tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19489166448302435142024-02-19T17:26:18.905-08:00Loving LusakaLiving, Learning and Serving in ZambiaAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.comBlogger96125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-40173075471227965872015-01-22T23:47:00.001-08:002015-01-22T23:47:46.498-08:00Leaving Zambia<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It has been awhile since my last post, as our family spent this month preparing for a huge transition; we are moving back to the United States as our term in Zambia draws to a close. Thank you so much, dear friends, for walking with us on this journey. Below is our good-bye letter. We deeply appreciate your prayers during this time of immense change, sad good-byes, and exciting hellos.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Dear Friends,</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It is with a heavy, but grateful heart, that we sit down to write this letter. As we approach the end of our first term in Zambia, our family is feeling a call to return to ministry in the United States. We are thrilled about the opportunities that await us, but full of sorrow as we say good-bye.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We clearly remember our first few hours in Zambia. We arrived in the scorching heat of October, stepping off the plane and onto burning pavement. Palm trees welcomed our weary bodies, but as soon as we got to the baggage claim, Frankie promptly vomited all over the floor. A stranger came to clean up the mess and a different stranger brought our little boy a bottle of water. Jet-lagged, nervous, and embarrassed, we continued through customs and towards the welcoming arms of our new Zambian colleagues. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The five senior leaders of the Church of Central Africa Presbyterian, Synod of Zambia were there to welcome us, along with our Regional Liaison, Nancy Collins. They loaded up all our possessions, drove us to our new home, and as we entered the kitchen, we found that they had already stocked it with groceries. Our colleagues instructed us to rest, with the promise that they would be there to help with anything we needed.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">From those first few hours, and through the next two and a half years, generosity has been a recurrent theme. We are amazed by the ways that people have offered us assistance, food, time, trust, and gifts galore. It is humbling to be on the receiving end, over and over again, knowing that those who give often have much less than we do.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">But this generosity has not been limited to our Zambian friends and colleagues. It is a shining light of love emanating from the United States, as well. You, our friends and supporters, have amazed us with your generosity. You have offered daily prayers, frequent encouragement, and financial support. You have taken this journey with our small family, and you have been part of a large, extended family, which reaches halfway around the world.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We want to express our deepest gratitude for trusting us, supporting us, and loving us through the joys and challenges of our time here. We thank you for trusting the call that we felt to come to Zambia, and we thank you now, for trusting our new call, to ministry back in the United States. Kari will be serving as Senior Minister at Immanuel Congregational United Church of Christ in Hartford, Connecticut. Our whole family is excited to be a part of this vibrant, justice-focused, loving congregation. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">While we are grateful for this opportunity, we ask that you continue to support us with prayer during this transition time. We especially ask for prayers for Frankie and Johnny, as they enter a new school, church, and community. We will deeply miss our friends here, and your prayers through the grieving process of saying good-bye are vital.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">God has blessed us greatly during these years in Zambia. Working with gifted colleagues, we have witnessed community health programs that are transforming lives. While traveling throughout the country, we have been blessed to participate in vibrant worship. The curriculum that we developed, the HIV/AIDS resources that we compiled, and the outreach trainings that we led are sources of enormous joy in our lives. Joel’s work developing videos, leading media trainings, and working on the CCAP website helped us to build an even deeper admiration for the work that our partners are doing. We could fill hundreds of pages with stories of profound blessing; our lives will always be richer because of what we have learned from our partners here.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Most recently, our family has been given the gift of coordinating the Young Adult Volunteer program in Zambia. The joy, dedication, openness, and giftedness of the young adults is a delight. As they live and serve with Zambian families, they are learning and growing in wonderful ways. Through theological reflection, shared worship, and thought-provoking discussions, the YAVs have also helped us to learn and grow. We know that the YAVs are deeply blessed by their time in Zambia, and they are also a deep blessing to their communities. Coordinating this program and working with these young people has been a tremendous privilege.