Stories from Kenya

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Jesus said to all of his followers, “If you truly desire to be my disciple, you must disown your life completely, embrace my ‘cross’ as your own, and surrender to my ways. For if you choose self-sacrifice, giving up your lives for my glory, you will embark on a discovery of more and more of true life. But if you choose to keep your lives for yourselves, you will lose what you try to keep.”

~ LUKE 9:23-24, TPT ~

After my salvation in 2003, I began to receive multiple prophetic words about the nation of Kenya. One of the prophetic words came while visiting my friend Katherine’s church. Katherine just told her mother, whom I just met, that supernatural things happen to me wherever I go.

Immediately after walking into their church, a woman walked up to me and asked in a Caribbean accent, “Are you Jonnathan?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“Oh, Jonnathan,” the woman said. “I was in a major car accident on the highway yesterday in Dallas and totaled my car. The firefighters needed to use the Jaws of Life to cut me free. While in the car, I heard the voice of God instructing me to come to this church today and look for an Asian man named Jonnathan and tell him that he is called to the nation of Kenya. May I pray and bless you?”

Obviously, I agreed to allow her to pray for me.

Next, while at my friend Wendy’s pool party, a man whom I just met named Chip approached me. He said, “The Lord wants to know why you haven’t applied for your passport. Don’t you know that there are tribes waiting for you? Does that make any sense to you?” I nodded and said, “Yes, I believe that I am called to Kenya. Are there tribes in Kenya?”

Prophecies like that would typically make most Christians excited. However, not so much for me. I had no desire to leave America and never even considered getting my passport. However, in spite of my disinterest in traveling abroad, by 2009, I was running a mission-based Bible study in Houston called Pulse Missions, I had my passport in hand, and I was trained for world missions by one of Houston’s larger churches. However, I still had no desire to travel, especially to Africa.

Then later that year I watched a movie called Finger of God, directed by Darren Wilson, a documentary I believe every Christian should watch. The film introduced me to a woman named Heidi Baker who was a missionary in Mozambique, Africa, one of the world’s poorest nations. Heidi made what we were doing on the Houston streets seem normal because what she was doing looked supercharged with the power of the Holy Spirit. I was undone after watching that film, and I was ready to take the biggest leap of faith in my life. I was ready to get rid of all my earthly possessions and be completely sold out.

Later that year, I held a concert in my tiny 1,400 square foot townhouse. More than sixty people attended as my guests overflowed into the front and back entrances of my home. Midway through the concert, I stood up, grabbed the microphone, and said, “I believe that I am called to Kenya. So, it is with great excitement that I am officially announcing my plan to travel to Kenya and stay there for at least one month.”

From my calculation, I believed I needed to raise approximately $6,000 to purchase a round-trip ticket and supplies and have money to bless the natives. Upon proclaiming my lofty financial goals and asking for support, I thought to myself, “There’s no way people will donate that much money to me, and if we somehow did reach that goal, it would probably take months to accomplish.”

What the people in attendance did not know was that I had privately told God that I would buy my ticket to leave when I accumulated two-thirds of my total goal, which was $4,000.

Two weeks later, I had $3,200 in my account and I wanted to cry.

I asked God to slow it down a bit, telling him that I was not ready to do this.

One night the following week, I came home from my work that day to find a bank envelope containing $800 in cash sitting on my bed. My heart sunk because I knew that I needed to honor my word to God and purchase my round-trip ticket.

I could not believe how quickly the $4,000 was raised; however, keeping my word to God, I called my friend Julie, who is a travel agent. With her help, I purchased a round-trip ticket to Nairobi, Kenya, to meet up with a Kenyan pastor whom I met on Facebook.

Next, I called my friend Danny, who is a real estate agent, and told him that I wanted to put my house on the market. My goal was to sell everything I owned before my trip, so I would have the proceeds for a potentially longer stay in Kenya or even possibly to make a permanent move there. Finally, I took photos of my beloved convertible sports car and announced on social media that it was on the market for less than the MSRP and just five hundred dollars more than what I owed on it.

With my ticket purchased, I knew I needed to pick up supplies, so I went to a local sporting goods store to stock up on survival items and hiking gear.

At my next monthly Bible study, I announced to the people who attended that I had reached my first financial goal and had purchased my tickets, supplies, and listed all my belongings on the market. After service, Patrick, my good friend and Army veteran, approached me. He said that he was concerned about me traveling alone to a nation I had never been to and meeting with a man I did not know. Next, he stated that with the potential dangers, he had decided to go with me. With that exciting news, I contacted my travel agent again and purchased a round-trip ticket for him.

At the start of May 2010, Patrick and I set off for the journey of our lifetime.

