My experience is too small. My education is too small. My bank account is too small. The amount of time I can offer is just too small.

When I’m presented with opportunities to serve I find myself running over the list in my head of all the other people who’d be so much more qualified than me.  I think about the people who have true expertise in whatever area it is and I decide that the little I have to offer would not really be worth anyone’s time.

When all I can afford is $3 to donate, I talk myself out of giving at all because, what can a mere $3 really do anyway? I won’t go to volunteer because my schedule only allows me to come sporadically and for short chunks of time. They don’t want me, I tell myself, they want people who can really be committed and invest themselves fully in the ministry.

I guess it comes down to the fact that I really don’t like to do things half-way. If I’m going to mentor someone, I want to read books and talk to wise people and make sure I know everything I need to really do justice to the title “mentor.” If I’m going to speak to girls about teen pregnancy, I won’t feel qualified until I’ve talked with teen mothers and done research and know statistics.  If I’m going to sing at a nursing home to a half deaf audience, I won’t go until we’ve practiced every last chord and note.

There is definitely something to be said for doing things excellently ‘as to the Lord and not to men.’ But lately, I keep hearing God asking me to STOP with all the preparing, all the over thinking, all the trying to be qualified. He’s been asking me here to just TRUST.  So I’ve been silencing all those excuses and finally just learning how to step out in obedience.

God has been taking the hodgepodge of all the infrequent hours I can offer, and all the various things I am mediocre at – all my inexperience and unpreparedness and feelings of inadequacy – and He is teaching me to trust Him to take everything small in me and grow it into something that is enormously important for the kingdom.

And the beauty of it all is that it has nothing to do with me! All he asks me to bring to the table is trust. No hours of preparation or resumes of expertise could add one ounce to what He’s doing. I come with my small offerings of time and energy, my fumbling attempts at loving, my serving that’s tainted with selfishness – and He in all His divine provision multiplies my shabby giving into something significant.

The classroom where God taught me a transforming lesson in trust.

I’ve been captivated observing this kind of trust in so many of the Kenyans I’ve met but I couldn’t quite articulate it until Wednesday.

Wednesday I met Grace at the matatu stop in Kibera. Armed with my camera and favorite lenses, I intended to capture the work she was doing with the women in her Empowerment Group. We started down the dusty street, uselessly trying to talk over the blaring music coming from every direction. I smiled, because this kind of cacophony is so characteristic of the Kibera that I have come to love.  I strained through the reggae and gospel and rap songs to pick out Grace’s words.

She asked about my day, and I hers. We chatted and laughed as we walked on. Then she mentions causally right as we approach the door to the school, “So I’ll be there for ten minutes or so and then I’m going to run over to address an emergency they’re dealing with at a school on the other side of the slum. You’ll be ok teaching the class, yeah?”

I looked at her like she was crazy. She was leaving me in the middle of a million person slum, completely unprepared, in a room of 14 year olds no less! At least she could have told me this as the beginning of our walk and then I’d have time to grill her about what on earth I was supposed to talk about!

Grace introducing me.

She mentioned that she’d planned to discuss gender discrimination and self esteem that day. I knew I’d heard talks on these things before… my mind raced through 22 years worth of sermons and school assemblies and life experiences. If I had an hour to think about this I was sure I could some up with something pretty good. But as I stood there in front of the class while Grace introduced me, my mind was completely and utterly blank.

What did I know about gender discrimination? These are girls who’re married off at 13. They have parents who don’t see the need to send them to school because they’re women. In the culture of Kibera, women wash clothes and make food and take care of babies. Their self esteem is shattered after years of cruel words that have shaped them. They are beaten and raped and it is such a norm here that many of them don’t even realize that this is NOT ok.

There was so much they needed to hear, but what words did I have? Who was I, this ignorant naive Mzungu to speak into their lives?

Ok. What could this mzungu possibly have to say to us?

Grace scurried out the door and I stood there awkwardly squished up against the blackboard. It was one of those moments when I felt too small. I felt unprepared. I felt inadequate. I wished I could have done research about what these particular women really needed to hear. I wished I had some engaging game that would teach them a profound lesson. I wished I had some three point sermon or some clever acronym that would help them remember truth.

But my wishing was useless, I was going to have to learn something about TRUST.