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We want to assure you that our departure will not mean the end of our ministries here. Our colleagues are continuing the curriculum work, with additional teacher trainings already scheduled for the remaining eight presbyteries. The HIV/AIDS Youth program will move forward with newly trained young adult leaders. Community health evangelism continues to thrive with local leadership. And finally, the Young Adult Volunteer program will continue with Sherri Ellington serving as interim YAV site coordinator. Perhaps the most striking introduction to Sherri’s faith and family is to read this Mission Connections letter, at <a href="http://www.presbyterianmission.org/ministries/missionconnections/ellington-dustin-and-sherri-2013-05/"><span class="s2">http://www.presbyterianmission.org/ministries/missionconnections/ellington-dustin-and-sherri-2013-05/</span></a> </span></div>
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<span class="s1">You have been a source of great support and joy to us over these years, and we ask that you consider supporting Sherri as she moves into this role. We are so grateful that she will ensure that the YAV site continues without interruption. Your prayers, encouragement, and financial gifts will help Sherri enormously. If you feel called to support her, you can contact her or donate through the link to her article. </span>After your donation, you will automatically be subscribed to their letters, and can continue to hear about the wonderful work that is happening here in Zambia.</div>
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<span class="s1">Again, thank you so very much for your support, encouragement, and prayers. We will always carry with us deep gratitude for your presence in our lives. Just as we have been inspired and moved by the people here, we have also been inspired and moved by your participation in this journey. As we all continue to move forward in faith, may we know the presence, peace, and joy of God, who always travels with us.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Grace and peace,</span></div>
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Kari, Joel, Frankie and Johnny</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-24937300299586761002014-12-28T13:15:00.000-08:002014-12-28T13:15:29.524-08:00Christmas in BethlehemI have been thinking a lot lately about what is holy. Our family is on a wonderful vacation in a place often referred to as the Holy Land, visiting Bethlehem and Jericho and Nazareth and Galilee, wading in the Jordan River and the Red Sea, wandering through Jerusalem. I worshipped in Bethlehem on Christmas Eve, listened to Orthodox chanting as I entered Jesus' baptismal waters, visited the Western Wall of the Temple and added my pleas and tears to the prayers of thousands of years. We swam in the waters that Moses parted; we floated on the salt of the Dead Sea; we wandered through the desert on camels, just a few days before Epiphany. It is holy. So very holy.<div>
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And yet, much of the holiness comes from those around me. We are with our very good friends, who live here, who struggle with the very real injustice and oppression in this land that has known extreme beauty and extreme tragedy. They have lived here for over three years, seeking to bring peace through education and understanding, seeking to live love among those who struggle and suffer. All around me, there are people who are trying to build bridges, to create hope, to bring reconciliation to people who are all too familiar with conflict and loss. The holiness of this land lies not only in what has happened, but in what will happen, in the hope that will not die.</div>
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Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote, "Earth's crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God, But only he who sees takes off his shoes; The rest sit round and pluck blackberries." I think it is true that this land is holy, but I think it is also true that all land is holy. And I think it is true that the people here are holy, but I think it is also true that all people are holy. God has touched each inch of land in this world, every drop of water, every grain of sand. And God is within every stained and imperfect person, every soul longing for hope, every spirit aching for redemption, every heart yearning for love. We take off our shoes on holy land, we come to a place that is filled with God, and we realize that earth is, indeed, crammed with heaven.</div>