On the day of our departure, my brother and Olivia dropped us off at the airport. I was so nervous. One of the prophecies I received about Kenya was that I would die there. Not knowing what that meant, I assumed it was a physical death, and therefore, I was prepared to do whatever God needed of me. On the drive to the airport, I received a call from my mother, who is Buddhist, telling me that she had a dream about me. The dream started with her staring at a large tree, which looked like it had died and had peeled open. My mother told me that she knew that the tree represented me, which I received as confirmation of my certain death. Next, she shared that in her dream she approached this tree, which was larger than a house, and looked into the heart of the tree. To her astonishment, there was a small sprout growing within its heart. God instantly interpreted the dream to mean that the dead tree represented who I was before Kenya and the small tree sprouting out of the center was a rebirth of me after my trip. I was so relieved to learn that I was not doomed to die there.

Our trip took us from Houston, Texas; to Atlanta, Georgia; to London, England; and finally into Nairobi, Kenya.

When we arrived in Kenya, we were both exhausted. As we got in the line at security, I was singled out, again. By this point in our trip, I had been stopped at the security checkpoint at every airport we landed in, while Patrick was allowed to go through the same checkpoints without incident. Therefore, I was not surprised when Kenyan airport security stopped me, searched my bags, frisked me, and used a metal detector on me. However, Patrick, frustrated that I was stopped again, offered to go ahead of me and grab all our bags.

After approximately forty-five minutes, I was finally cleared to officially enter Kenya. As I exited the security area, I saw Patrick looking extremely flustered by the whole ordeal, waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs with what I thought were all our bags. We exited the airport seeking to find Wycliffe, our host. He was a pastor of a small church located in the slums of Kisumu, Kenya, the largest city in Western Kenya and third largest city in the nation. Kisumu is an inland port city on Lake Victoria, the world’s largest tropical lake and the second largest freshwater lake in the world, second only to Lake Superior in North America.

As we scanned the sea of faces, we saw a skinny man waving at us, saying, “Pastor Jonnathan, I am Pastor Wycliffe.”

Excited, we approached and embraced him. I mentioned to him that he looked nothing like one of the photos he sent me. I pulled out my cell phone to show him the photo I was referencing. He examined the photo and the email address and informed us that we had been interacting with two completely different people in Kenya while planning our trip. He then told us that he believed that the other Wycliffe was a man looking to deceive us and possibly harm us. Relieved that we connected to the real Wycliffe, we loaded up into a taxicab, which Wycliffe had waiting for us, and set off to our first hotel room.

While in the taxi, I asked the pastor to take us to a place to exchange our American dollars for shillings, the Kenyan currency. He said that he knew exactly where to go to make the safest exchange exchange of our money. At that time, one American dollar was worth seventy-five shillings, and after the purchase of two round-trip tickets and supplies, we had approximately $2,000 remaining of the $6,000 we raised.

While in the taxi, Patrick and I were astonished by the beauty of the country. There were giant trees whose branches spread out to make a flat canopy. At the top of each tree were giant birds that looked like pterodactyls. Next, we noticed the high military presence; many of the soldiers were carrying military assault rifles. As we were taking in the sights, a spray of burning hot bullets flew into the sky.

Wycliffe turned to me, stuck out his hand, and said, “Jonnathan, give me $20 American, right now.”

Confused at his demand, I asked him to explain why he was demanding the money. Earlier that day, Wycliffe informed us that the average monthly household income in Kisumu was $25 USD.

Wycliffe responded, “We need the money now to pay the police. Twenty American will keep the police from searching your bags.”

I was satisfied by his explanation and handed him the $20 bill. With the crisp $20 bill in the hands of Wycliffe, we arrived at the security gate and were waved through. Instead of handing the money back to me, Wycliffe stared out the window while slowly sliding the bill into his pocket. I held my tongue, so as not to cause a scene. I was sure it was a misunderstanding.

After about half an hour, we arrived at a tall building. “Here it is,” said Wycliffe. “Bring all your money and follow me. Let me talk.”

I followed his lead. As two large double doors opened, I was very surprised to see that, instead of a bank, Wycliffe brought me to a casino located within the heart of Nairobi. Feeling a bit nervous but wanting to show that I was trusting of Wycliffe, I followed him to the security desk. After a few minutes of discussion, he translated for me that the current exchange rate was seventy-five shillings for every U.S. dollar. I agreed to the fee, knowing from my research that a fair exchange rate that year was between seventy-three and seventy-eight shillings to every U.S. dollar. I handed the financial person twenty one-hundred-dollar bills, and they in turn handed me 150,000 shillings.

I looked like I had won the lottery. Wycliffe, seeing all the money, immediately insisted we allow him to secure the money, which I declined, explaining to him that I was responsible for the finances donated to us for this trip and I intended on protecting it. Wycliffe clicked his tongue and snapped his fingers in frustration and said, “Freely you receive. Freely you should give.”

Hearing that was my first indication that I may not have selected the best guide for our journey. Before leaving the counter, Wycliffe pulled out the $20 I gave him to bribe the police and exchanged it for 1,500 shillings. He took the money and put it all into his wallet. Before we exited the casino, Wycliffe asked two heavily armed guards to escort us to the taxi that was waiting for us.