Suspicious and distrusting of my white skin, thirty pairs of narrow brown eyes suddenly turned to me.

I opened my mouth. I can’t tell you the words that came out. Most of what I remember is the persistent pleading prayer in the back of my head for the Holy Spirit to just take over and speak through me! My sentences at first were peppered with ums and uhs… it was hard to tell how much of my English they actually understood.

The girls start to engage...

But as the hour went on, the girls began to participate in discussion. They opened up about the things they are battling, the people who’ve held them back, the lies they were being told. We talked about peer pressure and sexual abuse and stereotypes and HOPE. Slowly they let me in more and more, and with every hand raised, with every fear expressed, with every dream voiced something in me got so excited. They had no reason at all to trust me, they had no reason to respect me or anything I said. But they were, somehow. Despite the fact that I am not a trained teacher; despite the fact that I had no history with them; despite the fact that I had come completely unprepared… good good things were happening.

As our hour came to a close, I taught them a song called Somba Le Le. Half way through the song they got up out of their seats and started clapping and dancing. They enthusiastically followed the ridiculous moves I was making up and even added some of their own as our glorious song filled the tiny dark room.

The woman who suggested "girls can do!"

I told them that as far as I knew the song’s catchy words had no meaning. I suggested we make up our own.

“What do you want this song to mean? What do you want to think about every time you sing it?”

“Girls can do!” someone shouted out in a melodic Kenyan accent.

“Girls can do ANYTHING!” another voice chimed in from the back.

Girls can do anything, it was.

With pride in their eyes, they sang on, attached to the anthem now in a deeper way. There was strength in their voices and joy in their dancing. It seemed like these girls who’ve been taught all their lives that they’re nothing, really believed these sacred words. The light in their once apprehensive eyes made me think that somehow they had really gotten a glimpse of their value to God in that hour.

They sang as they paraded out of the class, 10 minutes late because we didn’t want it to end. Each girl shook my hand as they left and made me promise to come back the next week. I couldn’t wait.

I wish you could have seen this girl's dancing!

I practically skipped my way back to the matatu stage. I couldn’t get their faces out of my head. There was something holy that happened in that hour.  I came in all my smallness and trusted that God would show up. And He did. In the words. In the music. In the way these girls opened up their hearts. In the worth they walked away with.

It was exceedingly more perfect than anything I could have planned or prepared for.

Sometimes I think all God asks of us is obedience. He is a God who’s always loved to work through the small, untrained, imperfect people.

I feel too small to make a difference because I am.

What I forget too often is that I serve a God whose strength is made perfect in my weakness.

He IS big enough to make a difference. The crazy thing is that He chooses to work through our smallness.

All he asks of us is to be willing. Can we muster up the courage to step out in trust?

Haggling is something I have always been terrible at.

There are however, those certain people who are incredibly clever at this tricky game.  They have this very particular tone of voice – firm and strong, engaging yet not too eager. They split their money into multiple pockets using some complex system designed for supreme sneakiness, taking care not to reveal how much money they actually have on them too soon. Reminiscent of some well practiced dance routine, they nonchalantly walk away from the seller at what seems to me to be completely random points in the conversation.

How do they know when to walk? And exactly how far should one walk? I have tried this trick before, waiting anxiously for the dance partner to follow, grab my hand and lead me back to his selling booth. It wasn’t until I got to the end of the street that I finally decided he probably wasn’t coming. Apparently, these cunning tactics are only for the haggling masters. They are to no avail in the hands of mere amateurs like me.

Despite my sincere attempts at that firm uncompromising voice, and even the furrowed stern-looking brow that is meant to accompany it, the response elicited is usually one of hearty laughter which is only on a rare occasion paired with a price cut.

Determined to redeem my reputation as the one who always gets ripped off by vendors, I decided last Wednesday to try a new approach. Work with what I have. Although I am not such a pro at cunning manipulation, I happen to be fairly good at making friends. And so, with a hearty smile on my face and a wallet full of small bills, I made my way to Toi Market. I realized, of course, that the possibility of few Swahili phrases being able to win me new friends (who’d give me cheap clothes) was very slim. But I quite enjoy little challenges like this and the adventures that inevitably accompany them.

Believe it or not, my new technique proved incredibly successful and I not only came away with two bags of incredibly cheap clothes but also a ton of new friends! There is one in particular that I have gone to see four times since then and she has been teaching me so much about the heart of God.

