In My Heart There is Zambia...

I had several dreams last night.  In one I dreamed that Felix (one of the Zambian interpreters from Hope Church) came to visit my church in America.  He was talking with several of my friends at the front of the sanctuary.  I walked up to say hello and was greeted with all of the usual "Mbuya" warmth.  I miss Zambia.  In another dream I went to Zambia (but it looked like the backyard of the house where I grew up).  When I realized that I was in Zambia, I fell to the ground weeping and buried my face in the grass because... I miss Zambia.  

A few weeks ago the Pastor at my church, Ron, showed the dance team a slide show of the orphan school in Zambia.  Ron took me to Zambia a year and a half ago; he took me to Zambia again that night.  I recognized several children and some adults.  I couldn't help but cry... because I love Zambia. 

When I was in Greece this spring, all I could talk about was Zambia... because in my heart is Zambia! "For the mouth speaks out of that which fills the heart." (Matt. 12:34). 

The people are beautiful.  The children, dirty, hungry, and sometimes sick, are beautiful.  I remember the little boy that smelled of urine who fell asleep in my lap, during the soccer tournament.  He slept for nearly an hour--probably the safest, and most comfortable sleep he'd had in a long time.  The older boys kept trying to wake him.  I remember that I smelled of urine too after he got up.  It was so worth it.   The little girls had a field day with my long golden locks of hair, little girls who had no hair to speak of.  When they got done, my hair was knotted and dirty.  I think they are still my favorite hair stylists.  I remember the girls of Nalulau taking me swimming!  I remember having to press past the shock of everyone else running around naked... I remember the women teasing me for days.  I want to go back there.  Swimming with them was an honor. 

I remember expecting to face hopelessness in Zambia.  I remember what I saw in Zambia... When I looked into their eyes, I saw all the beauty of God's dreams for them.  I saw destiny in the eyes of the boy who probably wouldn't live to be an adult.  I saw beautiful plans, plans to prosper and not to harm, plans for freedom, in the eyes of the girl who was abused.  I could only see what God has for them, the dreams that He dreamed before the world began, the hope that He still has.  I saw the beauty in the ashen sand. 

"Dear God, When will it be time to go back?  Love, Me."

An Appointment or an Appointment?

I was chatting with a friend of mine today about my plans for post-graduation and intern.  I don’t really have any...  oops!  She suggested Zambia; I’ve seriously considered moving to Zambia.  I didn’t actually want to come back.  As we boarded the bus to leave Mongu, I asked God if I really had to leave.  He said yes… So I’m here.  

When I was in Zambia, God poured immense amounts of grace and favor upon me—grace being divine assistance to reach a level which I could not attain in and of myself.  I believe there is grace to be completely in God’s will at every moment in my life.  The Zambia trip was clearly a God appointment for me; the grace was there.  But how does one know the difference between grace for a moment and grace for a lifetime?  What is the difference between an appointment (part of the schedule) and an appointment (placing/position)?  I felt as if pieces of my life’s puzzle were falling into place in front of me, like a promise of what will be.  The interpreters started calling me Mother Theresa; I felt God whisper not to limit myself to that.  When I returned, I wanted to move.  But now after the encouraging voices fade and the whirlwind adventure settles, what, other than questions, remains?   Undoubtedly I am changed, but am I commissioned?  

"Where I Belong," Cory Asbury http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUsZ9LHNM40 

[Insert Zambia Story Here]

This past spring, from mid-May to early June, I spent three weeks in Africa—two weeks in Zambia and one in South Africa.  The first week in Zambia we spent backpacking in the bush, in a village called Zalulao.  No electricity, no running water, no toilets, beautiful people; it was amazing!  

Afternoon’s in Nalulao generally consisted of naps, soccer, or playing an odd assortment of games (catch, duck-duck-goose, volleyball).  One particular afternoon, I was playing “Throw the Ball to the Makuwa” with about 30 girls between the ages of three and twenty-three.  The girls had already exhausted one makuwa (white person) and were doing a fine job of tiring me out.  Suddenly they all stop, move in towards me, and start talking to me.  (I only know three words in Lozi: “encha,” a positive affirmation serving as a greeting; “makuwa,” white person, and “wena,” you, when speaking to a child or peer.)  They know limited amounts of English from school.  I catch a few words: water, game, photo, and washing.  Every time they say washing they make splashing motions and giggle; I choose to ignore that one.  I agree to nothing yet.  The girls eventually called Soko our translator over.  His listens for a moment and then explains.  “They want to play the game down by the water and have Jess take pictures.”  That’s not a big deal… sure!  I agree.  

The girls erupt with squeals of delight as we go running to the lake.  There I am in a long flowing skirt, walking through waist-high grass, with squealing Zambian children running around me—it was perfect!  We get to the water’s edge; but, oh… they aren’t stopping.  Maybe we are dipping our feet in?  I lean over and daintily unvelcro my Teva sandals.  As I look up, I see the bank is littered with clothing, and all the girls are piling into the water butt-naked.  I have never seen that much nakedness in my life.  I was a bit shocked at first, but I agreed to play, and to turn back now would be an insult.  However, moving forward meant going in fully clothed—we were given strict instructions to under no circumstances be seen without a skirt on, else we would risk being perceived as prostitutes.  I couldn’t pass up the chance, so in I went.  We had a grand time; though, they couldn’t understand why I wore my clothes in.  I became the talk of the town—the women made fun of me for days…  It was totally worth it.