“Do not show your money in the taxi,” Wycliffe sternly cautioned as we approached the taxi. “You cannot trust the drivers.” I would learn later that I also could not trust Wycliffe.

In about an hour, we arrived at the hotel where we would be staying the night. We unloaded the taxi and paid the taxicab driver through Wycliffe, which cost approximately 1,125 shillings ($15 USD). I thought nothing of allowing Wycliffe to negotiate the prices for us because, according to him, being Mzungu (ma-zun-go), a Swahili term used to refer to light-skinned foreigners, we were typically regarded as wealthy and therefore normally taken advantage of.

After we settled down in our hotel room, Patrick and I were hungry and wanted a snack, which were all packed along with my military meals called MREs (meals ready-to-eat) in my checked luggage, which I suddenly realized was missing. Knowing for certain that we completely emptied the taxi of our bags, I concluded that Patrick must have left the missing luggage at the airport.

“Are you sure you packed it?” Patrick asked. “Let’s just leave it there and go eat somewhere.”

Not satisfied by his suggestion to leave my luggage containing our snacks, MREs, toiletries, and some of my clothes, I asked Wycliffe to take me back to the airport, which was more than an hour commute (a two-hour round trip) away. Wycliffe clicked his tongue and snapped his fingers in frustration at my request. His reaction, showing frustration, would become a regular response the rest of my trip.

After a shower, Wycliffe agreed to take me back to the airport to locate the missing bag. While in the taxi, Wycliffe told me that my bag was probably not even going to be there. However, what he did not know was that I had already asked God and heard God tell me that it was in the lobby with the other abandoned bags.

While on our drive, I noticed the driver driving with only his left arm, while keeping his right arm bent, occasionally extending it and shaking it, repeatedly opening and closing his right hand while squeezing his right shoulder.

“Wycliffe,” I said. “Ask the driver what’s wrong with his right arm.”

Wycliffe asked the driver. The driver responded in Swahili, which Wycliffe, still looking frustrated about our unexpected road trip, translated. “The driver injured his arm over five years ago,” he said. “He damaged the joint and nerves in his shoulder.”

Next, I asked Wycliffe to explain to the driver that I was a minister from the United States and had seen many remarkable healings. Wycliffe translated, and the driver looked at me in his rearview mirror and said to me in English, “I am Muslim.”

I figured that we had another hour and a half of driving with him, so I asked Wycliffe to tell him that it did not matter what his religion was, that God loved him and wanted to heal his arm today. Wycliffe translated as requested. Then while the driver was looking at me in the mirror, he lifted his right arm and reached his hand toward me and said, “Okay, you pray.”

I prayed a simple prayer, saying, “In Jesus’s name, I command all the pain to leave his arm and we ask you, Lord, for a new shoulder. Thank you for healing him, in Jesus’s name.”

Upon the conclusion of my prayer, the driver pulled his arm back, stretched out his arm, opened and closed his hand, stuck his arm toward the roof of his taxi, then turned his head to look at me and proclaimed, “My arm is healed! Thank you for healing me.”

Wycliffe responded with shock, looking at me and stating, “You are for real!?”

I responded to Wycliffe, “Of course I am for real. Isn’t that why you invited me to Kenya?”

We finally arrived back at the airport we had left more than three hours before. I walked up to the security and asked where I would find lost baggage. The man directed me to a security checkpoint. As expected, when it was my turn at the checkpoint, the man started to pat me down but paused when he felt my wallet/passport holder that I had under my shirt. He grabbed it from outside of the shirt, patted again a few more times, turned to his supervisor, and said something to him in Swahili. Then the supervisor patted my wallet/passport through my shirt, stretched out his hand, shook my hand, and said, “Good afternoon, officer. Please come in.” That was when I realized that they had confused my passport carrying case for something a foreign officer would carry.

I walked into the lost luggage area and immediately saw my bag. It was beige in color and easily recognizable because of the design. As I approached my bag, I was watching two security guards admiring it. Then one of them flicked the small lock on it, read the tag, and started to roll it off. I rushed up and said, “Stop, that’s my bag,” as I reached into my shirt to pull out my passport.

Before I could pull out my identification, a voice interrupted. “He is an officer,” a voice from behind me said. “Give him his bag, immediately.”

I turned to see who it was and saw that it was the supervisor whom I had met at the entrance. Both the men who were rolling my bag away stood up like soldiers, turned to me, and apologized. I retrieved my bag, thanked the supervisor, and headed out to Wycliffe, who was impatiently waiting in the taxi. An hour later, we arrived back at our hotel when Wycliffe turned to me and asked for 1,500 shillings (~$20 USD) for our second taxicab adventure. I heard God say audibly, “Eight dollars.”