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It was an amazing blessing to experience Christmas Eve in Bethlehem. But it wasn't just the old stones and the stars in the sky. It wasn't just the crowds of people, or the beating, jubilant drums. It wasn't just the phenomenal worship service, people singing familiar hymns in four different languages. It was Jesus. It was this child, sent to this land, sent to poor people, sent to live in the midst of oppression and pain and vulnerability. It was this God, who chose to become flesh, to infuse the world with holiness, to show us all how sacred and worthy and blessed human life can be. It was my faith, this reminder, that no matter where I am in the world - in Zambia, or Bethlehem, or in the United States - this Jesus, this God made flesh, will infuse my life with holiness, no matter what, no matter where. I just need to see it. I just need to take off my shoes.</div>
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It is the stranger at customs who spoke God's words without knowing it. It is baking cookies with a loving friend. It is the man at church who always cleans the dishes. It is groups of people who protest injustice. It is sitting quietly with a sick, tired grandmother. It is loud and crazy meals full of screaming children. It is a breeze in a silent cemetery. It is horns honking and snow falling and laughing so hard you cry. It is tears that fall so hard your nose runs and your heart aches and your stomach churns and you weep until you have fallen down, and somehow you realize that you have the energy to stand up again. It is the people who help you up.</div>
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Holy Land. Holy People. Holy God. Holy, holy, holy. I am so grateful to this God-made-flesh for infusing the world with all that is sacred, for infusing my life with hope and love and joy, for infusing us all with the spark of divinity. What an awesome God.</div>
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And now, photos....</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOKKx97zbwpSRF1KikxW-7y_wTerqDs3vAxRTCNvgz_6HkdtdQJAG775SExha0_CSSssE7Wy9aJddFVuNPnbyk83dtK56UWXiOSttxbh8Egt9Q3_ZU7CAqzWwMXpQeM5mqsq3w6nDCzQ/s1600/DSC03530.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQOKKx97zbwpSRF1KikxW-7y_wTerqDs3vAxRTCNvgz_6HkdtdQJAG775SExha0_CSSssE7Wy9aJddFVuNPnbyk83dtK56UWXiOSttxbh8Egt9Q3_ZU7CAqzWwMXpQeM5mqsq3w6nDCzQ/s1600/DSC03530.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Manger Square in Bethlehem</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYS-XFTjgXrrf3b1eDluFwsLCbShTbXUlVqlK7k5gLGc3NTWd9UBrhu6NyduoJYno8XFbxiBm3XaUWvhqWobz_0pEJ9RMgACATcSX21mELVtiJ47VrdpHA75Dxp7LNYHaAvgjuU13lXrk/s1600/DSC03582.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYS-XFTjgXrrf3b1eDluFwsLCbShTbXUlVqlK7k5gLGc3NTWd9UBrhu6NyduoJYno8XFbxiBm3XaUWvhqWobz_0pEJ9RMgACATcSX21mELVtiJ47VrdpHA75Dxp7LNYHaAvgjuU13lXrk/s1600/DSC03582.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Shepherd's Field outside Bethlehem</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-WNVZka03osj2thJowwjClY7qyEqtZpRUtefQutw1R5eaiv0W2VAp5pICSYW_otxA2LQoneSv1sFWott7ucVXb9_hud588YCGVD6Z84bS-HXFmpJAZVft96MZw1SP7jbG6h83CPWQhk/s1600/DSC03586.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-WNVZka03osj2thJowwjClY7qyEqtZpRUtefQutw1R5eaiv0W2VAp5pICSYW_otxA2LQoneSv1sFWott7ucVXb9_hud588YCGVD6Z84bS-HXFmpJAZVft96MZw1SP7jbG6h83CPWQhk/s1600/DSC03586.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In a cave at Shepherd's Field</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjt0yfUFZl9V_xjjj5qb0seyzLV0KBO8F47QhM0SgNV61Azr04tG_MCmxGsoMiQ4vu8epIZX7gJlpwPKvAO2V09b7EPnw8RNylv1cnUyxS4ICESHR8Ocaz4tLevfR9WQF2YzxlmAWQDuI/s1600/DSC03657.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjt0yfUFZl9V_xjjj5qb0seyzLV0KBO8F47QhM0SgNV61Azr04tG_MCmxGsoMiQ4vu8epIZX7gJlpwPKvAO2V09b7EPnw8RNylv1cnUyxS4ICESHR8Ocaz4tLevfR9WQF2YzxlmAWQDuI/s1600/DSC03657.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Making cookies</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Overlooking Jericho</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCwgBehib2tUicSGIeqKMKxXjBY1IkfcsSZBl3FgkXaSU5Mg0Q8hxIKQ_0qhS2oOhE3KmU_ZvDfl5KkxUB76UrOy6-f8-AOELlRkMllfj0Qy4yqLcnuqPIjpJb5vhYAHZ6PQimKKfA_g/s1600/DSC03714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXCwgBehib2tUicSGIeqKMKxXjBY1IkfcsSZBl3FgkXaSU5Mg0Q8hxIKQ_0qhS2oOhE3KmU_ZvDfl5KkxUB76UrOy6-f8-AOELlRkMllfj0Qy4yqLcnuqPIjpJb5vhYAHZ6PQimKKfA_g/s1600/DSC03714.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In a prayer cave at a monastery</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7A1ant0IHCfv3TDJST8T7XbFn5iXdu0mqS8lk0GmeTAKa8GF6BN2PZd3yqjo3ri4YQpDj7FC_iZ2BclrO-zoFrCx_878Ij8xcMbBnCutGQ6CgMWmBx9a8P_d6GkpH2cru9XC1AH1r5o/s1600/DSC03734.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW7A1ant0IHCfv3TDJST8T7XbFn5iXdu0mqS8lk0GmeTAKa8GF6BN2PZd3yqjo3ri4YQpDj7FC_iZ2BclrO-zoFrCx_878Ij8xcMbBnCutGQ6CgMWmBx9a8P_d6GkpH2cru9XC1AH1r5o/s1600/DSC03734.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Temptation Mountain</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In the Jordan River</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the road from Jerusalem to Jericho</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside Old Jerusalem</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old city walls of Jerusalem</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpnQi2bEFebwg9-Tu5stUC8UdByUTIq2JPtkx8b89graTKokB6tsnJqcVnJTCLI0yKlyZM6YMM0JU8eiYUMkcY7EfWLUogk0W_q5NJWxWFWw7j1gxz6AhU1sVAsgainXJrSZ8bz-s_3Y/s1600/DSC03881.