westerners lived here.
Across from the baggage terminal was the exterior wall of the airport. Most of the wall was made of glass. I had not really noticed it before, as I was busy making a grab for our luggage. There were hundreds of Africans outside of the wall. There were in fact so many you could not see beyond the sea of their bodies pressed against the glass. Many of them were holding up signs alerting the incoming tourists of their presence. They were taxi drivers, busmen and representatives of the many safari operations in Kenya.
          I scanned the crowd for the one familiar face I had hoped to identify, Father Fabian. I looked but could not see him. As we gathered our luggage in a central location near the exit, the crowd had already begun to thin out. Still, there was no sign of our friend. Finally, when we were the last of the people from our flight in the terminal, we made our way outside of the secure area to look for him there. I was immediately taken back by two sights, neither of them Father Fabian. One was the presence of armed airport security carrying what appeared to be AK 47's and something similar to an Uzi. Another more alarming scene was that of a Kenyan army truck unloading heavily armed soldiers across the drive to the terminal. It was then I was certain we had just stepped into the Third World. Later in our trip, we would find that there had been a major breach of security at the airport a week or so earlier that had caused a serious scandal in the Kenyan government. It was a major story to us. To the Kenyans it was business as usual.
          We looked for Father Fabian for what seemed to be a long time. Actually, it was just a few minutes. There was no sign of him. As we were waiting in the front of the terminal for him to appear, we were approached by a young taxi driver who offered us a ride. We explained our situation to him and he offered to help. My Western thinking alerted me immediately to the fact that he was going to scam me or possibly even rob me. Such foolish thinking. In fact, this encounter would be the first real encounter we would have with the graciousness and kindness of the Kenyan people.
I must at this point be clear. Diana and I had planned every conceivable detail of this trip. We had gone over every aspect of every point until we had tired of re-checking ourselves. If there was a contingency that needed to be planned for, we had a plan A, B, and C. We had planned for everything but this. In fact, in our over-zealous efforts to forget nothing, we had forgotten to bring Father Fabians cell phone number, the parish number, and his address. One could say we had been humbled in repayment for our arrogance. The fact of the matter is we had forgotten to consider the simple details of the journey.
          Here is the good news. If you want to know something about Kenya, anything, ask a taxi driver. If you are lost and need directions, ask a taxi driver. Not sure how to order coffee in the airport shop, a taxi driver will know. No change for a local payphone or the basic knowledge on how to use one in Africa, chances are a taxi driver will. Our young friend pulled out all of the stops in helping us this day. He got us connected with an exchange bank at the airport to get some coins for the phone. He helped us find the number for the local diocese office. When that all failed, he marched us into the local safari tourism bureau and had us treated like diplomats. In short, after an hour or so of phone calls and several cups of the best coffee I ever had, we connected with Father Fabian and discovered that a man at the airport had told him earlier that we were there and already left. Father Fabian knowing well the impulsive nature of Americans assumed we had made a go of it on our own and returned to his church to await our arrival. Welcome to Kenya!
          We treated the taxi man to a couple cups of coffee in the little café on the corner and talked about our plans for the films and our excitement at being in Kenya. He shared a bit about his family with us as well as his take on the politics of the U.S. It is strange to hear this country described so accurately, in the raw, by someone from the Third World. It is honest. It is also sad to say that what had stuck out in this young mans mind the most about our country was the Bill Clinton-Monica Lewinsky scandal. And so it is, the scandals of our government bridge another gap to truth and democracy abroad.
          Finally, we caught a glimpse of Father Fabian coming across the walkway and our hearts were lightened. We exchanged hugs and greetings and assembled our equipment as we headed to the van. We left our young friend with a few dollars for his trouble. He seemed a bit surprised that we felt it was necessary to do so. Hey, he was just being a Kenyan.
          We loaded our bags into the rear of the van and pulled out of the terminal area. I think we both exhaled a bit. We had made it to Kenya. I suppose what happened next needed to happen in the first moments of our time in Africa. We had traveled a few thousand meters or so when we were motioned to pull over by a Kenyan police officer. Father Fabian instructed us to stay in the van while he spoke with this man. I watched their conversation through the side mirror of the van. It was interesting to see. The officer would speak, Father Fabian would give him a stern look and the officer would point at the van. This little cycle repeated itself a few times until finally, Father Fabian was doing most of the talking. He returned to the van, drove off, and smiled.
Not wanting to be nosey, okay, I wanted to be nosey, I asked what had happened. Father Fabian just laughed and said something like, "Welcome to Kenya". From what I gathered, the officer thought there was a problem with the vehicle's license plates. From Father Fabian’s perspective, it was a friendly little shakedown from the local authority. Finally, after some discussion with the officer, it came to be known that his father was a parishioner at Father Fabian's church. Ouch! We were soon on our way.
I guess you cannot blame the cop. At best, he makes twenty-three dollars a month U.S. and probably shares a home with at least two other families in the same financial struggle as he is in. The crime was not the shakedown or the license plates; the crime was and is poverty. Over the next two weeks in Kenya, we would see this play out repeatedly. We would in fact see so much poverty that we would eventually collapse under the weight of it on our last day in Embulbul. I put this up front so there is no illusion to what Diana and I are doing with our ministry. We are not interested in making nature films or spot pieces for Oprah. We are not interested in making cute films that "tear at the heartstrings of Americans". We want to make video in raw without all the enhancing and sweetening that turn the honesty of a situation into a movie. We want people to see the truth of what is going on in two thirds of this planet as it is and for what it really is. What is going on is wrong, dead wrong.
          I began filming our drive to Embulbul as soon as we had left the airport. It is unadvisable and in fact illegal to film inside the airport grounds. The drive to Embulbul would take us around the perimeter of Nairobi, an area not usually visited by tourists. As we drove onto the highway and headed east, the landscape and the buildings looked something like they do here in the States. Actually, I felt a bit disappointed as I was still in the mindset that we were going to see the Africa of Hollywood. I wanted to see elephants, zebras, and Maasai. What we saw was something entirely different.
It became apparent rather quickly that what we would be seeing was an escalating view of poverty in a country of "have-nots". The drive to the mission was about forty minutes long and with each passing mile the view of poverty in this region became clearer and clearer. We drove by what I believe is the largest slum in all of Africa, Jericho. In the short view of this place we would never visit because of the inherent danger, we would get a glimpse of millions of people living in conditions pulled out of the worst of nightmares. Along the road, we would see people wandering. They were young and old, children and adults alike, just wandering. We would see Maasai herding cattle in the middle of the road. It was visually perculitar to see the antiquity of Africa in all its glory intermingled with the horror of poverty that is now too often the static reality of this place.
          Mile after mile we remained silent. This was the first real glimpse of where we had just landed. It was not what we expected although neither of us really knew what to expect. Occasionally, Father Fabian would point out a mission or a clinic that served the poor sitting within meters of some gated community or school for the wealthy whites. To this day, I cannot make sense of this. Of course the world, and wrongly so, is have and have not. However, to see wealth within spitting distance of such terrible poverty...it makes no sense to me. Lord knows I should not sleep well at night for the wrongs my life still contains. Nevertheless, how does a man stay afloat in wealth while his literal neighbor is drowning in poverty and rest his soul at all. I do not understand it.
          Father Fabian eventually announced that we were arriving in Embulbul. It was an overcrowded and cramped place of people piled upon people. There was such commotion all around us I was glad to be inside our van. I think we stood out a bit with our white skinned faces pressed against the windows looking out as they were looking in. Could we be more out of place? We would soon learn that the color of our skin would make little difference to most everyone we met in Kenya. We rounded a few more turns in this ever-winding and rough road to see the perimeter of the Brother Beausong Catholic Education Center where we would be staying.
We turned off the main road to the dirt strip that led to both the mission and the village proper. We entered the mission through a gate in the large steel and stone wall that surrounds the place. I remember seeing a man at the gate and many people milling about the courtyard as our van entered the most open space of the center. The mission seemed strangely out of place in contrast to its surroundings. Its buildings were modern and well kept. Although much of the architecture was incongruent with itself, it was surprisingly modern. Everything seemed to be in its proper place although I had no idea where anything, including us, should be. The people who were coming and going from the many buildings were all dressed like professionals and seemed to be quite happy. The longer we stayed the more we began to realize that their happiness was real. Inside the walls of the mission, people find a respite from the stark reality of poverty and crime that permeate this area.