Not sure what God was talking about, I ignored Him because of complete exhaustion and headed back up to our room where we found Patrick sound asleep. I woke Patrick up, and he asked what we were planning for dinner. Wycliffe informed us that he had made arrangements for us to have dinner in the hotel restaurant. It was a buffet. Again, at the end of the meal, Wycliffe insisted that we allow him to negotiate our bill, so that we would not be scammed. He came back to us and said to pay 2,250 shillings (~$30 USD). As I paid Wycliffe, I heard God say, “Eleven dollars.” Now, with a full stomach, I was curious about what the two different dollar amounts God spoke to me meant. When we went upstairs, Wycliffe stated that he had to leave to run an errand. I shared with Patrick what I heard God say. Patrick replied, “You hear from God, bro. Just ask Him what He is saying.”

I did what he advised, and God said, “585 dollars.” I repeated to Patrick what I heard. He asked what that amount meant, so I asked God for an explanation. God said, “That is the amount you will allow Wycliffe to steal from you before you separate from him.”

What God had just told me blew my mind. I was so upset that I started to audibly argue with God in front of Patrick. I mean, if he was going to steal $585 from us, why couldn’t we leave him now? God did not waver in His stance to allow Wycliffe to steal the money, so I chose to follow what I heard. Patrick, on the other hand, could not believe that our Kenyan host would steal from us, especially with him being a pastor.

Once my mind was made up to go through with God’s plan, I opened up my travel journal, and on the very back page, I wrote down the number $585 and documented the two amounts God had already said, eight dollars and eleven dollars, and when the money was stolen. Then I asked God where else Wycliffe had already stolen money from us. Then I remembered the twenty dollars he pocketed and the amount we paid for on our first taxi ride, which God said, “Nine dollars.” It was only our first day in Kenya, and Wycliffe had already stolen forty-eight dollars.

The next morning, we packed up our things, went downstairs to the restaurant and had a breakfast buffet. Cha-ching, another five dollars into Wycliffe’s pocket. In less than twenty-four hours, Wycliffe had already managed to steal two months’ wages from us. By the conclusion of our time with him, Wycliffe stole the equivalent of a typical Kisumu family’s salary for two years.

We checked out of the hotel (-$10), called another taxi (-$5), and purchased three round-trip bus rides to Kisumu (-$15).

We loaded our luggage onto the bus and boarded and were finally off to our final destination in Kenya, a place we would call home for the next twenty-three days. On the bus, a few minutes into the ride, we asked Wycliffe how much longer the trip to his city would take. He responded, “Almost eight hours more.” He explained that the ride would take so long because the bus stops at every market along the way to receive their bribes from the storeowners to bring them customers. As a resident of Houston, Texas, I am accustomed to long drives, especially when on vacation and commuting from one Texas city to the next. However, this was not your typical bus ride because the accommodations were not what Patrick and I were accustomed to. The bus was large, similar to the buses you would find in the United States; however, the likeness stopped there. The bus had no air conditioning (or at least it was not turned on), a person a few rows behind me had a goat, and two ladies next to me hand-carried chickens. The seats were sticky, the air was fragrant with body odor, and the cabin was filled with the nauseating smell of diesel fuel.

To make matters worse, as mentioned above, the bus stopped at every possible stop. With each stop, Wycliffe wanted us to try some of the local eats. He had us purchase snacks (-$1), bottled drinks (-$1), and bananas (-$1).

Finally, after eight long, sweaty, nauseating hours, we arrived in Kisumu. Kisumu was one of the larger cities in Kenya, but it looked to be more rural, with vast countryside and smaller buildings. However, it was very African, closer to what I imagined. It was very humid and very beautiful.

Upon arrival, Wycliffe called Wilson, a friend and a local taxicab driver, to come get us. Wilson arrived, packed our things, and drove us to a lakeside restaurant called Tilapia Bay, where the restaurants purchased fresh-caught tilapias from local fisherman caught directly out of Lake Victoria. Then they cleaned, seasoned, fried, and served the fresh catch with a pile of sea salt and a mound of ugali, a delicious white clay-like substance made from cornmeal. Ugali has the consistency of biscuit dough, the taste of grits, and was a perfect complement to any Kenyan dish. During the meal, I noticed small passenger planes coming and going from a small airport on the other side of the lake. I pointed at the planes and asked Wycliffe where those planes were coming and going from. He said, “Those flights are very expensive and are coming and going from Nairobi. Each flight cost approximately twenty-five American dollars per person.”

“From Nairobi?” I asked. “How long would a flight from Nairobi to Kisumu be?”

“Approximately thirty to forty-five minutes,” Wycliffe replied.

“Thirty to forty-five minutes?” I asked in frustration. “Why did we take an eight-hour bus ride for fifteen dollars per person when we could have spent ten dollars more to fly to Kisumu in less than forty-five minutes?”

“Fifteen dollars was the cost for a round trip,” stated Wycliffe. “The flight is too expensive!”

Although we were frustrated that we were not given the option to shorten our commute by seven and a half hours, we decided to let the issue go. However, Patrick and I privately decided that when it was time to leave, we would pay the extra money to fly out of Kisumu.