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpnQi2bEFebwg9-Tu5stUC8UdByUTIq2JPtkx8b89graTKokB6tsnJqcVnJTCLI0yKlyZM6YMM0JU8eiYUMkcY7EfWLUogk0W_q5NJWxWFWw7j1gxz6AhU1sVAsgainXJrSZ8bz-s_3Y/s1600/DSC03881.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Overlooking the Western Wall and the Dome of the Rock</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAypfJqrz6sZ4kbbv5Jr3YI8QkIBhSo4NbY2-mZCgWWC2LQExbSprDA7o_rzbjIVbUYloKkRhf0Ng49W9M64bH8-ijuMCEi9Gd8RhRcE4rN0Ty82XtE1xa74fc4iJdkpoRdfsc6hxmD6o/s1600/DSC03892.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAypfJqrz6sZ4kbbv5Jr3YI8QkIBhSo4NbY2-mZCgWWC2LQExbSprDA7o_rzbjIVbUYloKkRhf0Ng49W9M64bH8-ijuMCEi9Gd8RhRcE4rN0Ty82XtE1xa74fc4iJdkpoRdfsc6hxmD6o/s1600/DSC03892.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Church of the Holy Sepulchre</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhpqBggL27GfFRcn1AWVNfNFkjVHCgy1KpzfjITbN_SD_C6XGydhClVSdGoSyKjAtK_JsxipPBiugsug4_6Fw9xBXmGnWBffLs3sbL3WMbhCxjXWX4ayskyGvUt8CIAadi3-zdzS8CiU/s1600/DSC03911.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhpqBggL27GfFRcn1AWVNfNFkjVHCgy1KpzfjITbN_SD_C6XGydhClVSdGoSyKjAtK_JsxipPBiugsug4_6Fw9xBXmGnWBffLs3sbL3WMbhCxjXWX4ayskyGvUt8CIAadi3-zdzS8CiU/s1600/DSC03911.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Damascus Gate</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy43yDG3G6GP_pT8glui5x22CB9UYOPlC0VDtY0xdF5av_oYpymkjP4ICdFFClv7PON0Es2W5dLsnbgT-I8DKXG0MQ0b-25DRNlsmYeEu1JqR_GtOqgUw3q8C8kN_mxnZKM6IZ8fYKPYA/s1600/DSC03938.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy43yDG3G6GP_pT8glui5x22CB9UYOPlC0VDtY0xdF5av_oYpymkjP4ICdFFClv7PON0Es2W5dLsnbgT-I8DKXG0MQ0b-25DRNlsmYeEu1JqR_GtOqgUw3q8C8kN_mxnZKM6IZ8fYKPYA/s1600/DSC03938.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bethlehem on Christmas Eve</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_qlQdV8zV8MhVPEr14WEimbvzYkrO_Xe5D_Hum9tbSVLHCvdcUFxywGRnsuuomxwqj6bo6nFm7RpIyWF41RB6276XNSzIQJGSvgQAXI1y2a0hM5P-7w0EkAXN6M2P8Hm261B5mMKJz8/s1600/DSC03945.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY_qlQdV8zV8MhVPEr14WEimbvzYkrO_Xe5D_Hum9tbSVLHCvdcUFxywGRnsuuomxwqj6bo6nFm7RpIyWF41RB6276XNSzIQJGSvgQAXI1y2a0hM5P-7w0EkAXN6M2P8Hm261B5mMKJz8/s1600/DSC03945.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bethlehem on Christmas Eve</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pwUEn0riPc9gyPM9Ndn2QzF0XrO_yeLvioGsWPcIwJ5ikrE8hg3i85R6Onykk39ZPw8QO2Lic32ooMLdbX8AV5Kz_lxrXQOeQigme-4UHsQ9emG9EoFnh9rlorlqWQCY928m_W4RSqg/s1600/DSC03977.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9pwUEn0riPc9gyPM9Ndn2QzF0XrO_yeLvioGsWPcIwJ5ikrE8hg3i85R6Onykk39ZPw8QO2Lic32ooMLdbX8AV5Kz_lxrXQOeQigme-4UHsQ9emG9EoFnh9rlorlqWQCY928m_W4RSqg/s1600/DSC03977.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christmas morning in Jerusalem</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-65717846028966740962014-12-13T11:56:00.000-08:002014-12-13T11:59:11.804-08:00BreatheThe water was pouring down, and I was floating in the deep currents of the Zambezi River. During rainy season, no one could do this. But the waterfall was low, and we were able to raft out, underneath one of the seven natural wonders of the world.<br />
<div class="p2">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BsikU3dq_MXk86n5q13YC70veGhlTYQWup1a9lE6ZHyJLbbA442y21mSdE5pSkU3HId6n7RK6d4GW4TnBLmJ1VwSmTABgjukBUv4Fl2oWq02pLtTZd82dX0ZvClcdy0_EErWrzbogys/s1600/DSC03471.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2BsikU3dq_MXk86n5q13YC70veGhlTYQWup1a9lE6ZHyJLbbA442y21mSdE5pSkU3HId6n7RK6d4GW4TnBLmJ1VwSmTABgjukBUv4Fl2oWq02pLtTZd82dX0ZvClcdy0_EErWrzbogys/s1600/DSC03471.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">Victoria Falls is breath taking, but I didn’t realize what it would feel like to have my breath literally taken away. After hiking down to the boiling point, where the waters of the Zambezi gather into rapids, we climbed over sharp, slippery rocks, across narrow, high ledges, and lowered ourselves into the raft. Paddling with all our strength against the current, we arrived at another mountain of slippery, enormous boulders. It was time to climb again. I fell, and emerged, bloody and bruised, on the other side of the mountain. Then, it was time to descend into the water.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOal1rEj_jw6UbxFbVQU5BqJFq0rM4_sQQeBRNUVWJBlSfQAIZE5lG6ngLN3ItKGreexm8nI-XBxRD0H_1hr5cnNAk0cvCXpPKD0DbPzwyB0mrpQPWOutEi2TuKlYK4x8QQVoEvewAmeU/s1600/DSC03441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOal1rEj_jw6UbxFbVQU5BqJFq0rM4_sQQeBRNUVWJBlSfQAIZE5lG6ngLN3ItKGreexm8nI-XBxRD0H_1hr5cnNAk0cvCXpPKD0DbPzwyB0mrpQPWOutEi2TuKlYK4x8QQVoEvewAmeU/s1600/DSC03441.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">We swam against the current, and arrived underneath the enormous waterfall. Our guide directed us onwards, until we swam to the point where the water poured down on us from three hundred and fifty feet. Everyone else made their way underneath the waterfall, but I was terrified. Alone in the water, I knew I had to follow, and so I continued to struggle, and joined the others underneath the flood. “I promise, there is space to breathe,” the guide assured me. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlVKro0ZJdVeDNqlFtHjV3u9397p_SY4AozdhNbj4bbP7fVHD09qh64OzzXkAcB8-bByrLtBBz35ALWstwL_RWgYttgSFWRuTJg_28moPZh0G5qrB0-JleXQjBcyMPVjFq7kO7S619xA/s1600/DSC03437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmlVKro0ZJdVeDNqlFtHjV3u9397p_SY4AozdhNbj4bbP7fVHD09qh64OzzXkAcB8-bByrLtBBz35ALWstwL_RWgYttgSFWRuTJg_28moPZh0G5qrB0-JleXQjBcyMPVjFq7kO7S619xA/s1600/DSC03437.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">Holding my breath, I entered the cascading falls, and bumped up against my companions. Water was everywhere and the mist surrounding us allowed little space for oxygen. “I can’t breathe...I can’t do this...I need out...” I was stuck in a tiny space, floating underneath the waterfall, unable to fill my lungs with air. But there was no way out, except to go underneath the falls again. “Just breathe,” the guide said.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">And so I did. I inhaled air and felt my lungs fill with oxygen. Again and again, I sucked in air, and I realized that I would be okay. I could breathe. I could survive. And as I looked around, I saw a million cubic meters of water plummeting over me, and realized that I was in a beautiful place, an amazing place, and I was filled not only with air to breathe, but also with wonder.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZDPSkjfxtv9flyKO12MDc8Q1gK1i0ye5W-vUXfVgaaZefvWkia5B9XhO3C5fMwR1tWsa-z3RQI0VzP8hqcM3T08lbH-3DKfsJ0F_6bJ4EOT_4eaecIJ9EyTpAKE8shwMTePL2wtPJiI/s1600/DSC03462.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2ZDPSkjfxtv9flyKO12MDc8Q1gK1i0ye5W-vUXfVgaaZefvWkia5B9XhO3C5fMwR1tWsa-z3RQI0VzP8hqcM3T08lbH-3DKfsJ0F_6bJ4EOT_4eaecIJ9EyTpAKE8shwMTePL2wtPJiI/s1600/DSC03462.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a><span class="s1">After we swam out of the falls, and back towards the enormous boulders, our guide informed us that we would do a rock dive. Upwards we climbed, slipping on sharp stones, until we emerged, twenty-five feet above the Zambezi. The guide demonstrated: three huge steps forward, and then he flew into the air, and plummeted into the waters. Another person followed suit, and then another, and then another. The other guide told me, “You can climb back down to the boat if you are too afraid.” I decided that I would not let fear control me. One, two, three huge steps, and I flew off the rock cliff and into the swirling waters below. I sank down into the river, and emerged, full of laughter. As I paddled back to the raft, I looked around again. The cliffs emerged three hundred and fifty feet above me, and the waters fell with power and beauty. I had done it, and I had survived. I could breathe. I could jump. I could trust.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The days lately have been hard, and there have been times when I thought I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move forward. I couldn’t survive. But I can. And I did. And I will. Sometimes, all you can do is open you mouth, and suck in the air, and know that the will to survive, the power to live, is deep within you. You breathe again and again, until you can look up, and look around, and see the enormous beauty that surrounds you.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpXFDHr9drBqBzCYXtEAscadb4a7aQIaX-9ipxlglDJLmcJ_HAjEGzL-EsiQLAKZ7MldzkbW1I0tbDkNTpQPnkrDRXrCkAhpwFrom_WqAf6PmoZQlv9kSRdmQiTcGlSr2j8RWp24rHPOw/s1600/DSC03433.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpXFDHr9drBqBzCYXtEAscadb4a7aQIaX-9ipxlglDJLmcJ_HAjEGzL-EsiQLAKZ7MldzkbW1I0tbDkNTpQPnkrDRXrCkAhpwFrom_WqAf6PmoZQlv9kSRdmQiTcGlSr2j8RWp24rHPOw/s1600/DSC03433.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">I have said good-bye to people that I love lately. I have struggled with decisions that feel impossible. I have wondered if anything I do matters, if my work has meaning, if my life here has had purpose. I have felt my breath catch and wondered if I am out of air. And then I breathe. And then I look around. And then I see the enormous love, the enormous hope, the enormous resilience of those around me. And I know that beauty will win. I know that we can breathe, through the pain and through the fear and through the impossible good-byes.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We aren’t enough. We hear the stories of the racism and death and cruelty and oppression. We live these stories sometimes. Just feeling like I can’t breathe brings to mind Eric Garner and his last moments of life. It may make us all feel like we can’t breathe, like we can’t move forward, like life is just full of cruelty and despair. But we do breathe, and we do look around, and we do see that there are people full of love and courage, ready to breathe hope and justice and transformation into the world. And we realize that we can be those people, too, that we can be enough.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVnd1yKnGERWaUTxfHUo7-CMT3VcEUsIjcxpIStq677_c1THzQ90K_5cG72xATva1yXm9OuOwLmyyijfauzl1odZAM57RHjqGSWcBVUnjBp5NB5KutCiaX5uPtBjiXV_ommLd3WAdbWA/s1600/DSC03452.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVnd1yKnGERWaUTxfHUo7-CMT3VcEUsIjcxpIStq677_c1THzQ90K_5cG72xATva1yXm9OuOwLmyyijfauzl1odZAM57RHjqGSWcBVUnjBp5NB5KutCiaX5uPtBjiXV_ommLd3WAdbWA/s1600/DSC03452.