Penina, surrounded by her clothes.

While I was attempting to persuade Penina to sell me a skirt for half price, it came out that I worked in the Kibera slums. All of the sudden this woman didn’t care about the price of the skirt; her expression had completely changed.

“Can I give you some clothes for those kids you teach in Kibera?”

Give me some clothes? For five minutes she’d been going back and forth with me over 50 shillings (the equivalent of about 70 cents) for this skirt, and now she wanted to give away free clothes? Gosh, this making friends thing really works!

I expressed to her my confusion. “Why?!” I asked her.

“God has been so good to me lately, Christine.”

Excited to find she was a Christian, I inquired further,“What has he done?!”

I was eager to hear.

She looked down, kind of ashamed. It was a look I’d seen before from so many mothers in the slums.

“I didn’t have enough money to pay for my daughter’s school fees.”

This meant that Penina’s bright 14 year old daughter would not be able to continue her education and would likely end up washing clothes, and probably battling poverty and hunger for the rest of her life.

“I was praying hard that the Lord would provide. And just the other day, a relative in the States offered to pay for her! God has been so so good to me, I just want to give back.”

Her shame turned into joy as she recounted the story. She was glowing. It was the glow of someone who has tasted God’s goodness in a real, tangible, life changing way. It was the glow of someone who knows she is loved by God and that He is a God who sees every tear, brings freedom from every last bit of shame, and provides in extravagant ways for his people.

We stood there between these dusty, tattered stalls and praised God for his faithfulness. I told her I would ask around first and find someone who really needed them and then I’d come back to pick up the clothes.

Pastor George, ready to hand out the clothes.

About ten minutes into my walk home I saw a familiar face across the sidewalk. You know those days when it is so obvious that God is orchestrating every moment? This was one of those days.

I know virtually no one in this big big city and the chances that I would run into Pastor George whom I’d met the week before were slim to say the least. Pastor George just happens to be in charge of a number of programs for kids, teens and adults in Kibera and he said he would have no problem finding happy homes for any clothes Penina wanted to donate. In fact, just that morning he had included clothes as an urgent need in the organization’s update email.

Irene, the lady from the stall next to Penina's.

Excited to tell Penina about the divine encounter with Pastor George, I came back the next day with an empty grocery bag. She was thrilled that the clothes would be filling an important need and began immediately grabbing clothes off the walls to fill my empty bag. The day before she’d mentioned something about maybe ten items, but I held the bag open and watched her place in 20…25….30 pieces. She’d told the shop keeper next door about the cause and Irene enthusiastically beckoned me over to her stall next.

I stood there with no words as these women filled my grocery bag to the brim and then continued to shove clothes in until the plastic was about to tear. It was all I could do to hold back the tears when they said, “this won’t fit, we have more!” Irene disappeared to buy another bag they could fill with more donations. She came back with a bag twice as big as mine and they proceeded to fill it with so many clothes that it was too heavy for just one person to lift.

It started with clothes for the babies, it seemed like she had an excess of those. But then they had the thought, “What about the mothers? We want to make them feel loved and special too!”

“O and the brothers!” a third shop keeper added. She contributed to the bright yellow bag but made me promise to come back tomorrow to pick up more clothes she’d bring from home.

My generous new friends!

It was beautiful. I stood there carrying this bag that I could now barely wrap my arms around. I watched them excitedly root through their collections for matching outfits- they were not giving the tattered old stuff, this was prime merchandise.

Before I left on this trip to Kenya, I went around to Walmart, Michaels, and Staples asking for art supply donations for my classes. I waited in long lines to talk to managers. I wrote official letters with business cards and thorough descriptions attached. I tried to wade through the red tape. From these big corporations with so much money, I received nothing. And here I was with Penina, whose “shop” was made with sticks and a plastic tarp. I was blown away by the contrast.

Penina helped me carry the two bloated bundles up to the matatu stage and somehow I made it all the way home without them being stolen, or my arms breaking off from the weight of their generous giving.

Some of the ladies who received the clothes!

I came back the next day to pick up a third bag that was even more full that the previous two. As Penina and I struggled to lift it into the bus she told me that the nosy shop keepers had asked her the day before if I had really bought all of that merchandise from them. With a humble joy she told me, “we let them believe you did.”