          The van finally came to a rest at the entrance to another gate to our right. I suddenly realized that within the mission walls was another walled in facility. I was trying to imagine why there would be so much security inside the walls of a Christian community. During our visit in Embulbul, the answer to that question would become painfully clear. A priest had been murdered a very short distance from where we were staying a few weeks earlier. Catechists and others in the community would be attacked with a horrible randomness that my Western mind struggles to understand. Not everyone there wants things to change if it means people speaking out against injustice and corruption. It would seem that the smiles on the faces of the people we would meet existed in spite of the constant threats to life and safety. The truth is universal. Poverty breeds violence and poverty becomes mans violence against his fellow man.
          Our bags were taken from the van and then to our rooms by some young men who seemed to appear from nowhere. I found myself uncomfortable with this. I did not want to burden anyone here with anything. We did not come to be served but it is the way there within the community. My mind was taken back to pre-civil rights America for a reason I could not identify. I was uncomfortable with the fact that we were the only whites in the area and that yes, Africans would be serving us. That is my garbage. I truly think the only person aware of the color of my skin was me. It troubles me today to remember that moment. I am still so limited and narrow in my understanding of my place in this world.
          From that moment on, I would feel uneasy knowing I was a Westerner who had nearly every material need and want satisfied. I felt a sickness welling up within in me, that I live in a country where I want for nothing, and that I need very little of what I want. I would find that from the first moments in Kenya I would so often have to lower my eyes from the scenes around me. I actually found myself beginning to become angry with myself, my country, and my way of life. We have so much and waste most of it. There would be days ahead where I would see so many people with nothing to eat. People drinking polluted water, their bodies covered in rags. I felt guilty. I felt ashamed. It has been over six months since our return and still, I struggle with the disparity between what I have and what I have seen others have not. I still wonder, Am I part of the problem?
          We were exhausted as we were shown to our rooms. We had been flying, driving, sitting, and anticipating for three days. I think it would be fair to say that the only thing keeping our bodies upright and moving was adrenalin and the coffee we had consumed at the airport. Father Fabian suggested we all take a nap before gathering later for a meal. We had come to Embulbul on this leg of the journey to do nothing more than rest, before we would leave in two days, heading north to begin filming at the first location, the Turkwell Mission in the Turkana District. That was the plan. Rest for a day before going to the desert to film. We would return to Embulbul ten days later and film our project there.

Six Feet off the Ground

          Okay, no one ever accused me of possessing an over-abundance of common sense. We had no sooner entered our room on the top floor of the guesthouse and I was assembling the video equipment to get a "jump start" on project two before project one had even begun. We quickly changed clothes, grabbed our sixty pounds of equipment, and drug our travel-numbed bodies downstairs announcing to Father Fabian, "Okay, let's have a look around and get a few shots". Surely, he must have been wondering what the heck we were thinking. However, as it is the nature of nearly everyone we would meet, he has one goal, to serve others.
          I do not think it is necessary to mention that every second of video I captured that afternoon was unusable. It was worse than the majority of vacation video I have seen. The shots were shaky and as out of focus and over exposed as we were. It was the first of so many mistakes I would make on this journey. It is one of many weaknesses I have yet to let go of. I all too often see the world and my work as a timeline that exists only in my head. I fail to trust that God will direct the work as He sees fit, not as I want it to be. Ugghhhhhh! When I reviewed the video later that evening to get the first look at my masterpiece work, I almost immediately hit the erase button and knew I had been a fool in a place where one cannot afford to be.
          Overall, the first day in Kenya was and is still a dull blur of indoctrination into a land I find myself longing for every day since we have returned. Our first evening was full of wonderful surprises. A splendid dinner had been prepared for us. We would be fed so well in this place throughout our stay. One of the great gifts this mission site gives to the local people is opportunity for supportive employment. The women who cook at the site were gifted. Everything was unique to our palettes and served in abundance.
          Moments after we came downstairs to the dining area, we were blessed to find that five Irish medical students were on location doing work to support their medical educations. I could write volumes on the joy we received from getting to know these fine young women. They were all so young, alive, and full of the energy God grants to the youthful. It was interesting to dine and visit with them as we compared notes on our countries and got to know each other a little bit. A few moments into our dinner we were joined by a teacher from Ireland named Eddie. What a joyful man. He was filled with a hectic kind of energy. He told us that he came to Kenya almost every year for a couple of weeks to teach the children there and get in on a little football (soccer) with the kids. We would later learn that Eddie spends a lot of time in Ireland raising funds to sponsor kids to attend school.
          This is how it works here and in so many places around the world. There are regular people just doing what they can to help where help is needed. There are no heroes, just Christians who believe they can and should make a difference. There are medical students rendering medical care and teachers teaching. You will find builders building and the faithful praying. Sometimes you even find videographers and photographers capturing it all on film to tell the story so others may come to see the truth. Father Ed once told me that we are all missionaries when we use the gifts and talents God has given us to help those who need the help so desperately. You learn something about people in Embulbul. People are good by the nature of their creation. Give most people a chance to do good works and they will. Most of us just never know where to begin. We found a good place called Embulbul. I invite you to pause in your life, take account of your blessings, and find your Africa.
          Dinner was finished and I walked outside to find it had become quite dark as night falls quickly in Embulbul. We said our goodnights and went upstairs to our rooms. I found that I was at this point really noticing the architecture of the inner sanctum. It was constructed largely of breezeblocks and had a somewhat Arabic look and feel. Our room looked over the center most courtyard that now had fallen into complete darkness. I stood outside our door and smoked my last cigarette of the day. I could hear singing in the village that surrounded us on three sides. There were sounds of the occasional dog barking and the footsteps of the mission's security men patrolling the perimeter of the wall. I was so tired it was hard to think but I did not want to go to bed. I did not want to miss a second of the life going on around us. Nonetheless, I returned to our room and found Diana organizing some of the clutter we had made earlier in the day.
          We would be leaving very early in the morning for the Wilson airport just outside of Nairobi to catch a bush plane to the Turkana District near Lodwar. There we would begin filming with Father Edward Muge at the SMA’s Turkwell Mission site. That of course is an entirely different story. I thanked God for our safe arrival and the comfort of the beds we had been given. We were in Africa. We were about to sleep in a place I never thought the Lord would lead us. Our ministry was about to begin in ways we could never have guessed possible. I had spent the last two years praying that God would lead us as we formed Worship Films. I did not care where we went as long as it was where He would have us go. So many things had come together to make this all possible. So many people had given of their time, treasure and talent to send us on this mission. What I had prayed for was unfolding before us. I lay in bed that night struggling to quiet my mind and get some sleep.
          We awoke very early in the morning. I remember an incredible sense of hurriedness and pressure. It was Thursday morning and we needed to get to the Wilson Airport to meet with the Missionary Aviation Fellowship folks to catch a small bush plane to the north of the country where filming of the Turkana mission site would begin. We had a small breakfast and loaded our gear into the van. We made it to the airport to find that we would be waiting hours for the fog to clear in the Rift Valley. In this region, flights are conducted by visual reference and the fog that is common in the valley would make it unsafe to travel. Finally, some five hours later, we departed to Lodwar, in the Turkana District, where we would film for eight days.
          We would return to Embulbul twelve days later following a three-day, punishing ride across the mid-section of Kenya by four-wheel drive. The drive would be one of the most physically punishing experiences of my life. It would place us in harms way and expose us to a completely new level of poverty in the country. We would see the Rift Valley up close and personal. We would stand on the edge of the African Escarpment and behold the savanna lands below it. We would spend a night at Lake Baringo where we would photograph the most spectacular birds we had ever seen. For three days, we would breathe in the essence of the country as it morphed from Sub-Saharan desert to the mountain region of the south. In spite of the struggle and risks we took, it was a trip I do not regret. I am certain I would not make this drive again but I am glad we made journey as we did. We had driven through the birthplace of humanity.
          Our last stop before we reached Embulbul was a city they call Naivasha. We had not planned to stop anywhere but we had just blown out the third tire of the trip and had broken a shock absorber, snapped a rear spring and knocked off all the balancing weights on the tires. It was no longer safe to continue driving without fixing the tire. Naivasha is a large, very industrial looking city. The traffic was frenzied and appeared to be out of control. We saw a large Shell station up ahead that had a tire (spelled tyre in Kenya) repair sign. We pulled in and became the instant center of attention although no one approached us.
