I sometimes joke that revival followed me from birth. Around the time I was born, a preacher from the U.K. came to minister on our family farm in Kenya, and stories of creative miracles spread throughout the region. Looking back now, I realize that outreach, ministry, and community transformation were already woven into the atmosphere I was raised in.
When I was young, I remember sitting on makeshift wooden structures in the harsh semi-arid lands of the Rift Valley. The wind would carry dust through the air as my father stood with a microphone in his hand, speaking passionately in our native dialect about the importance of church building and church planting. He would often say, “Let us come together and build this church. It will transform this community once this altar is raised.”
Nearby, my mother was with the women, cooking and preparing lunch under a tree with an African cloth tied around her waist. Ministry was never just something my parents preached on Sundays. It was woven into how they lived every day. It was in the sacrifices, getting their hands dirty, the long drives, the open homes, the conversations, and the willingness to serve even when resources were limited.
My parents were often invited to weddings and school fundraisers throughout the remote villages, and we would accompany them. I remember my father proudly calling us to the front to introduce us. The villagers marveled that we were fluent in English and attended school in Nairobi. Looking back, I realize they were not just impressed by language or education. They were witnessing possibility. They saw what exposure, faith, and opportunity could produce in young lives.
Those early memories stayed with me more than I realized.
Candy and the Orphanage That Changed Me
Years later, at eighteen, I began volunteering alone at an orphanage near my home. Many children were HIV positive, and some faced the heartbreaking reality that they likely would not live to adulthood because of high viral counts. It was emotionally heavy, yet there was so much tenderness within those walls.
I still remember my first doctor’s visit with a little girl named Candy. Everyone assumed she was my child because she clung so closely to me. She had rosy cheeks, curly hair, and the sweetest smile that could soften even the hardest days. I remember sitting there with tears streaming down my face as the doctors explained that her outlook was not good.
I fell deeply in love with those children, and a spark was ignited in my heart that never truly went away. I remember going home and telling my parents, “I don’t know how it will happen, but one day I want to open a school…a school that helps underprivileged children. Candy will be my first student.”
Even then, I think God was quietly planting seeds in me.
Planting Seeds of Hope in Kenya
Fast forward to today…
This morning, I received a ministry update from a pastor in Kenya’s coastal region about a young man I have been helping support through rehabilitation as he works to rebuild his life after addiction. The pastor and his wife are former college classmates of mine…people who genuinely love Jesus and faithfully serve through grassroots ministry. Their love for people is evident, and their passion for the Kingdom of God is undeniable.
The young man’s story touched me deeply because addiction has a way of stealing dignity, hope, and identity. Yet through the care, accountability, prayer, and practical support surrounding him, I have been watching God slowly begin to restore what seemed broken. As I read the update this morning, my heart overflowed with gratitude.
Then I thought about another woman the pastor had connected me with…a widow living in western Kenya. I remember calling her and telling her I would help pay their school tuition. I told her that Jesus had orchestrated this divine connection and that I did not want anything in return…only that she would give the glory and praise back to God.
She responded softly in Swahili, “Sister, truly there is a God. I was almost giving up.”
Shortly afterward, she sent me a voice note of herself breaking into spontaneous song…praising the name of Jesus.
I sat humbled, realizing God could use me, even from thousands of miles away, to touch lives back home in Kenya. It had nothing to do with me being extraordinary. Absolutely nothing. It was simply the beauty of being available when God prompts your heart to move.
When God Taught Me About Good Soil
But this same morning, the Lord began gently convicting me.
I reflected on two completely different outreaches I had participated in…one in Nairobi and another in Nakuru. In those situations, I had initiated the outreaches myself and gave primarily out of emotion, pressure, or human compassion rather than true leading from God.
Ironically, the financial support I sent in those situations was almost ten times greater than the others, yet despite the amount given, there was no peace attached to it.
Instead of fruitfulness, there was confusion, drama, and constant misuse. There always seemed to be unnecessary chaos surrounding the support, and deep down, I could sense that the resources were not truly being used for Kingdom purposes or transformation.
That realization humbled me deeply.
Not every place is good soil.
Sometimes we assume that having a good heart is enough. Sometimes compassion alone causes us to move quickly without discernment. Sometimes helping others feels so deeply ingrained in us that we never pause to ask whether God is actually leading us to sow there.
But generosity without discernment can be quite the slippery slope.
This morning, I asked God for forgiveness.
I realized that although my intentions were sincere, some of my giving came more from my flesh than obedience. I did not fully understand then that not every altar is godly, and not every opportunity to give is an assignment from God.
The lesson the Lord showed me felt simple, yet deeply profound: We are not only called to sow. We are called to sow where He leads. Good soil matters.
There is a difference between giving because we feel guilty and giving because God has spoken. There is a difference between being emotionally moved and being spiritually led. One often produces exhaustion, confusion, and frustration; the other produces peace, fruit, and genuine transformation.
As I reflected on all of this, my mind drifted back to those dusty lands in the Rift Valley where my father would preach about raising godly altars that would transform communities. Maybe those lessons were planting themselves in me long before I fully understood them.
P.S. I would love to trace that young girl Candy. I still pray that she’s alive. At one point I wanted to adopt her, but shortly afterward I immigrated to the U.S.
Hugs,