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">We keep on breathing. We keep on hoping. We keep on surviving. And in so doing, we can breathe love into the world. We can breathe hope into the world. We can breathe life into the world. We can be the beauty. We can be the breath. We can. I can. You can. No matter what waters try to pull us under, we will emerge. Again and again, we will emerge. And no one, and nothing, can keep us down. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">God willing, we will keep on breathing, until we see the beauty beyond the bruises, beyond the floods. Until we are the beauty.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-55251760275980942972014-11-29T04:02:00.001-08:002014-11-29T04:02:56.187-08:00Let Us March On<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“I don’t want to talk about it.” The eyes that I have known since birth fill with water, and she turns away from me. I see her glance at my son, her darling grandchild, as she retreats to the kitchen. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>God of our weary years</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">But for some reason, I have to talk. There are others....She knows this. Still I go on through the list: the twelve year old boy, shot dead because of a toy gun; the young woman, shot dead after a car crash; the young man, shot dead because of loud music...</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>God of our silent tears</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">My mother shakes her head; her light brown hair catches the sun as she whispers the words, “How will he be safe?” Johnny is eating cereal and slurping his milk. He cannot hear the fear in her trembling voice. My son, with coffee colored skin and eyes so deep and dark I could stare into them forever. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Thou who hast brought us thus far on our way</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I cannot see what is next. What will happen in the years to come. I remember the words of a white acquaintance when Johnny joined our family. “Oh, I just love brown babies. They are so cute.” And I wanted to scream. Because they grow into black teenagers, and once they are no longer cute babies, some of them get shot.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Thou who hast by thy might led us into thy light</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">People warned us over and over again when we moved to Zambia, “Oh, please be safe. Oh, please take care of yourselves. It is dangerous over there.” I look at Johnny and I wonder. How do I keep him safe? Will it ever be safe for him in my country of origin? </span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Keep us forever in thy path we pray</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">My mother has rocked him and sung to him and loved him since the day he joined our family. In her eyes, I see my love for him reflected. I know that his life beats in her heart. I know her suffering when she hears of black boys shot.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Lest our feet stray from the places our God where we met thee</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">And then I think of Michael Brown’s mother, and Trayvon Martin’s mother, and all the mothers whose worries have been realized, whose fears have broken through into horrifying reality, who don’t have to speculate; instead, they must say good-bye with weeping and wailing.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Lest our heart drunk with the wine of the world we forget thee</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">To be the mother of a boy with brown skin. My words fail me here. And so, I have been listening to these words, over and over, performed by the Boys Choir of Harlem... </span></div>
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<i><span class="s1"></span><br /></i></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Lift every voice and sing</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Till earth and heaven ring,<br />
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty...</i></span></div>
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<i><span class="s1"></span><br /></i></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>Facing the rising sun of our new day begun<br />
Let us march on till victory is won.</i></span></div>
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</div>