          I cannot imagine how out of place we must have seemed in every town and village we stopped at. I recall there were workers tearing out an old section of the stations concrete drive by hand and shovel. Across from the area where tires were repaired, we saw a small café near the end of the facility. There was also a sign that read “toilets”. We made our way across the long drive and row of petrol pumps to the café and restrooms. We walked around the back of the building under the scrutiny of the locals who were sipping bottles of cola under the awning of the station. This is not a place you let your wife walk alone so I accompanied Diana to the door marked “woman”. The facilities were equipped as they are throughout Kenya with a squat hole. I don’t think I need to elaborate do I?
          We both took care of our business and made a quick visual across the way to ensure ourselves that Father Ed and the truck were still there. Of course he was and we made our way over to him to see how long we might be there. We were assured that it was going to be awhile. No one is in a hurry in Kenya. Actually, after you adjust to the rhythm of it all, the slower pace of expectancies becomes natural and welcome. I smoked a cigarette and surveyed the life happening all around us. It was amazing to see. I had been in hundreds of large cities in my life but nothing quite like this. The sounds and the motion were a bit surreal. There were people shouting in Swahili and cars that seemed to be on a roller coaster that had lost all control. It was like a circus of life without a ringmaster. Beautiful.
          Finally, the truck was patched up enough to get us back to Embulbul where more intense repairs would have to be made. We decided that we would pull the truck around the corner of the stations’ office and eat our box lunches we had received at Lake Baringo the evening before. There was a security person there and he greeted us pleasantly. The odd thing about security in Kenya is that you never know who is who or whom they are serving. They may be private or local police. They may be Kenyan army or National Park police. There never seemed to be any method to their presence. We spoke with this man a bit, which was difficult due to our total lack of Swahili and his very broken English.
          As we stood around the truck, we noticed a large group of kids hanging around the street across the way from us. They seemed a bit out of place even in this place. We asked the security man who they were and it was explained to us that they were “street kids”. What street kids really means is something horrible. Street kids are those children, and I mean children, who are orphaned by AIDS, crime, or poverty and now live in a feral manner in the streets. There, they spend there days sniffing glue, committing crimes, taking other drugs and alcohol, and begging for food. Their shelter is the streets and doorways of abandoned buildings. They are perpetually victimized, they in turn victimize, and the cycle of poverty-induced hopelessness is born and bred.
          It was not so long ago that the Kenyan government had declared open season on these children. The policies involved the systematic abuse and beatings by the police and older street dwellers, and rounding up large groups of them, perhaps in the hundred, and sending them off to detention centers were many would die of disease and neglect. Although many of these policies have changed due to international intervention, the fate of these children is impossible for me to understand in a world of such abundant resources. Imagine it, billions for a plane that does nothing but kill, and we build hundreds of them, and so little in international aid to this region. To bad they do not have oil or they would certainly be receiving more assistance. I wonder how much longer it will be until the West and all its gluttonous excesses literally fall off the scales of justice. I wonder how much longer God shall remain patient.
It was difficult and then became impossible to eat anymore. We asked the security man if he would allow a few of them to come across the street and on to the property to take the rest of our food. He agreed and we gave him some to eat as well. The kids were actually very orderly as they danced across the street and received the fruit and cake we had in our boxes. I was happy to see that they were sharing it among themselves. I was surprised that they thanked us for the food. We had heard so many negative things about them. I am guessing that little of it is true. How else would a child left alone in the streets learn to survive?
          Please allow me to digress a bit more. It is a frustration to Diana and I that we can produce and share the images and documentaries of this area but they are entirely ineffective at portraying the depth of the problems in Kenya and a thousand other places. I do not pretend to understand it myself. In the worst of it, we knew we were going home at some point to anything we wanted. How do people survive like this and know it is not likely to improve? People so often say, “They are used to it, they don’t know any other way”. Wrong! Dead Wrong! A child knows when his stomach is empty. A woman knows when she has been raped. A family knows it when they are living in the street. We just tell ourselves they do not know any better so we can sleep at night. It is all so irrational on our parts. We delude ourselves into believing that, not only does the Third World not know any better, but that we don’t have a Christian responsibility to our brothers and sisters abroad. I remember what Gandhi said; “We are all such sinners I should leave the judging to God”.
          Let us remember what scripture teaches us about our responsibilities. James 1:27 Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world. James 2: 14-16 What good is it, my brothers, if a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save him? Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, "Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed," but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? Proverbs 19:17 He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto Jehovah, and his good deed will he pay him again. 1 John 3 We know what real love is because Christ gave up his life for us. And so we also ought to give up our lives for our Christian brothers and sisters. But if anyone has enough money to live well and sees a brother or sister in need and refuses to help – how can God's love be in that person? Dear children, let us stop just saying we love each other; let us really show it by our actions. It is by our actions that we know we are living in the truth, so we will be confident when we stand before the Lord, even if our hearts condemn us.
          We returned to Embulbul as planned and were greeted by Father Fabian. We were completely exhausted from the heat of the desert. Our skin, our noses and clothes were still impregnated with the dust, dirt and sand of Turkana and the road to Embulbul. We drug ourselves upstairs to our room and dropped our gear on the floor. I took a shower and scrubbed my dirt stained skin three times. It was so good to stand in a clean, hot shower. I got out of the shower and dried off with a white towel that quickly became brown with the dirt still deep in my pores. Back into the shower I went.
          We finished getting cleaned up and joined Father Fabian, the Irish girls and Eddie in the dining room. Behold a hot meal! We ate well and spent the evening talking on and on about what we had experienced in Turkana. The girls filled us in on what they had been doing at the hospital in Nairobi. They were such a joy to see and listen to. I walked outside to the courtyard and stared up at the sky to see the stars we had come to love in the desert. They were a little less intense here but I wondered how many of the children we had met in Turkana were looking up at the same sky. I listened to the sounds of the village just outside the high walls. Strangely, I felt like I was home. In fact, I had never been so far from home. Still, I was there with my brothers and sisters in Christ. They had so quickly become family. I find myself thinking of them and praying for them nearly every day. God is so good to us!

Into the Truth

          We awoke the next morning still exhausted from the drive the days before. We made our way to the kitchen and I made some Kenyan coffee. If you have never had coffee made from Kenyan beans, you have never had coffee. I was surprised that coffee selling for two dollars a pound in Kenya, just miles away from the plantation where it is grown in Karen, sells for twelve dollars a pound at Starbucks in the States. I wonder where the ten dollars goes. Certainly, it does not go to the people who plant, care for and harvest this crop. It is just another exploitation of the poor I suppose. None of it really makes sense.
          It was important to Father Ed and Father Fabian that we did not leave the country having seen only poverty. They wanted to take us on safari in the Nairobi National Park to see some of the animals. We learned later that few of the native Kenyans would ever see the inside of this park. They cannot afford it. Imagine that if you can; to live in a country where twenty percent of the GNP is made in tourism and, as a native, you cannot afford to go. Again, it makes no sense. What makes even less sense is that the government of Kenya owns the parks. The people profit little or nothing by any of it. Profits in the parks and other tourist areas rose over fifty-one percent in 2005 totaling five hundred and fifty two million dollars. Not much by our standards but in a country with a gross national product of nine billion dollars U.S., this is substantial income. Regardless of what is raised in tourism, precious little of the profits go to the indigenous people.
          The drive through the park was breath taking. We saw animals I have only seen in film. The park was like a country within the country. It was clean and well kept. There was no litter or signs of poverty. The weather was a bit overcast and cool leaving the park almost entirely to us. Since I was a kid, I have always found the giraffe to be one of God’s most amazing creations. We were blessed to see many of them and to photograph them in the raw. We stopped at the rear of the park and hiked a trail around a long and narrow lake that serves as a hippo pool. A Kenyan park ranger who carried an M1 rifle accompanied us. I am guessing it was to protect us from the animals as we left the safety of our van. Near the rear of the lake under very heavy cover of trees and brush, we came upon a Maasai settlement. We watched them awhile from across the lake. The ranger explained that the government had allowed them to stay on this land. I wonder if the truth is that, no one messes with the Maasai. They are, as you might know one of the great warrior tribes of Africa.
