to feel or not to feel...

Yesterday at service came a man with his son. The boy looked like he was around eight years old, but i couldn't tell exactly. His arms were clutched around his heart, his face was mostly expressionless. I thought he must be the saddest little boy I'd seen in a long time. His hands could not stretch, there was something wrong in his elbow joint. So he walked all of those years in his life with his hands clutched around his heart. Being that his father was hardly able to make ends meet, it was likely that the boy couldn't go to school, couldn't play, or do any of the things boys his ages should be doing. My heart broke.For the first time in a while I wanted to ask God why such things happen to poor innocent people.

But we see them everyday. The beggar on the street walking on all fours, the man in the wheelchair selling sweets. We see them, but we do not see. We have become so numb to other people's pain. We walk along looking straight ahead, consoling ourselves with shallow words, "I can't help them all", "They should find something to do". That way we can make their problems all about us, and sleep easy at night. True, there have been those who have preyed on the humanity of others with false disabilities, walking around with crutches in the daylight, or until chaos ensue. Crutches long forgotten, "ghafla bin vuu, wananunua pujo nambari mguu niponye" as my Swahili teacher would say. And one too many I'm afraid.

Still, I'd like to go back to that time when parents didn't exploit their children and send them begging, if it ever existed. I'd like to be able to help a beggar on the street because they actually need it, not see the same guy walking at night and spending my former money on alcohol. And though I may be mostly sarcastic and no-nonsense faced, deep down my heart isn't as strong. No matter how much I try to close my eyes and pretend they are not there, I can't shut them out, and I can't do much about it at the moment. And I feel...

I do not deserve the life I now live. I remember when I was talking about the good lady who stole from us I said I saw myself in her, and I had no idea why. So i sat and thought about the life I now live, the schools I've been in, probably ranking as some of the best schools in the country. But what if I, being me, was born to some woman in the village out of wedlock. I could be smart, but how much chance would I have, going to the local village school where the best student would never manage half the mark in the national exam, if I would be lucky enough to just finish primary school, that is. I'd probably not go to school a week every month when "the visitors" came. Or I'd be married off early to cut on costs. The only difference between me and her was where I was born, because Lydia was probably smarter than many people I'd ever met.

I can never understand His ways, His purposes, I don't know why things turn out as they do, why a loving God would allow so much pain to go unchecked. It's easy for me to say "Suffering exists to cause us to turn our eyes on Him", but when I don't have food, and no money, and no education or means, sitting at my doorstep helplessly watching my children cry because they are hungry, will I say the same thing? God help me, I don't want to ever be that person who can look at pain and never see, I don't want to grow cold and dead inside. It may break my heart over and over, but I'd rather that, it'll drive me to do something, and then, even if it's just for one person, I could perhaps make the world a little better a place to live in. God help me.

you don't know the cost of the oil in my alabaster box

Have you ever met those people who are so sure they know everything there is to know about everything? Now there are those who do, those are fun to listen to, like listening to  a geek going on excitedly about something or other i probably will never get Then there are those who are just plain annoying, propagating ignorance with such a sense of righteousness in their own eyes.
I'm one of those people refer to as plus-size, thank God for development and activists, before i was just "fat'. At some point this was something i definitely minded, but in recent years after it was concluded that it was not going to go away, I daresay it's now a thing I don't completely dislike about me. Every so often though there comes a few crude Kenyans who test this resolve. Yes, you know who I mean, those who not only call me 'fat', that's a good word, the Swahili word they use is far much worse, 'mzito' translated 'heavy'. The picture drawn in my head when I hear that word is a 90kg sack of maize slumped against a wall. I'm talking about those people who insist on asking you really rude questions that are none of their business, like "Huwa unaenda gym?" (Do you go to the gym?) Those who assume that you automatically eat a whole lot, "Uko sure utashiba?" and when you don't they assume you are on some kind of a diet, "ama unajaribu ku-slim?" (Are you full, or are you trying to be slim?) It's worse when you skip the meal altogether!
I like to think we're in a new season where everyone is allowed to be who they are. But that aside, in any case, what should give you the right to make someone feel bad just because you got thin genes. My mum says as long as they still make clothes that fit well then there is no problem. You don't know where people have come from,  you do not know what they have overcome to be able to stand up straight. i like Cece's version of Mary's story, you don't know the cost of the oil in my alabaster box. Before you try to point fingers and claim I am wasting it, take time and find out its cost.