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<span class="s1">Yes, please. Please, dear God. Let us march on til victory is won.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-60842068529369623532014-11-10T21:02:00.000-08:002014-11-10T21:02:56.142-08:00Frankie's birthday <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ0ofSMn14ncaf2sPv8hAw_VKw_y_cU3oduS0hOYxG784_cuE5eMUhljt9llaKc4kyN9rbPqQ2t7wYpaybl8oMUWiMv8-1pzYvRBB_v6ZO0AaA6qJHnEECd0WFwoShjUsGKXFlbkxcVVU/s1600/DSC02935.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ0ofSMn14ncaf2sPv8hAw_VKw_y_cU3oduS0hOYxG784_cuE5eMUhljt9llaKc4kyN9rbPqQ2t7wYpaybl8oMUWiMv8-1pzYvRBB_v6ZO0AaA6qJHnEECd0WFwoShjUsGKXFlbkxcVVU/s1600/DSC02935.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>Today is Frankie's 9th birthday, which means I have been a mother for nine years. I clearly remember that first night after he was born. It was an overflow evening in the hospital, so we were sharing a room with another family. Two newborn babies, four parents, one hospital room = lots of crying and zero sleep. At one point, as I was lying awake, still in enormous pain from the birth, Frankie was screaming, the other baby was screaming, and Joel was somehow asleep on the couch. I grabbed my pillow and with all the strength I could muster, heaved it towards Joel, in a desperate attempt to wake him up. I missed. And so I lay there, now pillowless, trying to reach a screaming baby in the dreary, drugged stupor of someone who has been a mother for seven hours.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqqzVyQqB4H7PxnoK0_6Zw3zGeGIDOG4UA7cDbOKKi0ijXXr-9QDO5DLE8dDKkySK_ZOgtFspXa3wZvzDbpeZ1Y_OEI_NyQzNG5I3M7gB2vwWUnh3AFVU3S7kI_97_mOK62seH2dgLus/s1600/DSCN5294.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtqqzVyQqB4H7PxnoK0_6Zw3zGeGIDOG4UA7cDbOKKi0ijXXr-9QDO5DLE8dDKkySK_ZOgtFspXa3wZvzDbpeZ1Y_OEI_NyQzNG5I3M7gB2vwWUnh3AFVU3S7kI_97_mOK62seH2dgLus/s1600/DSCN5294.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a>In the days that came, I found that my exhaustion and overwhelming feelings of incompetence were only matched by the intensity of my wonder and love. Figuring out the puzzle of a brand new human being was an amazing task, and when I felt that tiny person sleeping on my chest, I breathed in awe and gratitude. At the same time, whenever the baby monitor began to sputter the little noises that indicated that Frankie was ready to eat, yet again, my awe often turned into despair, and my gratitude fell towards desperation. I needed sleep. I needed time. I needed to not be a 24 hour feeding machine.<br />
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Nine years later, I cannot believe the person that Frankie has become, and I feel far more awe and wonder than I did in those early days. He is kind - so very kind - always willing to help and love and care for others. He is so generous that I worry, as he gives away his favorite possessions without hesitation. He is polite and thoughtful and insightful and easy to talk to. Conversations with Frankie make me think, and he often challenges me to be a better person, through his observations and concerns. I am astounded by the opportunity to be his mother, by the blessing of knowing this child.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_i9MP8a05Va3ExUVSMUR58aae4bKgHk5qtYGJHbtAl5kDLINlxMWTHjH3DAH1IahFDMWNEpd3prTYgoVGKN3DGpToscVBL0VSOIhfEGSA-eD6GDNs09U7rkvZ9w3RbCTUrrip068lVk/s1600/DSCN5291.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq_i9MP8a05Va3ExUVSMUR58aae4bKgHk5qtYGJHbtAl5kDLINlxMWTHjH3DAH1IahFDMWNEpd3prTYgoVGKN3DGpToscVBL0VSOIhfEGSA-eD6GDNs09U7rkvZ9w3RbCTUrrip068lVk/s1600/DSCN5291.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
It is still true that there are hard days; days when I worry that he is so sensitive that he will be hurt in a world that is not always so kind. There are times when he is so hard on himself that I want to require him to misbehave, so that he can learn self-forgiveness. I want Frankie to love Frankie as much as I do, and that is hard for him. The intensity of my love for him has only grown and this brings the agony of hurting with him whenever he feels pain.<br />
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There are ways that this reminds me of life in Zambia. The awe and beauty of being in a place full of faithful, generous, loving human beings. The wonder of being welcomed into a community, despite my difference. The honor of walking with friends through tremendous pain and incredible challenges. The privilege of working with colleagues as they transform communities and share the love of God in powerful ways. It is a deep joy and an amazing opportunity.<br />
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At the same time, there is the anguish that comes from love, from vulnerability. The struggle of wanting change, and knowing that it will be too slow. The fury of seeing injustice and abuse and poverty and hunger, and not having the power to stop it. The heartache of violence and suffering that emerges when we dig deep in our walk with one another.<br />
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Whether or not we are parents, I think this is our reality when we choose to love deeply. We have the blessing of awe and wonder. We have the blessing of joy and relationship. But we also have vulnerability and struggle. We also have wounded hearts and painful realities. It is not easy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSaS8_WlaGDHO6rM8HOYLJJIniBmLiaTqj1b28s2gmUlKiBtyKv4uvob81j4fhDp-bsjYetEKic6zZIDE0HBMMGO11CqffK5a9eHnN8yhIlQ9bUTq0N01w5tO5xNTAwx00JBt_Nf9tSIg/s1600/DSC03068.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSaS8_WlaGDHO6rM8HOYLJJIniBmLiaTqj1b28s2gmUlKiBtyKv4uvob81j4fhDp-bsjYetEKic6zZIDE0HBMMGO11CqffK5a9eHnN8yhIlQ9bUTq0N01w5tO5xNTAwx00JBt_Nf9tSIg/s1600/DSC03068.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>Frankie's ninth birthday reminds me that it is worth it. That first night, those first weeks, were excruciating. And I didn't even mention the labor...I was tired. I was in pain. I was overwhelmed. And I would do it over and over and over and over again, to have this amazing child that I am so honored to parent. It is worth it to love, to make yourself vulnerable, to experience pain, to allow for suffering, and to recognize that love will win. It will win in his life, it will win in my life, it will win in this world.<br />