“We thought about that verse in the bible ‘when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret’.”

I stood in awe of this woman, not even accepting recognition for her extravagant generosity.

“Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you,” she recited the promise with an expectant confidence.

This is a woman who knows God. I love the advantage the Swahili language has on English when it differentiates between knowing experientially and knowing conceptually. Penina knows God in the kukuja zaid sense. She has tasted his goodness in such authentic ways. God’s love is so real to her that the only logical option for her is to give back. Her giving isn’t motivated by some clever motivational marketing. It isn’t driven by guilt or duty. It is not corrupted by the pride that comes from everyone thinking she’s such a good person. Her giving is a natural overflow, an uncontrollable response to her experiencing the goodness of a God who takes care of her. It is pure. It is secret. It’s contagious. It is beautiful.

Saturday, I delivered Penina’s offerings to a group of AIDS infected widows who were in desperate need of clothing for their children. The joy on their faces can’t quite be captured in words. I’ll just say it was not unlike that glow in Penina that I first saw on Wednesday.

Clothes to these people are not just clothes, just like Penina’s school fees held such divine significance. These clothes came as a miraculous answer to hundreds of fervent prayers for God to show up and provide in tangible ways. The cotton tops I handed Samantha met more than the physical needs of her children. That pile of clothes answered the questions she has quietly, persistently been asking for so long:

Am I really worth anything to God?

Does he see my pain?

Does he listen to my prayers?

Is he capable of meeting my needs?

Does he care to?

Somehow woven into each item of clothing given was a big resounding YES to all of the above.

Through Penina’s generous giving, God spoke. He spoke to these women. He spoke to me.

I came to Toi Market to practice my getting, but I walked away learning what it really means to give.

I want to introduce you to the family of ZanaAfrica. It has only been a short month since I’ve come to work with them but after dozens of cups of chai, countless matatu rides and miles of walking through the labyrinth trails of Kibera, I have developed such a deep love and respect for these courageous people.

ZanaA’s heart is to break the cycle of injustice from within. Instead of inserting naïve white people into the 50 schools where ZanaA holds Empowerment Groups, its founder Megan White employs young men and women who are living in Kibera.

Most of them have just finished secondary school and are working with ZanaA for the gap year before they begin college. It’s a critical time where an overwhelming majority of youth end up getting lost in drugs and alcohol.

Instead, these youth spend their days pouring into the young people of their community. They facilitate discussions about drugs, alcohol, sexuality, and peer pressure. They offer real solutions in overcoming these issues. They speak into 1000 kids’ lives every week.

Each one stands as a living testament that there is hope. They walk into classes of kids who don’t believe there is anything more than the life they’ve known- and then they see young men and women from the slums who have jobs. They have dreams. They are using their lives to inspire and build up and pour out into people.

Can you just think about the ripple effect this is having?

I wish I could set you up on a coffee date with each one of these incredible people. I wish you could hear the stories of the pain they’ve persevered through. I wish you could share in their contagious laughter. I wish you could shadow them for a day and see the relationships they’ve built in these classes. I wish you could see the respect they elicit from these kids that understand all too well where they’ve come from, and just what a miracle it is that they are where they are today.

For now, all I can give you is a picture, and this tiny taste of their big big hearts. I asked them why they came to work for ZanaA and I want to let them tell you in their own words…

————

AMOS

As first I thought I had come to ZanaA just to work and get money, but later I realized that my coming to ZanaA was more than money and that it was one of my childhood dreams come to pass. At my early years I wished that one day I will be able to reach to my community and especially the girl child, who I felt was much abused and seen as an object of sex or punching bags for the violent men. I now feel attached and obligated to help young boys and girls. I want to do law which will enable me to represent the girl child in court and fight for her rights.

————

FAITH

My best reason for joining ZanaA is getting an opportunity to reach to other needy children, to give them hope and encouragement and seeing smiles on their faces. Thinking that I was there once and to see how far I have gone. I have faith in them and us that will help them get as far as they want to go with their goals.

————

MAUREEN

Raised by a single mother and having passed through hard times with my mother and siblings I took this chance to help raise my younger siblings. Every time I get money from ZanaA I help my family by buying what is not at home. Through ZanaA I have been able to take my twin brothers to Secondary School.

