This is about more than just tennis...
from the cracked tennis courts at the YMCA to a makeshift court in Nairobi, this is The Lord's journey
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Yesterday, it was a beautiful day. We were sitting in an outdoor cafe at a newly constructed mall in Nairobi. The sun was brightly shining, and there was a cool breeze blowing throughout the veranda. All around the remarkable green and vibrant flowery surrounded us. It was a beautiful day. I was having lunch with my new Kenyan family. The conversation was easy and pleasant. It was a beautiful day. I looked up from our table at the neighboring table and that’s when I saw him. The doppelgänger. I immediately thought of how much he looked like my uncle. My Uncle Paul. My favorite uncle. A smile graced my face as I thought of how much he'd enjoy this place, with the lake view and the live jazz music playing in the background. I felt sad for a minute to be so far from my family, but looking across at this man who was a dead ringer for my uncle, I felt comforted with thoughts of my favorite uncle. We all have that family member who makes everyone laugh with their stories and jokes…that’s my Uncle Paul. From his huge sense of humor to his uncanny ability to draw everyone around him into his world, my uncle exudes joy. As my mother's favorite brother, he naturally became our favorite uncle. Our third parent. His daughters, our sisters. Every summer, we vacation together, from the waterfalls of Jamaica to the pyramids in Mexico, we have the best memories with our Uncle Paul and his family. If there is one thing my uncle loves as much as his family is Alabama football. His pride swelled when his “Bama" won the national championship. Sending my dad texts with every touchdown. From tennis matches to basketball games, he always comes and supports my sisters and I. When I needed a place to stay in Nashville, he didn't hesitate to open his home to me. And when I moved to Kenya, he was there to send me off, to wish me well, and of course to joke that I'd find my Kenyan warrior husband. Looking at this man, who resembled my uncle, I was filled with joy to have such a great uncle. How blessed indeed. It was a beautiful day. I woke up very early Sunday morning Kenyan time. I glanced at my phone and noticed numerous missed texts from my sister. "Something bad has happened.” "Call me when you wake up.” I put the phone down and prayed for the Lord's comfort and peace regardless of the news. I called my sister and listened as she stumbled over her words. But didn't I already know? Had God not already shown me the day before? I didn't need my sister to confirm that my favorite uncle was gone. Living in Kenya is a blessing for sure, but at that moment all I wanted was to be home to give my mother the biggest hug. To be there with my family. With my cousin. With my aunt. Hadn’t my uncle always been there for me? Even as I type this, my heart is heavy. My grief is overflowing. The hardest part being the miles separating me from the ones I love. Our pastor spoke about God’s sovereignty this morning. I trust His plan and don't question His sovereignty, but it’s days like this that I feel the cost of being away. What a high price indeed. But God. My refuge and my strength. And oh, how sweet for Him to send my favorite uncle all the way to Kenya, so I could see him one last time. It was a beautiful day.  Thanksgiving, 2015. I wasn't in the last photo with the whole gang because I was miles away in Kenya.
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It was mid-September 2015 when I first stepped into the market. I was looking for some beaded bracelets to send home for my sisters and younger cousin. That’s when I first met her, a smile beaming across her face, she ran up and greeted me with jovial enthusiasm. “My friend” she called me and helped me pick out a few bracelets, and I promised her I’d come back in December to buy Christmas presents for my family. Over the next few months, I’d stop by her stall just to say hi or buy a pair of earrings so she'd have bus fare home. She'd always greet me as “my friend” and give me a huge embrace. We’d become casual friends during that time, but little did I know there was such a story behind that bright grin.
In December, I came by as promised and bought a lot of my christmas presents from her little shop. She thanked me sincerely and gave me a huge hug. And I realized in all the time that I’d known her, I’d never asked her for her name. “Neema,” she told me. I returned to the U.S. for about 6 weeks, but I told her I’d be back and would be sure to come see her. Monday, I dragged myself out of my sleep-induced stupor. I was still dealing with jet lag and adjusting to not only the 9 hour time difference but also the climate and altitude change. I knew I needed to go to the supermarket and stock my new kitchen. After the supermarket, I remembered Neema, so I walked over to the little kiosks set up as a makeshift market. When I first glanced at her stall, she wasn’t there, disappointment hit me like a ton of bricks. Where had my friend gone? Then, I saw her smiling face at another shop, she ran up and gave me the biggest hug. We talked briefly, but I had to rush off quickly because my taxi was waiting. Two days later, I returned to her shop. I took a seat next to her and we talked for hours. I wanted to get to know this girl that had been calling me friend for the past 6 months. I wanted to know the story behind the smile. Eager to have someone to talk to, she trusted me with her story. Neema is 21 years old, and originally from Tanzania. She is the second youngest of five siblings. Her older sister is married with two kids, and her two older brothers are working but not supporting her parents. Her parents have a small farm, but not a decent source of income. At 21, Neema is the sole provider for her family, She moved to Nairobi alone to work at this kiosk in a local market. She gets a small percentage of the profits. Her principal in Tanzania connected her with the shop owner, and at 20 she moved by herself to a new country to make a living for herself and her family. She works the shop 7 days a week from 8am to 6pm. She lives by herself in a not so safe area of town. She said she can only communicate with her family rarely because it is so expensive. She’s only been home once in 15 months. When I asked her if she’d wanted to go to college, she pressed her head into my shoulder and started crying. She was quiet for a few minutes as the tears ran down her face. She looked up at me, “It’s…” her voice breaking. “Too expensive,” I finished her sentence for her. She told me she didn’t have any friends and often felt lonely and sad. Her neighbors keep to themselves. Her fellow shopkeepers compete for business. She said her customers become her friends. I thought back to the first day we met, and how she quickly called me her friend. I wonder then if she imagined a friendship with me, even played dialogue through her head. I told her a little of my story, about how I too moved alone to a foreign country far from my family. Of course I can’t imagine the burden of being financially responsible for my family or not being able to communicate regularly. We talked some more about being single and waiting for God for marriage. And how Jesus is the nearest and best friend a person can have. When I got up to leave, I gave her a big hug and told her she was not alone anymore. She had a friend. I would be her friend. After discovering that she loved to read, she told me her favorite storybook was about animals, but she didn’t have any books. I told her next time I came I’d bring her my favorite book, The Lion ,the Witch and the Wardrobe, and she could read it and we could talk about it. We exchanged numbers and one final hug. And as I was walking away, feeling heavy from the conversation and sad for my new friend, I called over my shoulder, “What does your name mean?” “Grace,” she said as her electric smile returned. Grace, I thought as I walked away, how fitting. Then, it was I who was wiping the tears from my own eyes. |
AuthorI'm Kristen. Memphis-born but I've got big dreams. Archives
March 2017
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