We finished the best meal we had in Kenya since arriving and paid for the meal through Wycliffe (-$4). We then called Wilson to drive us to our hotel, a place Wycliffe’s friend owned, which Wycliffe described as a Christian bed and breakfast. As usual, Wycliffe “negotiated” the price in private and instructed us to only pay the hotel through him each week (-$20 per week) and not to discuss the fees with any hotel staff. Still disappointed that God was allowing this guy to blindly steal money, we agreed to his requests.

After check-in, we were walked up to our room. It had two twin-size, thin foam beds covered in mosquito netting and a few broken window screens that later allowed mosquitoes to invade, increasing our chance of contracting malaria. We also had flat pillows, a shower, a toilet, and a sink. All the water to our room was from rainwater, which the hotel collected on the roof.

After settling in, Wycliffe called Wilson to drive us to our first meeting. A few minutes into our ride, we came upon the city landfill. The landfill was probably the largest structure in that village and spanned a few square blocks. The landfill reached high into the sky and was littered with children of all ages scavenging for metal and glass to sell. My heart sunk as I watched the children helplessly. We inquired about the children to Wycliffe, who explained to us that most of the children we saw in the landfill were called “street kids,” typically orphans who were left to fend for themselves from a very young age.

Within a block of the landfill, our taxi came to a stop. “We are here,” Wycliffe said.

Patrick and I could hear the sound of beautiful music coming from behind an old rusty gate made of sheet metal. The lyrics we heard were, “We are serving the living God. We are serving the living God. We are serving the living God. Hallelujah, Jesus Christ.”

The people continued to sing as the gate swung open to reveal a tent, some plastic chairs, two speakers, a gas generator, a few instruments, and approximately forty passionate worshippers. I was awestruck as we took in the sweet atmosphere, smiling faces, and genuine worship.

As we watched, Wycliffe ushered us to the front of the meeting where three seats awaited. I sat and watched as the people worshipped. The beautiful desperation these people had for God was completely overwhelming. After worship, Wycliffe stood up and started to preach. He initially spoke in Swahili. As we listened to him speak, I suddenly realized that Wycliffe had just spoken out a few words from my tongues, my spiritual language. Patrick turned to me and said, “Dude, I wish we could understand what Wycliffe was saying.” Turning to Patrick, I replied, “I recognize a few of the words and phrases he is saying. Wycliff is speaking in my tongues!”

A few minutes into the meeting, Wycliffe pointed to us and switched from Swahili to English. He said, “I am a keeper of my promises. I promised you years ago that I would deliver Americans to my church.” After pausing for effect, he said, “I have kept my promise!” A few minutes later he turned to me and said, “Please welcome Pastor Jonnathan from Pulse Missions.” I embraced Wycliffe, and during the embrace, Wycliffe whispered in my ear, “Pastor, you may preach for three hours.”

“Three hours,” I thought. “What the heck am I going to talk about for three hours?”

I introduced myself, followed by introducing Patrick. Next, I told them how excited we were to be connected to such passionate worshippers. After about forty-five minutes, I concluded the meeting and invited Wycliffe back up. He looked rather perturbed that I spoke for such a short time, but I was overwhelmed and not prepared to speak for three hours, especially since he told me last minute. After the meeting, Patrick and I met a few of his friends, David, Nashon, Brandon, and Brenda, followed by a cup of tea and some fried snacks. During our teatime, Wycliffe laid out my expected preaching schedule. He explained that he had lined me up to speak three sessions per day for three hours each session for twenty-three straight days.

In complete shock at my schedule, I responded, “That’s not going to work, Wycliffe. That’s nine hours a day of preaching and I only brought twelve sermons. At the schedule you just gave me, I will run out of sermons by the third day of our twenty-three-day mission trip.”

Wycliffe, unsympathetic, said, “You have to. I have already told everyone.”

Feeling extremely overwhelmed, I began to question if I was truly called to Kenya. I was thinking, “How could an American like me, who grew up with the typical American luxuries, relate to this church’s congregation?” From what I had observed, a day in the lives of these people had more trials and adversities than I had ever faced.

I spent the next twenty minutes negotiating with Wycliffe on the preaching schedule, finally getting him to agree to change my schedule from three three-hour sessions per day to two three-hour sessions per day. Luckily, that night, I was able to convince Patrick to split the two services with me, having him preach the evening service to church leaders and I would preach the morning service to new and non-believers.

Each evening while in Kenya, Patrick and I went against the advice of the locals to stay indoors after dark, and we walked to the Nakumatt store to pick up snacks and visit the cybercafé, which was located upstairs at the strip center of the supermarket. While there, I called Olivia, my girlfriend at the time, and told her about my day. After my second full day in Kenya, I explained to her the emotional struggles I was dealing with on how I was to minister to people who would have no comprehension of my life or testimony. I was filled with the fear of failing God and all the financial supporters of my trip. Olivia listened and encouraged me that I was definitely called to Kenya and that I was fully equipped to minister to these people. She reminded me of the prophetic words I had received as well as all the signs confirming my call to be exactly where I was. I absorbed every ounce of encouragement she poured out and decided to press forward. Our conversations were typically ten to fifteen minutes, but they always provided me with the dose of encouragement and love I needed to stay on course.