Anyone who knows me knows I like monkeys too. Okay, very few people probably know I like monkeys. I suppose it just does not come up in conversation very often. From the moment we entered the trail that bordered the pool, we heard rustling in the trees and strange sounds coming from the brush. Suddenly we saw a few faces peaking out of the brush. They were Vervet monkeys. I remember giggling like a kid. Then, as we looked more intently, more and more faces came peering from the scrub and trees. There were dozens of them. I think they were as curious about us as we were about them. I pointed the camera and must have shot two-dozen images. This was just part one of our “Vervet Odyssey”. We stood there a bit exchanging monkeyshines with them. Actually, I think I was the only one making monkeyshines. I think they won that contest. They had a lot more practice.
          We headed off down the trail towards an area where we hoped to find the hippos. We could hear their little feet (I think you call them feet on a monkey don’t you?) pattering down the trail behind us. I turned back to see that they were indeed following us. I am not sure that Diana found this comforting at all. We walked a bit more and I tried to photograph the monkeys trailing behind her. They stood still for the shot. She did not. They eventually stopped following us as the brush cleared and a large grassland opened up in front of us.
          We walked back to a rest spot near our van and ate lunch with the ranger. You know, I just could not help it. What do they always say about engaging wildlife? Anyone? Don’t mess with the wildlife! I was not really messing with them I just wanted a close up or two of one particularly crafty looking monkey. I had this great idea. Why not get up real close with the short lens to cut down on the distortion. In fact, why not get part way up in the tree with him. I figured, heck, it is just a little monkey out here in the middle of nowhere far away from help, medical care, and rabies shots. Sometimes I just cannot help myself.
          I got close and filled the lens with some very tight shots of my new friend. Suddenly and without any provocation, other than the presence of a white guy two feet from his face, my new friend screamed at me and showed me his two-inch fangs. Hey, I didn’t know Vervet monkeys had fangs. Guess what else I did not know. I can still move pretty fast for an overweight white guy with a pound of titanium implants in his spine. Ah, the splendor of nature.
          We spent the last of our visit to the park high upon a ridge overlooking the grasslands below. The scene was breathtaking and majestic. The air was cool and the sun had begun to make itself apparent in the sky. We watched a group of black rhinos grazing far off in the distance with a group of zebras. It was Africa as I had seen in film. It was the image of Africa that belies the reality of this continent. What I had seen on National Geographic specials and the Nature Channel was such a thin and distorted slice of the truth. Yes, there is great beauty in the landscapes and people of Kenya. In fact, it is in abundance. The picturesque views that are relegated to calendars and the covers of magazines only further the acceptance by the West that what is happening there is right justified.
          We left the park and made the short drive back to the mission. We ate lunch and talked about our plans for the weeks’ filming. Father Fabian made a few phone calls, which gave us a chance to look around the place a bit. There is such a wonderful energy that happens there. People from all over the village come to participate in numerous activities. Over the course of the week, we would be blessed to see and film many of the good works going on at the center.
          It was late in the afternoon and the light had become quite nice for filming. There were many clouds in sky, which glowed with a peculiar purple tone. Father Fabian, Diana, myself and two of the medical students made our way to the rear of the grounds where the gate to the village would open up to us a whole new view of the world. The walls around the mission are high and access to the village is made through a very tall and wide metal door.
          As we opened the door to the village, I could feel my heart beat a bit more quickly. We had seen much of village life in Turkana but this we knew would be different. This was a slum. I hate the word. I suppose it is not so much the word as what it represents; needless and extensive poverty isolated to a specific location for the gain of another group, where people’s voices are unheard, where human suffering is allowed to grow. I am not sure how Webster defines slum. I can only define it by what I have seen.
          There is an amazing thing happening in Embulbul that becomes apparent as soon as you cross the threshold from the mission site to the village. Muslims are living side by side with Christians in peace and relative harmony. Behind us was a Catholic church. Not a hundred yards away stood a mosque. There were loud speakers overhead and the Muslim call to prayer was being broadcast. No one seemed to be alarmed or disturbed by this. People just moved to where they needed to be. Imagine it, in the poorest of places, Christians and Muslims living in peace. I have wondered for some time how this could be. The media is ripe with images of warfare being waged between these two groups. In Embulbul, violence among the groups is rare. The only answer to this riddle thus far has been that no outside government or group is pushing an agenda here. There is no interference from the West. No one is there trying to “whip a little democracy” on anybody. The help being offered by Christians and others from around the world here is being done so in culturally relevant ways. There is no other way that works.
          There was recently an uproar in Embulbul. When I learned of the cause, I found myself shocked and dismayed. A group of “Christians” had come to Embulbul to forward a religious agenda of their own. They had come to convert people to their style of religion. In doing so, they had disseminated literature that pitted the local Catholic Church against the Muslims. From what we were told, the literature was anti-Islamic and contained images and wording that are common to the Catholic Church. The Muslims were grossly offended and rightly so. They formed a sizeable group and approached the mission site threatening to burn it down. One must know that the mission employs many Muslims and offers all of it services equally to them.
          Father Fabian was called to quell the problem and was successful in doing so. It was soon discovered that members from a western church were found to be distributing the literature. I will not disclose their religious affiliation as the guilty party’s certainly fall well outside the teachings of their own church. They were arrested by Kenyan police and, at the time of this writing, remain in a Kenyan prison awaiting formal charges and hearings. It is all to often the problem in this region of the world. Some misguided folks evangelizing through fear, hatred, and the incitement of unrest. May God forgive them and all who claim to be working for the Lord and do such things.
The village is a sprawling area of rough, dirt streets that are strewn with litter and debris. In the rainy season, the streets are impassable. The houses and shops are built mostly from corrugated steel and a vast array of discarded materials. Some of the homes sit in small groupings and are closed in by tin or wooden fences. Smoke from fires used to cook on and provide heat rise from holes in the roof and cracks in the walls. Goats and chickens roam the streets freely and I am still unsure as to how anyone knows which animals belong to whom.
          The streets are alive and bustling with life. Children are everywhere playing as children do. I watched many of them through the lens of my video camera and every so often dropped it to my side to absorb the scenes through the nakedness of my eyes. There were many men gathered in small groups outside of small shops talking and taking in the site our presence was creating. The farther we walked the larger the group of children in tow became. The openness and curiosity of the children there was joyful to me. Over and over again they would call out to us, “How are you”? I think it was the only English many of them knew. We would shout in reply, “How are you” or attempt to answer in Swahili. Regardless of our answer, they would laugh and run about with each of our replies.
          We would occasionally come across a mother watching her children play in the street and upon seeing us coming, she would gather them quickly back into their homes. There is an almost complete absence of vehicles in Embulbul so the streets serve as playgrounds as well. I imagine we were quite a surprise to many of these moms and everyone else as well. It is very rare that Caucasians are present in the village.
          In the past and all to often, Caucasians in the village equals exploitation of the locals. Many people come to Africa for many reasons. Many have come to film and photograph the people with grand promises of money and assistance in exchange for the privilege of filming. Almost none of them follow through. This was an obstacle removed for us by the trust of the people in Father Fabian. There would be many times on our trip that we would turn the cameras off or away in respect for the people. We did go to Kenya to be voyeuristic with our lenses. We did not go to film the private sufferings of anyone. If a scene or a shot could not be used to build something of use for the people, it was not filmed.
          We walked down the main road of the village and began taking turns into what became a maze of new paths. Within a few minutes I had lost my sense of direction and had no real idea how many turns we had taken. Around each corner was another scene waiting to be discovered. There were women cooking on charcoal fires just off the road and in front of their homes. Everywhere we looked there were children running and playing in the streets. Groups of teens would pass us by for a look at the commotion surrounding us, reappearing moments later for another look. The village was alive. It breathed. It had an energy that is impossible for me to describe. I have traveled through most of the U.S. and its towns and cities and have never seen such life.
          Were it not for the constant reminders of poverty, the buildings made of scrap materials and the lack of sewers and electricity, one would imagine they had fallen into a wellspring of life’s own source. The air was a carnival of sounds with street corner, fundamentalist preachers and a see of native voices coming from all directions. African pop music blended in with it all, making that landscape of the unfamiliar even more foreign to me. Even as I stood still filming shot after shot, I felt as if I were spinning in circles around some irresistible force. I think it was during this village tour that I felt my first longing to stay in Kenya forever. They know something about life we no longer know or believe. Perhaps we cannot know it any longer with the overloading of our senses this Western culture breeds. I wonder today if the first people to arrive in America knew what the people of Embulbul know. I bet they did. To see this side of their life makes me wonder who is truly better off.
