NAIROBI, Kenya -- It was Tuesday evening of our LEAMIS International Ministries work week in the Kibera slums. The normal evening services at New Life Restoration Centre had been called off so that the visiting Americans could enjoy a special treat -- a trip to the Masai market in Nairobi to buy souvenirs, followed by a special meal at the Carnivore Restaurant.

One of our team's major projects was teaching the people of the Kibera slums skills which could be turned into cottage industries -- making products like soap, candles, jams and jellies or craft items which they could sell as a source of income. LEAMIS founders Debra Snellen and Gail Drake expressed great satisfaction at how the projects were going; this type of economic development has been part of their vision for LEAMIS from the beginning, but this was the first trip to implement it on a wide scale.

The church has formed a co-op through which the workshop students can, if they wish, join together to market their products.

If it all works, and if the church is diligent about following up on the process, it will give the people of the slums an opportunity to improve their own situation.

We can only hope, however, that whatever results from all this will not look like the Masai market, an experience I and most of my team members would rather forget.

The market took place in a little patch of undeveloped ground in downtown Nairobi. A variety of hand-crafted items, and some items that quite obviously weren't hand-crafted, were displayed by various vendors. But you didn't deal with the vendors directly. High-pressure salespeople follow you around collecting your potential purchases, trying to get you to pick up additional items, and then haggling with you at the end of the process for a single price package deal. It was a thoroughly nerve-jangling experience, not pleasant in the slightest. Some people ended up not buying anything; others ended up spending more than they had intended.

Haggling is a part of African culture, but the unnerving thing about this particular process wasn't just the haggling -- it was a high-pressure approach and in-your-face patter that sounded an awful lot like those half-hour infomercials you see on television.

After making our escape from the market, we were ready for a break, and a meal at Carnivore turned out to be just the ticket.

Carnivore is one of Nairobi's favorite tourist destinations -- a beautifully-designed theme restaurant where, for one reasonable price, you get all you can eat of a variety of meats, ranging from chicken to crocodile. The meats are cooked on spits or skewers over a huge circular barbecue pit. Each diner is given a cast-iron plate, and every few minutes a waiter comes around and clanks the point of a spit or skewer down in the center of your plate.

"Lamb?" he asks.

Or, a few minutes later, "Beef?"

"Chicken?"

"Spare ribs?"

"Chicken gizzards?"

"Sausages?"

"Chicken livers?"

"Gazelle meatballs?"

"Ostrich?"

"Crocodile?"

If you say "yes," the meat is carved from the spit or (for smaller parts) scooted off the skewer directly onto your plate.

This process continues indefinitely, until your party surrenders by taking a paper flag down from atop the table centerpiece. Then, it's time for dessert.

I loved the ostrich. I didn't care for the crocodile. I never tried the gazelle.

I was completely caught up in the fun of the evening.

Later, of course, there was time to think, which is when I usually get into trouble. I had needed a break that Tuesday as much as anyone, and was delighted to enjoy a fun, tasty meal in the Carnivore's garden surroundings. But on later reflection, my gluttony seemed a strange contrast to the poverty of the Kibera slums. Rev. Paul and Grace Mbithi tried to make their eight American guests feel at home for breakfast and supper, but our lunches at the church were probably more typical of the cuisine in Kibera -- kale, cabbage, and lentils, accompanied by ugali, flatbread or rice. It's what the Kenyans were raised on, of course, but it was also what they could afford. Was it wrong for me to pig out even as I was trying to relate to these people, to serve them, to try to relieve some of their poverty?

Kenya was my second foreign mission trip. It's really difficult to describe the various conflicting thoughts and emotions that go through your mind during and after a trip like this.

I am proud to be an American. I am proud of what this country has achieved, and the creativity and hard work that went into those achievements. I love my country, and I whispered "God bless America" when the video map on British Airways showed that we had crossed south over Sault Ste. Marie, Mich., on our way back from London. But I think a trip like this drives home the responsibilities that accompany great success. Patriotism doesn't mean blindly accepting everything your country has ever done or stood for; patriotism means wanting your country to be the best it can be, and therefore being honest about its flaws. Every country, large or small, has flaws and room for improvement.

Patriotism also means being aware of our responsibilities, being ready to use our great resources and our great good fortune to give others a hand up.

We cannot, must not, romanticize the poverty of the developing world by patting the noble savages on the head and telling ourselves that they are happy the way they are. The developing world offers disease, ignorance, violence and corruption born of want. The poorest family in Bedford County has opportunities and resources unavailable to 90 percent of the world's population.

One thing that struck me about both rural Nicaragua and the Kibera slum was the presence of trash everywhere. I don't know if there was any provision at all for disposing of garbage; if so, it wasn't very efficient. There was trash everywhere -- American-style trash, including plastic grocery sacks and disposable cardboard packages. On the day that we broke up into teams to do street ministry in the slums, our team worked with the backdrop of a little 10-foot by 10-foot open space that had turned into a mini-dump -- a smelly, fly-ridden, waist-high pile of trash. Here in the U.S., we take it for granted that someone will pick up our trash or, at the very least, we will be able to toss it into the pickup truck and haul it to a convenience center. The people of the Kibera slums have no pickup trucks, and nothing is convenient.

Our good fortune carries with it the responsibility to do more than we are doing to relieve the giant gap between the haves and the have-nots -- not by handing out wads of money but by working in partnership, working to make sure everyone has the opportunity to improve themselves. That may mean taking a mission trip; it may simply mean incremental changes at home, becoming more aware of the world's finite resources and trying to live as better stewards of what God has given us. When a LEAMIS mission team goes through debrief, the members are often emotional and feel challenged by the poverty they have seen. Debra and Gail tell the team members that bold pronouncements like "I'll never go to a shopping mall again" are unlikely to last. Yes, a mission trip should inspire us to change -- but those changes must be realistic and gradual if they are to become permanent.

And yet, while poverty must be taken seriously, the joy exhibited by the people of Kibera is humbling -- and haunting. Their resourcefulness and stewardship, and their contentment even in the face of need, challenge me to look at my own situation a little differently. Too often, I've whined about ridiculous little things. I'm never satisfied. I've demanded to know why God allows me to languish in this horrible, horrible situation -- which, it turns out, isn't quite so horrible when you compare it to the Kibera slums.

In the first installment of this series, I noted that the people of Kibera do not hang their heads. I wonder if I would be as strong if I were in their situation.