The Heart of the Matter

Sometimes, when I’m on a matatu or boda-boda or tuk-tuk, I think about my mom and how she would absolutely freak out if she were with me. It sort of makes me laugh. I can’t wait until she comes and I get make her jump into a matatu while it’s still moving and then cram into the really gross interior with a dozen staring Africans. Oh man, that’s going to be great. Really great.
Speaking of great things, Jen found a heart in her food at dinner tonight. Yes, a heart. You could even see the aorta and other tube thingies. It was in the stew stuff we were supposed to put on top of our spaghetti noodles. Talk about ruining an otherwise wonderful meal. Chalk that one up for ABO highlights.

So disgusting. (Lucky for you, I didn’t have my camera on me.)

In lighter, less gross, news, I got an email last night from Rachel, a woman who recently got back from a two-week trip. (I wrote about her a long time ago.) It was sweet to hear some about the area and the people, especially because she didn’t gloss over things and make it sound like a super rosy time with no challenges. I’m trying to prepare myself for being pushed to the limits—beyond rice and beans, beyond hearts in my food, beyond all that—and relying on God to go past those limits. I’m going to need sooo much prayer.

Here are some pictures Rachel sent.