          Thomas, a Catechist from the church, joined us on this walk. I could write volumes about this man and never scratch the surface of the genuine and gentle spirituality of this man. He was so soft spoken that I would find myself leaning into him to hear him speak. I watched him pray during mass one day and the look in his eye as he stood before the cross humbled me. He was not attending mass he was part of it. He looked at that figure of Christ as if it were Christ Himself standing there before him. I wonder what it takes to have that look fall upon your face in church.
          Perhaps Thomas touched Diana most deeply in this place. Diana is a nurse who cares for premature infants. In her work, she is witness to the constant struggle between life and death. When Thomas learned of this, he shared what must be a most intimate part of his history with Diana. He told her of how his mother had considered not keeping him. Obviously, her thoughts changed. He told Diana of how someone had met with his mother and encouraged her to have her baby. Somehow, Diana had reminded him of his birth.
          When we would finally leave this place for home, Thomas gave Diana a poem he had written for her that honored her life and her work. I have rarely seen Diana more moved by such an act of love. I wonder how many people Thomas has touched in his life and how many more await his loving touch. What a Grace it is that God should love us so well as to touch us through the lives of strangers in strange places. I wish everyone considering abortion as an option, when they find themselves in the worst of life situations, could meet Thomas and learn something from his life, a life that was fulfilled.
          We made our way to what must have been the center of the village. There we were taken inside the home of an elderly woman, Lucy, who was bed ridden in her old age. The room was dark and dusty and smelled of the earth that formed the walls of her home. There was a small window at the rear of this ten-foot by twenty-foot home where the faces of children who had been following us peered in. There was a puppy on the floor and the woman’s daughter and grandchild stood silently in the background. With Thomas, Father Fabian, two Irish medical students and another catechist, the room was filled beyond capacity.
          Father Fabian introduced us to the woman who strained to see us with her aging eyes. It was beautiful to hear her voice pronounce our names as each of us were introduced. We listened as she spoke with Father Fabian in her native tongue, and laughing along with them, not knowing what we were laughing at. She kept saying something to Father Fabian and stretching her hands out to touch us. Diana stepped forward and took her hand, a small gesture for which she was thanked, “Asante san”. The woman continued to speak and Fabian finally interpreted her words to us. She was apologizing to us for not having any tea to offer. She did not have the few pennies it would take to buy tea and was sorry she had nothing for us. My God, how could this be! There we are in the middle of a slum where people live on in a year what most of us make here in a week. There we stood with thousands of dollars of digital imaging gear, our high-tech travel clothes, and shoes that probably cost more than her home and she was sorry she had no tea to offer.
          I will tell you this much. If God ever reached down and ripped my greedy heart from my chest, it was at this moment. I have never been more humbled in my life. In that moment, I thought about a lot of my life. I thought about all the time and money and material goods I have wasted on nothing for nothing good. I thought of how my life could never be the same again. I believe this was one of many moments in Kenya that God would show me truths I did not want to see. I went there blind to the truth about my responsibility as a Christian and Christ was prying open my eyes to the reality I never wanted to believe. My greatest regret about that moment was not setting down the camera and taking that woman’s hand in mine in prayer. The truth is that I was afraid of what I was seeing, the truth.
          We left her home shortly after Father Fabian offered her a blessing and lifted her up in prayer. I lay in bed that same night and prayed for that woman wishing I had prayed with her that day. What was I so afraid of? I still do not really know. We had prayed for this ministry to take shape. We had prayed to be led to places to use our talents in a way that glorified God and brought relief to those in need. We had prayed that our first major mission to Africa would go well. All of these things indeed took place and still I was afraid. Not of dying or injury or some African illness we might bring home, instead, I was afraid of what I would be asked to do with the truths we were being shown.
          We continued walking about the village and taking in the sights. Eventually, were led inside a gate and back into a cluster of homes that could not be seen from the street. There was a group of three small children playing in between the houses and we stopped for a moment to take their pictures. They were happy little kids and seemed to be quite curious about who we were and what it was we were pointing at them. I wonder how many children, or adults for that matter, have seen a video camera before.
          We entered the house of an elderly woman; not nearly as old as the woman we had met in the previous home. The house was nearly pitch black. The only light in the house was coming from an open wood fire burning nicely on the dirt floor. The air was filled with an acrid smoke and light rays coming through the cracks in the walls were shining through the smoke like laser beams. It was hard to breath and even harder to see. It was so dark in fact, the video camera was barely able to detect an image. As is usual in this country, we greeted each other warmly and carried on small talk with the help of our interpreters.
          We left the home and headed further into the maze of narrow streets to the furthest point in the village. By now, twilight was settling in and I wondered if we would make it back before it became dark. As we headed down the road, now walking quite some distance from our group, we caught the attention of three men who began shouting at us and motioning us to stop where we were. I was oblivious to their shouting and kept walking towards them. Finally, Father Fabian rounded the corner behind us and when the men recognized that we were with him, they began laughing and motioning towards us in welcome.
          The leader of this small group was a retired Brigadier General of the Kenyan Army. I am sorry to say I cannot recall his name. He was a small-framed man but had an intensity about him that was captivating. I wondered what he had seen and experienced in his life as a general in a Third World army. He explained to Father Fabian that he had seen us coming and had no intention of letting us pass. I do not blame him. Far to many people have come to this place to exploit these people and their lives. He was as gracious as everyone we met there. We were invited to walk with him to his home at the furthest point back in the village.
          We walked down a long, tree-lined pathway to his home. Along the way, his wife, a very gentle and kind looking woman, joined us. As the trees gave way to the first view of his house, we were taken back at the modern construction and western appearance of his home. He was very proud of this place explaining that he had paid cash for the building materials and constructed the home on his own. This was certainly the great exception to life there. It was explained to us that borrowing money for a home in Embulbul is a very bad idea. Miss one payment or make it late and your home and everything in it will be taken from you by the lenders.
          We were invited inside to rest and have tea. The home was beautiful and filled with pictures of their children and Christian art. While we waited for tea to be served, we were introduced to their daughter who was probably in her twenties and their two grandsons. We visited for quite awhile and enjoyed tea and cookies with our new friends. That is the way in Embulbul. Meet someone, talk for a bit and you become friends. No one remains a stranger there very long. We must have talked for over an hour. The general’s stories of his time in the U.S. and abroad as well as his stories from his service days were fascinating.
          We had lost track of time and had failed to realize that night had fallen in around us. For a moment, I became fearful that we would have to walk the long distance across the furthest two points of this place in complete darkness. The fear passed quickly as I began to absorb the sounds and movements of the night in Embulbul. I thought for a moment about the depth of the privilege we had been graced with, to be there in that place at that moment. There are no streetlights in Embulbul and electricity is a rare commodity. I let the camera roll at my side knowing I would not pick up any images in this darkness. I did however want to capture the sounds that were so foreign to my ears. We were truly in another world.
          Every so often, we would pass one of the small shops in the village. There were hair styling shops, food vendors and shops I could not identify. The small lamps at the fronts of these places, probably solar powered, produced an ethereal glow that was distorted by the dust being kicked up by peoples feet. Other than our time in Turkana, I am sure we have never been so far from the familiarity of our home. We eventually arrived back at the mission and I felt a little let down that our trek through the village had ended. As we passed through the large metal gate that separates the mission from the village, I felt as if I had just stepped through a time portal from the surreal to what had become a bit more familiar to us. I was confident we would not tour it again on this trip due to the heavy filming schedule that awaited us in the morning.
We all sat down for dinner and enjoyed a very nice visit. Some of the medical students had been playing soccer with the kids that day and it was neat to hear them share about their trouncing at the hands of the local soccer experts. Diana and I decided to call home and check in with our family at this point. We had been unable to make contact with them since our arrival in Kenya. Knowing how they worried about us going to Kenya, we felt like we needed to try to get through. Suffice it to say, telecommunications in Kenya are at best dicey.
          We were unable to reach either of our parents on the phone, which was a bit odd. One of them is usually home. We finally called Sister Judith Ann, a nun at our parish, to check in with her and ask her to relay our adventures to our folks. Now before we had left home, Diana’s father was having some health problems and was getting ready to go in for some tests the day after we left home. Her father had not been well for some time and had a history of heart trouble. Finally, after much encouragement to see his doctor, he scheduled an appointment. I think it is probably more accurate to say that Diana and her sister held the proverbial gun to his head until he agreed.