————

JACQUELINE

I joined ZanaA because within me I have always had the passion to help out children who are out there. Because when I was in high school I used to admire those people who used to come and guide us. And I asked God I wish one day I could talk that to students out there. And I think God has answered my prayer. I work for Zana to touch a child’s heart.

————

MOSES

My reason for joining ZanaA was since my childhood and due to the way I have been brought up as parentless child. I have the passion and desire to work with children of the same caliber as me and see them change and gain hope that the future holds great things for them. I sincerely enjoy my time with kids, sharing my life experiences with them, and theirs. My heart feels more at peace when I make kids view life positively and know that they can achieve their beautiful set goals.

————

ROSA

I did not want to stay at home and have to ask my family for small things and pocket money. I wanted the freedom to leave them without asking for bus fare and lunch. I wanted to be busy before joining campus and I knew that my computer skills would improve over time.

————

KAJANI

Why I joined ZanaA is coz it targets young people and working with this kind of people has been my passion. This has been directly influenced by the type of life challenges that these young people are facing and I passed through the same experiences. These challenges that I underwent made me want to give back.

————

GRACE

I am at ZanaA so that I can reach more girls / women group who are in need of sanitary pads and they don’t know where they can get access to pads. Also to empower girls and women groups not to be dependent but to use the resources around them so that they can earn a living. Also my passion is to help girls to be role models in their community. Also to help them achieve their goals. Also to help them to get where they want to be.

————

These are the people I have come to know and love in this past four weeks. When these people talk about God’s faithfulness, it is no Sunday school cliché. God’s protection and provision is something they have prayed for in their most desperate moments and it is something that they have experienced in ways that have changed their life in the most tangible ways.

Once again, they are calling on God’s provision as currently ZanaA is in desperate need of funds. It takes a mere 86 dollars to sponsor one of these junior field officers for a month and keep the ripple effect going.

These eight people are giving their lives to invest in others.

Would you consider investing in them?

Check out my captions for the whole story!

 

I have always loathed the word “fine.” In my experience, people always use it when they are trying to avoid telling you how they really feel. My close friends know to never say the “f word” around me because it will only elicit a full-on interrogation.

What do you mean ‘fine’? How do you really feel?

‘Fine’? Now what did you really think of my cooking?!

And how do you mean this outfit looks fine?!

Usually when I am posed with a question, “how’re you doing?” for example, I try to use words that give a little more information.

Fantastic!

Absolutely wonderful, thanks for asking!

Or even sometimes “really awful actually, I’m having a terrible day.”

I can only imagine how ridiculously obnoxious this must get, especially to those people who are just being polite and would probably much prefer a quick “fine.” Yet somehow I’ve adopted the habit and can’t control it anymore. Without thinking the words spill out of my mouth… “I’m so glad you asked! I had the most phenomenal day…”

It's inevitable. Wherever you go in the slum, the kids always shout the same thing... "How are you???"

I had virtually banned the f word from my vocabulary as there are plenty of other available options that actually convey what you are feeling.

And then, I came to Kenya.

Believe it or not, this once most detestable word has won a beloved place in my heart.

The first English phrase Kenyan children learn is “how are you?” and the reply they’re taught is “fine.” Kids who can barely walk know this simple call and response, and they put it to use when a white person is anywhere within shouting distance.

Walking through the slums, dozens of kids come grab your hands asking with as much enthusiasm as a person so tiny could possibly muster “how are YOU?!”

My first visit, delighted by this ritual, I eagerly answered “Great! How are you?”

My animated response met blank stares.

“Uh… I mean…” My mind fumbled over some vague memory of hosts warning me that there was only one accepted response to this sacred phrase.

“I mean…fine? …Yeah, yeah, FINE!”

For you, little one... I'm FINE!

The magic word unlocked explosive laughter, giddy jumping and a persistent chanting of “how are YOU? How are YOU? How are YOU?

I smiled the kind of smile that I thought could never be in any way associated with such a pitiful word as fine.

And that next hour when the same question was posed to me what must have been 50 times, I answered each inquirer with no hesitation- “I am fine!”