Our first night at the Kisumu bed and breakfast felt very uneasy. When we made it back to our room, well after dark, Patrick and I sat on our beds and talked about our day, our experiences, our concerns about Wycliffe, and what we hoped would happen while on our trip. I could tell that he was nervous about preaching the next night, while I was feeling extremely ill-equipped to share anything the next morning.

Next, we talked about Heidi Baker, what we witnessed in the film Finger of God, and how we came to Kenya expecting to rock the nation with God’s manifestation, only to feel rocked and defeated by our experiences and emotions. Eventually, we calmed down and knew we needed to focus on the upcoming day. We spent the rest of the night studying the Bible, worshipping, and praying. Finally, at about 12 a.m. (4 p.m. in Houston), we decided to go to bed.

We both covered ourselves with mosquito netting and went to bed. While asleep, I had the following dream:

In my dream there was old African woman with long gray hair standing at an open flame cooking something in a pot. I was sleeping outside, and I sat up to notice that she was emaciated and nude. When the woman noticed that I was awake, she walked over to me and began kissing and touching me.

Suddenly, I woke up in a gasp to find Patrick sitting and reading his Bible with a small flashlight in his bed.

“Can’t sleep either?” I asked him.

He replied, “Dude, I am going to throw up. I had this nasty dream about an old African woman, and I couldn’t go back to sleep.”

Hearing this, I quickly sat up and gave him all the details of my dream. Staring at me in complete shock, Patrick asked how I knew all the details of his dream. I explained that I did not but that I had the exact same dream.

In hearing that, we both agreed that God was warning us about the enemy’s plots. Neither of us slept much the rest of the night; rather, we chose to start fighting spiritually with prayer and praying in tongues.

The next morning, we were awakened by roosters crowing and the Muslim mosque across the street blaring their prayers at 3 a.m. The night before, Wycliffe asked that we be ready to go by 8:30 a.m. Since we could not sleep, Patrick and I had already eaten and were packed up and ready to go by 8 a.m., waiting for Wycliffe and Wilson to arrive so we could make it to our 9 a.m. meeting.

We started our frustrating wait for Wycliffe, counting the minutes, then hours, and finally, after two and a half hours, Wycliffe arrived, greeting us with a big smile, and said, “Good morning, my brothers.”

We were trying our best to not to show our frustrations and greeted him. Then Patrick asked him if everything was okay and why he was so late. Wycliffe responded, “Oh, I’m not late, brother. I am on Kenyan time. We are never in a hurry in Kenya.”

His response infuriated us. We asked him that, moving forward, he begin to arrive at the time he indicated. Wycliffe agreed.

While we were driving to our first morning meeting, Wycliffe informed us that we had somewhere to be at 2 p.m. and would have to cut the morning meeting short to attend another event in another village. Since I was speaking that morning, I was rather relieved by the news. When we arrived, the worship had already been going on for more than two hours and the crowd was ready to hear God’s Word.

As I prayed before my introduction, I heard God say, “Read, starting at John 14:1.”

I did as I was told but was curious as to why God was making this request, especially after I spent hours the night before preparing my message. When I was introduced, I stood up and greeted everyone in Swahili. Then God said, “Ask the people who have their Bibles to raise their hands.” Again, I did as I was told and was completely shocked when only two or three audience members raised their hands. I learned later that Bibles were very expensive in Kenya. For example, a Bible that cost one dollar in the United States cost more than ten dollars in Kenya. I said, “The Lord instructed me to read you His Word today. I am starting in John 14:1.” As I read, the audience wept.

Immediately after the meeting, Wycliffe called Wilson, who came to drive us to our next location. As we parked, Wycliffe turned to me and said, “We are attending the funeral of my sister-in-law, and you will deliver the message.”

I looked at him and asked why he waited until we arrived at the funeral to make that demand of me and why he could not do it himself. He responded, “Because in Kenyan traditions, family is not allowed to preside over a family member’s funeral.” With that, I agreed to his request.

After the funeral, we went back to our hotel room. Like clockwork, Patrick and I visited the cybercafé just above the Nakumatt, which was approximately one mile away from where we were staying. As we walked, Patrick began to worry that we were putting ourselves in danger, especially since we regularly passed people with machetes and assault rifles on our walk. I did not care; I had my heart set on making the journey to call Olivia.

This night I was completely undone. It was the conclusion of our third day in Kenya and second day in Kisumu. While Patrick and I spoke on the walk to the store, we decided on cutting our mission trip short, leaving Kenya and refunding every cent that was donated for our trip.

I shared with Olivia everything that happened, my growing concerns about Wycliffe, and about my insecurities of not being enough to touch any lives in Kenya. Olivia responded, “Although I would love to see you sooner than later, why don’t you give it another day and see what happens?”

I heard her advice and decided to take it.