          We were able to get through to Sister Judith Ann and it became quickly apparent that something was very wrong. She asked if we had talked to anyone from the family. I could see in Diana’s expression that her heart had just fallen through the floor. We were told that the day after we left, Diana’s father had some cardiac testing that showed he had experienced another heart attack. The next day he had open-heart surgery to repair the bulk of his arteries. No one had called us to tell us, and at first, we were a bit miffed. When we had thought more about it, we realized their decision was a good one. We had been in the middle of the desert while this was occurring and there would have been nothing to do but stew over something we could not change. All that could be done was being done. People were praying for her father and for us. What else could you do?
          Things worked out fine in the end. Her father did well and was actually at the airport to greet us when we returned to our home in Peoria. We finished talking with Sister and went back inside to tell everyone what had happened. We talked for a while and retired for the evening. I do not think I remembered my head hitting the pillow the next morning. At this point, Diana and I were both exhausted. We had already done so much work with the filming and still had the longest days awaiting us.
We began the day Sunday morning joining the congregation at both morning Masses. The music and the feel of Mass in Embulbul were entirely different than what we had experienced in Turkana. This is not to say that they were not a wonderfully spiritual experience. The church there is large and constructed in a manner that reflects the design of a Maasai home. I found it particularly interesting to see the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus statuary reflective of the Maasai culture. Mary was adorned in traditional Maasai dress. Both Mary and Jesus were completed with dark brown skin. It was refreshing to see that the churches we visited throughout Kenya are decorated in a way that is both culturally relevant and uplifting.
          Both Masses were packed to the rafters. The youth choir that sang at the first Mass and the adult choir of the second Mass were so alive in their music and singing. We were blessed to capture much of the music on digital tape. At each of the Masses the entire congregation welcomed us. I recall being offered a blessing by all in attendance at both Masses. The traditions of these churches move in a way that allows no one to remain a stranger.
          I was taken back to see the offering of food at the end of both Masses for the AIDS relief group, The Good Samaritans, and for families in the parish that needed to be fed. This reminded me of Mark 12:41-44 Jesus sat down opposite the place where the offerings were put and watched the crowd putting their money into the temple treasury. Many rich people threw in large amounts. But a poor widow came and put in two very small copper coins, worth only a fraction of a penny. Calling his disciples to him, Jesus said, "I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything--all she had to live on."
          Again, it is the way there in Embulbul. They have a sense of community that is uncommon in the world I know. By our standards, people in the village are living on little or nothing. Yet, what they have they will share with their brothers and sisters in need. This sense of community and giving transcends even the religious differences between Christians and Muslims. There are people from many tribes living here as well. At times, outside of Embulbul, many of them would be warring with each other. That is not the case in the village. I wonder what they know that we do not. I wonder about the decisions and choices they have made in their lives that have freed them from such petty strife. I wonder sometimes if perhaps it is too late for us to know.
Sometimes I hear things wrong. Diana says I am not a good listener. Sometimes she says I am deaf. I think it is more that I just have a lot of business going on in my head most days. Probably though, I need to be a better listener. Father Fabian had invited us to meet with the church council after Mass. We were very excited to be asked to attend their meeting and get to know more of the leadership in the area. I was pretty sure I got the directions right to the room where the meeting was to take place. In actuality, I could not have gotten them more wrong.
          We opened the door to what we thought was the conference room where the council met. The room was filled with two dozen or so college aged men and women. We gave no thought to the age of the group and they acted as if they had been expecting us. We would later find that the council had been waiting to see us and that in fact we had attended the meeting of the youth group.
          Although we were sorry and a bit embarrassed to have kept the council waiting, our meeting with the group was a powerful experience. It has been said that if the world is going to change it is our youth who will change it. The intensity on the faces and in the persona of these young people was amazing. They were quick to ask many questions about what was going on in America and what our youth thought about the world. We asked them about their plans for the future and the struggles they were facing. None of them really talked much about problems. Most of their talk was about action and the need to reform the system at large. We talked for more than an hour. I considered filming this encounter but knew that if I were viewing this through the lens, I would miss the entire experience of interacting with them.
We returned to the main facility of the mission and had lunch. We decided it would be interesting to visit the SMA Formation House, where young men live as part of their training to become SMA priests. We arrived and entered the facility through a large gate just off of the road. The grounds were rich with English gardens and a sense of peace that was uncommon in this area. Father Ed was staying there at the time and greeted us as we entered the house.
          From the moment we entered the building, a sense of history and tradition swept over us like a spiritual wave. It was quiet inside as most of the young men who live there were gone for the seasonal break. We were introduced to Father John Dunn, an Irish priest who is in charge of this place. Father John gave us a detailed tour of the house and explained in great detail how things worked there. If I were to try and sum it all up in a single word, it would be community.
          The walls of the house are covered with the history of this place and the SMA. From the dining room to the inner corridors, the wealth of Christ centeredness was apparent. At the end of a rather long and dim hallway stood a massive, hand carved wooden door. As we approached it, I got the feeling that we were about to enter a place that time and history had spared from the changing of the world. I was right. Father John opened the door giving way to the chapel of the formation house. It was quite literally, breath taking.
          My description of the chapel is weak at best. The stillness, peace and serenity in the room was so overwhelming to my senses it was difficult to take it all in. It was as if we were standing at the center of some spiritual refuge from the world outside the walls of the house. It was delicate in its calm and yet, there was a stoic sense of the history of the place that did not require an explanation. You could feel the changes that occurred in the lives of the seminarians in that room. The Spirit was strong, almost tangible.
          I stood quietly at the rear of the room and tried my best to breathe in the essence of where we were standing. I thought about the hundreds of young men who came here to become priests. I thought about the spiritual struggles that have surely been brought to an overcome in the chapel through the years it has stood. I thought about the prayers that have been lifted up in this space. Some would say it was just another chapel. But knowing about where these men come from, what they have left behind, and what they now face as priests in the SMA, my mind became quiet as I stood on Holy ground.
          In the center of the room was a massive alter carved from a giant, indigenous tree. It seemed to grow out of the floor and defy gravity as it spread to the left and right. The artwork and the adornments I was taking in were African by design yet universally devotional in their nature. I attempted to take a few shots in this place but quickly set my camera aside. Sometimes, what the spirit sees the eye cannot record. It would be impossible to record what the chapel represented. I thank God that I was able to spend a few moments inside its walls and have a tiny piece of it stamped onto the fabric of my heart.
          We finally came to a central community room down the hall from the chapel. We sat and talked with Father Dunn about the history of the place and the work that was going on there. He gifted us with a book that had just come out in celebration of the upcoming one hundred fifty year anniversary of the SMA. We were also given a copy of a worship CD that was recorded by some of the young seminarians who attended there.
          We left the Formation House and were joined by Father Ted who is an American priest serving in the worst slums of the region. We were all going to go to downtown Nairobi to a tourist area where Europeans and Americans stay while on safari. Imagine the silliness of it all. To come to Africa for safari and sleep in a five star hotel in a resort made to look and feel like the West. It was actually much worse than that.
As we drove to the resort area, we passed terrible and continual poverty. Suddenly, as if it appeared out of thin air, we arrived in a small section of Nairobi near the government buildings and world embassies. It was the only place we would see in Kenya that looked a bit like home. As we entered the drive to the resort, we were “cleared” by the security men at the gate. I don’t think we were cleared for security, I think we were cleared for being non-poor and from the West.
          I was grateful to have been taken to this place to get a bit of ice cream and see more of the capital city. I was mostly grateful to be shown the truest reality of disparateness that exists throughout this region. There is no gray area about it here. You either have what you want or you do not have what any of God’s children needs. In this place, there is no in between.
          The resort was massive and filled with shops of every kind. Everything was spotless and the air was filled with people laughing and talking. People were drinking fancy drinks and eating expensive food while listening to popular music being broadcast throughout the place. At the center of the resort was a large, man made waterfall that reached some thirty feet to the ceiling. The walkways and corridors were filled with lush plants and modern art. It was awful.