So you’re wondering how I am doing today. I could tell how about how exciting it was to practice my Swahili, haggling over prices this morning. I could tell you about how hard I laughed when the man at the corner maize stand raved in all seriousness about the “fine American restaurant,” McDonalds . I could tell you how depleted I feel after a 7 hour day in the slums. But I hope you will respond with as much enthusiasm as my little Kenyan friends when I just tell you simply that I am fine.

I put my feet up and watched as lizards scurried up the stone fence in front of me. Some exotic bird was chirping in the distance. My eyes followed the vines as they crept up to the top of the fence where I was struck by a poignant juxtaposition. Bright orange flowers cascading down the wall met a menacing coil of barbed wire on top.

I didn’t have the words to describe my first few days in Nairobi but I decided that this was the image.

Nairobi... Bright flowers and barbed wire.

There is a barbed-wire side of Nairobi that threatens, intimidates and confines. In just the few days I’ve spent here, I’ve been overwhelmed with darker side of this city.

Crossing the street seemed scary enough for me with these insane matatu drivers. Honestly, I am 22 years old and I have refused to cross the street on my own for four days now! But this danger is laughable when you begin to see the real darkness in this place. With every day I get to know the city, much sharper edges emerge.

Virginia, one of the beautiful children I met in Huruma slum.

With our first visit to the slums, I was cut deep down by the extreme poverty, the injustice and the dehumanizing conditions so many hard working Kenyans are forced to endure. It tore me up inside to see the loss of dignity, respect, and worth in these significant lives. The barbed wire fence of poverty has the potential to keep many of them from ever going anywhere else.

And then there is the piercing reality of crime. It is rampant here. Nervously, I sling my backpack around to the front of me and clutch it tightly with both hands when I walk down Moi Avenue. I have to look completely ridiculous but my Kenyan hosts assure me it’s necessary. Going anywhere at night is simply not an option because the risk is just way too high. Today a friend was telling me about the multiple times she’s been mugged. “You can’t trust anyone,” she kept repeating, with a tone that revealed she’d learned the hard way.

This kind of depravity might not surprise you from people who’ve grown up in slums, but how about members of parliament? The barbed-wire facets of Nairobi are not restricted to dark alleys. The government is corrupt with power hungry Politicians who take advantage of the people they are meant to serve. Currently there is a big debate about the Members of Parliament (the highest paid people in the country) paying taxes on their allowances. While their constituents are starving to death, they are refusing to give up even this tiny percentage of their extravagant income.

And I’ve been here for less than a week. I haven’t even skimmed the surface.

Yet in this same city there are buds of hope.

Isaac. A bright spot in a dark place.

Right next to the matatu station with pushy men trying to rip you off and run you over, there is a fresh fruit stand with women lingering, laughing, dressed in brightly patterned fabrics holding beautiful babies on their backs.

In the same slum that made my heart so heavy, there were vibrant spots of life. The one that sticks out most in my mind is ten year old Isaac who showed such promise of hope. He was respectful and kind. He had a quiet confidence that elicited respect from all the other kids. His beautiful English could only have come as a result of diligent study and hard work. With the schooling provided by Karura Chapel, Isaac has the very real opportunity to not only change his standard of living, but to be an agent of change that affects his whole society.

I found similar stories of bright hope and fierce courage in the midst of brutal crime. My friend Faith lives in the Kibera slum. In the post-election violence, her shop was burned down and everything was stolen from her home. Yet the brutally victimized Faith put back the shattered pieces of her life and is now working with youth empowerment to stop kids before they get caught up in the rampant crime that plagues this city.

Pastor Simon Mbevi

Even in the political system, which seems to so many beyond hope, I’ve encountered stories of courageous work for change. This past Sunday, Pastor Simon of Mavuno Church shared the story of his running for office. Despite the fact that he received the most number of votes, Pastor Simon does not stand in office today because the certificate was literally stolen from him. After facing bribes, physical threats, and even attacks on his home, he had invested everything he had for what seemed to be nothing.

Yet he has not given up on Kenya’s government. Now he is starting a program to train future leaders and come alongside them in their campaigns, using his knowledge and experience to help them beat the system. “We want to take over parliament!” he told me, and something in this brave man makes me believe it could actually happen.

Over and over again as I’m seeing the sharp and tangled parts of this country, I am struck with the very real presence of flourishing life and hope.

The thing about barbed wire: it rusts.

Sharp edges eventually go dull.

The thing about blossoming vines: they GROW.