The next morning, as Patrick and I got ready for our day, I bent over to tie my shoelaces and saw the image of the devil’s face created in the dirt and dust of the floor. It looked like a cartoon drawing of the devil with horns, a tongue with spikes sticking out, and a grimacing snarl. In a panic, I blotted it out with my shoes and said, “Lord, please bless our day.” I laid down in my bed as I waited on Patrick to finish. He walked out and asked, “Are you ready, bro?”

I said, while pointing to the floor, “Yes. The strangest thing happened when you were in the shower. The face of the devil appeared on the floor right here.”

Patrick and I looked down at the spot I was pointing at and both screamed, “It’s still there!”

Now Patrick blotted it out with his Army boots and asked if I drew it out with my hand to scare him. I swore to him that I did not. As he walked off of that spot, we watched as the dirt and dust moved and reformed the devil’s face again. Patrick screamed, “Okay, now that is crazy! What the hell?”

I immediately started blotting the face out again and started praying a blessing over us. After praying, I asked Patrick if we should stay at the hotel, and he said, “Jonnathan, God is with us and I am with you. Ain’t no devil going to keep us from doing what God wants us to do.”

His response refocused me. “You’re right,” I said. “Let’s get out of here and do God’s work.”

We had breakfast and went out front to wait for Wycliffe. When he finally arrived to pick us up, he was more than an hour late again. He informed us that he had canceled our morning meeting in favor of taking us to a soccer camp he ran for street kids at a nearby village. I was very relieved that I did not have to speak that morning but offered to preach in Patrick’s place that evening, which he gladly accepted. Wilson dropped us off at the Nakumatt. Wycliffe said that he wanted to give us the morning off and allow us to shop, eat, relax, and meet his street kids. It all sounded good to us.

After shopping, Wycliffe approached the driver of a tut-tut, which is a three-wheeled motorcycle similar to a rickshaw. The three of us squeezed into the back seats and set off to the soccer camp.

After about forty-five minutes, we arrived at an open field. Wycliffe asked us to follow him and asked that we be careful not to step on any black mambas, an extremely venomous snake. We followed Wycliffe through the field, which had knee-high foliage, making sure to step exactly where Wycliffe stepped. Finally, we made it to a clearing where we were staring at a huge six-foot-wide and four-feet-deep body of water, which Wycliffe called a big puddle. “We will need to jump over it,” Wycliffe instructed.

At the time, I was approximately 285 pounds and was not confident that I could get my pudgy body safely over the “big puddle.” I asked Wycliffe if there was another route requiring less acrobatics; Wycliffe informed me that there was not. Suddenly, without warning, Wycliffe jogged backward, ran, and jumped over the puddle, easily making it to the other side. After all, Wycliffe only weighed approximately 140 pounds. Patrick looked astonished by what we just saw and turned to me while taking a few steps back. He said, “Don’t worry, dude. We’ll find another way.” After which, he immediately followed Wycliffe’s lead, running and jumping over the puddle as well.

I must have stared at Patrick as if he was a ghost because he completely contradicted what he said to me, immediately after he said it. Then I asked Wycliffe if I should try to wade through the almost chest-deep water, which he quickly talked me out of because of the chance of encountering black mambas in the water. With no other way to cross, I decided to jump the six-foot-wide puddle. I followed both of their leads, stepped back to gain momentum, then ran toward and jumped over the body of water. However, as I was halfway over, Wycliffe started running toward me, with his arms extended, and tried to catch me. For his safety, I extended my left leg, which landed first. All 285 pounds went through my left heel, causing a loud pop, which I found out after my trip was my fibula dislocating from my knee. My doctor in the United States told me that I was lucky because typically a trauma like the one I experienced would have resulted in a broken or compound fracture of the fibula, tibia, or both. Once I heard the pop, I knew instantly that I had a serious injury.

Since I was told that there was no way to go back, I opted to move forward with the help of Patrick’s shoulder and a large stick we found. After only a few minutes of limping, we arrived at the soccer camp. There were more than twenty kids at that camp of various ages, ranging from five years old to eighteen years old. Wycliffe shouted to his crew. As they gathered around us, he introduced us to each of them and told them to sit down because I had a word to share with them.

“Me?” I thought. “Why doesn’t this guy tell us these things ahead of time?”

However, looking out at the smiling faces, even though I could barely stand and had nothing prepared, I agreed. I introduced myself, giving them a little background to my heritage and career. Next, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bill worth a few hundred shillings, which was equivalent to five dollars. I held the money up and asked, “Who wants this?”

Every child screamed and raised their hands. Then I wadded up the bill and asked the same question again, and again everyone screamed and raised their hands.

Finally, I dropped the bill onto the dirt and mashed it into the ground with my foot and asked, “What about now?” Again, they all screamed and raised their hands.

I picked up the bill, flattened it out, and asked, “Why would any of you want this? After it’s discarded like trash, mashed into the dirt, and treated like it was worthless?”

The group got quiet when, suddenly, a young boy stood up and said in a small voice, “Because the worth did not change.”