          I am not grand standing in writing this. Seeing all of it reminded me of the gluttonous excesses of my life and the poor stewardship of the gifts our Father has given me. To see it here however, in contrast to the reality of how two thirds of the world truly lives, was shaming and depressing. What made it worse was the knowledge that none of the local people benefit anything from the existence of such places here in Kenya. Anything of any material value belongs to the government, who does little or nothing for its people, or by some foreign group who cares nothing for the poverty in this place. These are harsh comments I know, but we saw nothing in our time in Kenya that could argue against this understanding.
          I must ask myself again and again. How do the rich do it here? I know it happens in America as well but I have never seen anything like this. I wonder what the wealthy think as they drive their Mercedes to these places, or rather, are driven by someone else, as they pass people begging for food and walking the roadsides in search of something to live on for the day. As the opening words of this writing state, this is a scandal of the Christian world that must cease to exist.
          Driving home from the resort to the mission, my mind raced about what we were seeing and experiencing in this place. I struggled with wondering what God was trying to show me, to teach me. I knew all of this existed in the world but I had never tasted it before. Having been filled with its starkness, what to do about it now? We dropped Father Ted off at the home of his order and waited for someone to open the gates that secured the facility. Again we were told of the attacks on the religious that happen frequently in the region. There is little safety in the darkness of Nairobi.
          We returned to the mission and Diana headed directly to bed. She had become quite car sick on the ride. I stayed up a bit and stood in the center of the inner courtyard looking up at the stars and thinking about our experiences of the day. My mind took me back to the desert of Turkana and I found myself longing to hear the singing of the children under the stars. I wondered if they had eaten today. I was tired and my spirit ached from the weight of this trip. Since our arrival, the reality of third world poverty had been building inside of me. We had filmed so much at this point and seen things I would not point a camera at. I struggled with trying to memorize every detail of life here and felt guilty during the moments I wish I had never seen it. I believe God shows us things sometimes that we do not want to see. We live to see the risen Christ on Easter morning. Africa was teaching us to see Him on the cross.
          We awoke the following morning and made our way to the kitchen for some breakfast. It was an easier morning than we had enjoyed since we arrived in Kenya. We actually had time to lounge a bit in the living room and relax before running out the door to film. It was Monday and we were scheduled to meet with Bishop Cornelius Schilder of the Ngong Diocese. I think we both had a lot of preconceived ideas about what this meeting would be like. We had only seen the Bishop of our local diocese at home from a distance. I never really understood it. To meet the Bishop at home would be unusual for most Catholics. I suppose it is a hierarchical thing. In the Ngong Diocese, quite the opposite was true.
          We made the short trip to the Bishop’s office and pulled into the rough drive that led to the office doors. We were a bit early and waited just a short time in the reception area just outside his office. We were eventually called into his office where we would meet one of the most interesting men I have ever met. We were each greeted warmly in turn and asked to make ourselves comfortable in the office.
          It was an interesting room full of Maasai art and culture. He explained to us that he had come from Holland decades ago and had succeeded in reaching out to the Maasai of the area only after he adapted himself to their culture. He went on to tell us that one of the more interesting ways by which he came to be accepted here was by buying and raising his own cattle and then, helping the Maasai to upgrade their own herds. To the Maasai, cattle are everything. Ask a Maasai man how things are going and he will first report on the condition of his cattle, next his children, and finally mention his wife.
          We talked for a bit about the work we were doing in the country and he seemed to be pleased with the notion of it. At one point in the conversation, he arose from his chair, walked to a shelf and retrieved a beaded cross that had been given to him by the Maasai. He walked over to Diana and handed her the necklace as a gift. I don’t think he knew how special that gesture was to Diana. She was truly moved by its beauty and by the generosity of a man we had only just met. We were scheduled to have lunch with the sisters of the mission later that day and Father Fabian invited the Bishop to join us. I really wanted to interview the Bishop for our documentary and we agreed that this could occur once lunch had been finished.
          We departed the Bishops home and headed to downtown Nairobi to convert some currency and visit a Catholic bookstore. We really wanted to return home with some religious articles from Kenya that reflected the culture and spirituality of the people. We made the drive to downtown Nairobi and were able to take in the sites, this time, in the light of day. We spent quite some time in the bookstore looking at the myriad of African crosses, statuary, books and artwork. It was difficult to decide what to buy. Everything in the store had a story behind it. It was another chance to see the African vision of Christ and Christianity.
          We decided to walk from the bookstore to the bank downtown where we would take care of our business. It was quite a walk but well worth the effort. The streets of downtown Nairobi were alive in a way that exceeds even Michigan Avenue in Chicago during the Christmas season. The only difference in Nairobi is that the most of the people on the street there are looking for work and waiting for calls for interviews or callbacks. We were a bit nervous making this walk as we were carrying a large amount of cash and travelers checks in our pockets. We arrived at the bank without a problem and waited inside the lobby while Father Fabian went to the back to arrange for a private transfer of funds.
          We were shown to the rear of the bank where the offices are. I am guessing this was a part of the bank few people will see. A very friendly East Indian man who works closely with the fundraising efforts of Father Fabian and his mission greeted us. He expressed a bit of concern about accepting our travelers checks and our U.S. currency. He explained to us that there had been an overwhelming amount of counterfeit U.S. currency that was produced in Nigeria somewhere around the year 2000. Typically, no bank in Kenya would accept U.S. bills printed in or around this time. Because of his trust in Father Fabian, our currency was exchanged.
          I should mention this now if you are considering traveling to Kenya. Traveler’s Checks are no good in the vast majority of places. Credit cards are of even less utility. It’s either cash or forget it. Even cash has its problems. This may be different in the tourist resorts and such, but in the street with the people, come prepared with cash and have it exchanged to Kenyan Shillings if you want to avoid problems.
          We made our way out of the bank and back onto the street. It was a fascinating walk and a new and intimate look into the lives of the people there. The streets were literally overflowing with traffic and people. The downtown area of Nairobi is very international and the mixing of people in that part of the culture was a joy to soak in. It was another of those rare moments in Africa where we felt as if we were back in the U.S. A few miles outside of the banking district and you were quickly reminded of exactly where you were.
          We returned to the mission and had a fabulous, Italian lunch with the sisters of the mission. They were enchanting. I really cannot think of a better word. They were so friendly, open and welcoming that there wasn’t a minute in their company where we didn’t feel like family. It was such a gift. The Bishop joined us for lunch and filled our time with stories of the Maasai, his home in Holland, and the work that is going on in Embulbul. I have rarely met a more engaging and interesting man.
          Following lunch, the Bishop and I headed to an upstairs room for his video interview. By this time, I had interviewed many people in Kenya. Having had time to get to know this man a bit should have left me a lot more comfortable with the interview than I was. I fumbled with setting up the equipment and checking the audio and angles. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, we were ready to begin. I tried to ask the Bishop open-ended questions that would allow him to speak at length and to really express his thoughts about the situation in Africa, specifically Kenya.
          The last question I asked him went something like this. “Diana and I have noticed that, in spite of all the poverty in this country, people seem to be very happy. It seems that by Western standards they have nothing. How can this be (joy) with all the suffering that takes place here?” I was ready. I was ready to hear a man of moral authority, a man who had lived among the Maasai and other Kenyans for decades, lash out at the system. I was sure he was going to lay it on the line and call a spade a spade. His reply floored me and left me feeling as if I had missed the entire point of being here. In a very large way I had.
          His response would not only change the way I viewed Africa, but my own life and faith as well. He leaned into the camera looking me squarely in the eye and said, “Yes, very strongly so. And I think that is one of the reasons why it so attractive to live here in Africa. The joy of the people is something very appealing and makes you really not just wonder but also…it makes it kind of infectious if you like. And I think it is, I don’t know, when I look at home, I am from Holland myself. There it looks as if the people have developed too one sidedly, in terms of that we see everything in terms of economy. What does it bring us, money wise? While here the people have much less money but a much more open mind and much more a sense of values, which for us, I don’t know if they ever existed or otherwise have disappeared. I would call our life at home, say, in what we call the developed world (long pause as if to refer to the western world as developed was an oxymoron) I have a big question mark there. I see our life as very one sided in the sense of material wealth, money, etc. Here life is very much wider, they have very many values which have nothing to do with hospitality but which gives joy to people. And so, I think the church is part and parcel with that. I’ve got a funny idea, that maybe today, we understand the Gospels and the Good News a bit better than in times passed by. In that, even when I was small I always experienced religion as a duty, not as something to be enjoyed. And I think there was a very strong influence there of the Reformist like Luther and the Calvinist especially, their joy in life was very suspect. So, you are brought up that way. But here we have never had these things. The only difference is we have here in churches, the Pentecostals etc, but not these truly protestant churches with, what I call, often, a bit pessimistic way of looking at life. And so, my hope is also that, the church is so very much alive here and we have such beautiful liturgical celebrations and I think, and my hope and my prayer is that this will continue. Sometimes my people at home say, “Oh you just wait a few years until they become better off economically and then they will stop going to church”. I don’t believe that because the people grow up here with a church and an idea of religion that is joyful and attractive. And so, even when you are rich it will still be joyful and attractive. I think we shed that church which was negative and pessimistic, and maybe rightly so. Now the problem is to discover this new church, which I think we have in Africa.
          Then I made the mistake of referring to this or any other place as “Third World” in the sense that I lived in a place superior to this because of our wealth. I went on to speak about what I believed these people needed so much more of, in light of all that we have in the West. We have what everyone “needs” and they have nothing was the ignorance of my thinking. He went on to say, “I think my response to that would be an invitation to the people to learn as much as possible about Africa, and preferably, if possible at all, come to Africa and see it and taste it. Because I feel, you know we talk about Africa lacking so many things. And, which is true when you talk about clean water and good roads, and electricity etc. etc. But as I said, there is so much more, that you need to see and to taste that it is there. And you experience it in the joy of the people. And I am extremely reluctant to call Africa poor. Africa is only poor in money. But money is only a small part of the reality, the richness of a human being. And so to reduce that to money is impoverishment! And so, I would really like to invite people, come to Africa, and meet the people and taste something of the richness of Africa. Money, yes, there is a lack of many things, but those are not the only things in life. There are things that are much more important than money which maybe we (the West) don’t have any more but they are here and you enjoy it when you are present here”.
          He was telling me in the kindest words he could muster that my thinking was wrong. I was not filming poverty. I was filming joy. I still struggle with the images of starving children and people on the brink of death from totally curable diseases. But my thinking was based on the thought that this life is the goal, the end and the means. What they possess we have lost. Their religion is not a thing; rather, it is the center. What we believe as the cure for all, money, will not bring an ounce of inner joy and peace to anyone. It is a spiritual act of balancing I may struggle with for the rest of my life.
          When the interview had finished, we packed up the gear and went to meet with the Good Samaritan Group at the central building of church office. It was this meeting that gave birth to the title of the film, “A Miracle At Embulbul”. HIV and AIDS are perhaps the greatest evil on this continent. To date, over twenty four million of God’s children, His creation, live with HIV/AIDS in Sub Saharan Africa. That is the total number of every human being living in the top ten U.S. cities combined. With a new rate of infection estimated to be somewhere around three million people a year…you do the math. I almost hate bringing this point up to people as the illusion of responsibility is so distorted. “Why don’t they just quit having babies? Why are they all so promiscuous? Why don’t they just do something about it?” May God in Heaven forgive our ignorance. There are no simple answers, and certainly, I have none. But I will tell you that the problem is not the people. The problem is, as it almost always is, avoidable and curable. The culprit is poverty. I will say no more. If I am wrong, let me be forgiven.
          We saw a glimpse of what may finally be the solution to this insanity while visiting Embulbul: His children reaching out to His children. Women and men of the village formed the Good Samaritan Group two years ago. In Embulbul, as it is throughout much of Africa, AIDS is poorly understood by the people and therefore, contracting it can mean a life of literal isolation and abuse. Before the Good Samaritans came into existence, people suffering from HIV and AIDS were isolated and persecuted in the village. Families would throw the sick from their homes. People died in shame and loneliness.
          There were and are local people in the village who do not believe anyone should live this way. With the help of Father Fabian and Christian leaders in the community, the group was formed. We were blessed to interview one of the leaders of this group, Joyce Kimani. Although Joyce is not infected, she is no stranger to suffering in her life. Her suffering however is not what Joyce would want me to write about. Joyce lives and breathes the love of Christ in her life and through her works. To meet Joyce and to spend a few moments with her is to be in the presence of Christ living in the community of His Kingdom.
          I think Joyce was a bit nervous about being interviewed. Although she is outspoken in Embulbul as to the needs and the answers to the problem of AIDS, she is not one to speak much about herself. She is not living to glorify Joyce. She is living to glorify God. We began the interview with Joyce speaking about how the group had started from nothing and how they still continue to struggle today in financing their work. She spoke of how the group worked to educate the villagers on this disease and how people finally came to accept those who were infected.
          Joyce and Father Fabian and others in the group decided that if they were going to make this group grow they would have to get creative in financing it. With the inclusion of ninety plus orphans of AIDS in the village to the list of those they help, financing is a major obstacle. It was decided that the group would begin taking the talents and gifts that God had given them and put them to work in raising funds.
The men and women of the group began making African beaded jewelry and sweaters. We watched as the group was making the jewelry that would be sold wherever they could. It was quite amazing to watch the nimbleness of their fingers moving the beads so quickly as to become a blur to the eye. The room was lined with men and women who knitted sweaters while some made beads. They have been quite successful in keeping their work alive through the use of their art. They struggle constantly to grow their ministry but they continue. Joyce would have it no other way.
          Their work is providing food for the sick as well as for the children orphaned by AIDS. They are providing access to healthcare where there was none. They provide money for transportation to the clinics where some of the people are able to get AIDS medicines that are hard to come by in this area. They visit and minister to those who are too sick to come out of their homes.
          All of these things are important and are surely the fruit of works blessed by God. Something much more important has happened than all of this combined. A community of love and hope was built where there was only desperation, loneliness and hurt. Imagine it if you will. This was not the work of a major government or aid organization. This work did not require tremendous sums of money and layers of administration. A few people, common and ordinary people, living in the worst of situations looked around and said, “I will not stand idly by while His children suffer as I watch”.
          We visited the group a couple of times and cherish the moments we were in the presence of them all. I recall thinking about them on the plane ride back to the States and wondering how they do what they do. It was a few months later when we began work on the documentary, “A Miracle at Embulbul” that I sat and watched our interview with Joyce. At the end of the interview I had asked Joyce how she keeps things going and where she thinks the group will grow. She became passionate and said, “I tell them always we must pray, we must pray together, we must keep praying, we must always pray and believe so that God will do miracles in our lives”.
I watched that clip a dozen times in a row to hear her say that one thing. She never answered my question about where the group was heading but the title for that documentary was born. I don’t think she knows where the group is heading. She does not need to. She believes in something she cannot see but has seen the power of prayer unfold around her in the Graces of God, and so she marches on in His name. I wonder what it would be like to have that kind of faith. God bless you Joyce Kimani.
Since we had arrived in Kenya we had been told about a restaurant in Nairobi called Carnival. That is what I thought it was called. Father Fabian and Father Ed were excited to treat us to dinner at this place on this, our final evening in Africa. We were told that we would be eating many kinds of different meats and that this was a place we had to see. Father Ted and several of the catechists and seminarians of the church were joining us. I was excited to be going, having been told that we would eat camel here. Throughout our trip in the desert this had become a running joke every time we would see one of these mangy characters wandering in the sand.
          When we pulled into the restaurants lot it became apparent that we had mistaken the name of the place. It was not Carnival. It was Carnivore. Let the good times begin! We went inside and were seated. On the way to the table we passed an enormous grill surrounded by chefs cooking giant skewers of meat. The nature of this place had been explained on the ride to the restaurant. Basically, every table is given a little flag that sits on a stand in the center of the table. Once the meal begins, skewers of varied meats will be brought to your table until the last person standing takes down the flag, or in this case, the last person left sitting and chewing.
          They brought it all. There was ostrich, pork, beef, chicken and crocodile. The meat was coming as fast as we could clear plates and for the most part it was very good. There was only one problem; we had yet to see camel. Finally it came! At this point I had consumed more meat than is reasonably moral or medically advisable. But this was camel, the veritable holy grail of desert meats. The waiter asked if I cared for any and with a look that said, “why ask such a silly question”, chunks of camel were laid on my plate. All eyes were on me at this point. We had talked about eating camel for days. Finally, the moment had arrived.
          I do believe the room grew quiet at this point and the faint sound of harps playing could be heard in the distance. With the skill of a surgeon gone mad I cut into the camel and let it settle gently onto my tongue. I was in my own world, a culinary nirvana. It was then that the elusive taste of camel made itself