“Yes!” I responded, handing the bill to the young man. “No matter what I did to that money, the worth of it never changed. Today God wants you to know that no matter what you have gone through, what others have done to you, or even if you were discarded like trash, your worth to Him has not changed.”

I shared stories of the regular violent beatings I experienced at the hands of my mother, which led to my eventual murder at the age of twelve years old. Next, I shared about the rejection I received from my father, giving the example of how for the first twenty years of my life, he never introduced me as his son but only as David’s younger brother.

Finally, I asked the group, “Am I worth less because of how my parents treated me?”

They all screamed no.

I followed their screams with sharing how I had believed that I was worth less before my personal encounter with my Savior, Jesus Christ. Next, I shared how I was only a few steps from committing suicide before God audibly spoke to two young women, complete strangers, telling them to stop their car, get out, knock on my door, and tell me His words. At the very end of my message, I asked, “Who wants to know Jesus Christ as I know Jesus?” Everyone raised their hands. Lastly, I invited them all to stand and led them into a prayer for their salvation. There was a sense of peace which fell upon that field as tears began to flow from the children, as they suddenly realized their true worth and identities. I was overwhelmed with tears of joy as I thought to myself, “I was created for this!”

After service, I spent a few minutes visiting with them before Wycliffe informed us that we needed to go. He called the tut-tut driver, who was already sitting outside waiting for us. To get to our vehicle, Wycliffe led us through the village, down a dirt road, and straight to our driver without needing to jump over any puddles or walk through any black mamba-infested fields. I looked at Wycliffe, very upset, and said, “I thought you told us that there wasn’t another way to your kids?” He clicked his tongue and snapped his fingers and said, “It was a longer walk. I took a shortcut.” I was completely shocked that he decided to risk our safety and lives to save a few minutes, rather than guide us through the small village.

The three of us loaded up on the tut-tut. I was in excruciating pain from my dislocated fibula, and we were exhausted from our half-mile walk. As we rode off, the kids, who followed us out, all waved goodbye.

That was when Wycliffe, shaking his head, said, “What a miracle. That was a miracle!”

I replied, “Yes, salvation is always a miracle.”

Turning to me, he said, “No, you do not understand. They were not just street kids. They were all Muslims.” With that news, I was in awe of the goodness of God.

That night, we called Wilson to drop us off at the Nakumatt because I could barely stand. I called Olivia, as I did every night, and asked her if she would consider moving to Kenya. She sounded surprised that I was singing a completely different tune this evening. But the truth was, those kids’ salvation ignited something in me, which I thought was a call to be an evangelist to all Kenyan street kids. Next, I updated her that we no longer were planning on returning home early but rather were seriously considering a move to Kenya to plant orphanages all over the nation. Olivia was very happy but surprised to hear about my sudden change of heart. Only knowing me for three months at this point, she stated that she would stand by me in prayer while encouraging me to keep the momentum God had started.

As I shared earlier in this story, God informed me the first day we arrived in Kenya to allow Wycliffe to steal $585 from us, at which point we were instructed to separate from him. At the conclusion of our second week, we were only a dollar shy of the total. Patrick, who was still in doubt that a pastor, or in his words “a man of God,” would blatantly steal from us, asked where we were on the total. I shared with him that we were only a dollar short.

As always, Patrick and I were ready to go at the time Wycliffe requested the night before, and as always, Wycliffe showed up more than an hour late. This time, he showed up with bananas. He handed us the bananas and said, “Good morning, my brothers. I have purchased you breakfast.” Next, he asked for repayment, and God immediately said, “One dollar,” which meant that we were to instantly conclude our time with Wycliffe.

I thanked him for the banana, shook his hand, turned to Patrick, and said, “Well, that’s $585.” Next, I turned to Wycliffe and said, “Thank you for your hospitality. Our partnership with you is over.”

Wycliffe, very upset, clicked his tongue, snapped his fingers, and apologized for being late again. I explained to him that we were not separating from him because of his tardiness but rather because he had reached the amount God told us to allow him to steal.

He replied to my accusations with, “I did not ‘steal’ your money. I was just taking payment for organizing your trip, for planning your ministry time, and renting all the supplies.”

Hearing Wycliffe’s explanation, Patrick was infuriated and started to scream at him, telling him that deals like that in America are negotiated but what he had done was criminal. I separated Patrick from Wycliffe, explaining to him that the money stolen was somehow part of God’s plan. Next, we turned around, and as we started to go back into the hotel, Wycliffe said, “I will pay some of it back.” We declined his offer and left him standing there in front of the hotel.

That evening, we met a young man named Jashon, who began connecting us throughout Kisumu with homes and ministries for street kids. Our time in Kenya taught us many things, especially about ourselves. It allowed us to grow in our trust in the Lord, to be used in miracles and salvation, and allowed us to meet numerous amazing people, such as Jashon, Nashon, David, Brandon, and Brenda. Now, years later, I can see the death of my old self and the birth of the new.

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