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I am so grateful for all the ways that Frankie reminds me that love is always worth the risk, always worth the pain, always worth the vulnerability....Happy birthday, my darling boy. Thanks for all you teach me!<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-499617188253344372014-10-28T04:32:00.000-07:002014-10-28T04:32:14.270-07:00God ain't dead.Someone I love was hurt the other day, and it hurts me. The next day, a close colleague lost his beloved grandson, his six-year old namesake, the little boy he was raising as his own child. Another friend is trapped in a situation of abuse and manipulation. While there is tremendous beauty and resilience here in Zambia, the reality of pain and loss is never far away.<br />
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It reminds me of a sermon illustration from James DeLoach, "<span style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Times New Roman', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some time ago I saw a picture of an old burned-out mountain shack. All that remained was the chimney...the charred debris of what had been that family's sole possession. In front of this destroyed home stood an old grandfather-looking man dressed only in his underclothes with a small boy clutching a pair of patched overalls. It was evident that the child was crying. Beneath the picture were the words which the artist felt the old man was speaking to the boy. They were simple words, yet they presented a profound theology and philosophy of life. Those words were, 'Hush child, God ain't dead!'</span><br />
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"That vivid picture of that burned-out mountain shack, that old man, the weeping child, and those words 'God ain't dead' keep returning to my mind. Instead of it being a reminder of the despair of life, it has come to be a reminder of hope. I need reminders that there is hope in this world. In the midst of all of life's troubles and failures, it is a mental picture to remind us that all is not lost as long as God is alive." </div>
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My friends know that God is alive. And so they get up in the morning, they dry their tears, and they continue the work of building God's kingdom on earth. We need our time for weeping, our time for sorrow, but we also need those words like we need air to breathe. Hush, child, God's ain't dead. That is the air I breathe, the hope I have, and the faith I have learned from the people around me. </div>
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I ask you to please pray, for me and my family, for my friends who are in pain, for all those who suffer in unbearable ways. Because God ain't dead, those prayers matter. So thank you, friends. Thank you.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-59421623406187336212014-10-15T01:31:00.004-07:002014-10-15T01:37:43.643-07:00Water<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">We are in the dry season right now, which means we have not seen rain in over six months. Not a drop. The boreholes are drying up, the shallow wells are nonfunctional, and the heat is extreme. October and November are the hottest months of the year, and we certainly don’t live in a land of air conditioning.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9LTywQBnZ-Pg0YvoZlvBmIb9oQCLCo2n-JLQhWSSvz45BvDXRC7ZwL2kiU7tXhjLkh4RlTBbmUfZ1IujCcWkcFYBABVE7i5MI3Wywwq0sfctpf6QW-EkedmEiip0VLwR2ZbXUAKMovHo/s1600/DSC08925.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9LTywQBnZ-Pg0YvoZlvBmIb9oQCLCo2n-JLQhWSSvz45BvDXRC7ZwL2kiU7tXhjLkh4RlTBbmUfZ1IujCcWkcFYBABVE7i5MI3Wywwq0sfctpf6QW-EkedmEiip0VLwR2ZbXUAKMovHo/s1600/DSC08925.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Last week, I was sick for awhile. In the middle of the night, I woke up, sweaty and nauseous, my mouth dry, my body screaming for water. I went into the kitchen, but the tap was off, as usual. I walked towards our reserve water buckets. They were empty; Joel had bathed the children, and there was no water to refill our supply. I looked for a half empty glass, scoured the fridge for a forgotten sip in a bottle, but with no luck. There was not a drop of water in the house - no clean water, no dirty water, no water at all. My mouth tasted like sandpaper, and my stomach continued to churn. But there was nothing to do; I decided to try my best to sleep. I knew that I would be able to get water in the morning.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbi5Q65rPJHthxP-Aiz_3ZzN-y-ASG_-iQC472FlqrYMK7eSEncrfx4xKnUoiRiNwBMaqJLlBH8KK2FXprYHKj98mWyRyCqOx1rL0XoLxxHKbudRF4VlzV-jPr-PmgNyzQPZjcCH-uH_E/s1600/DSC08793.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbi5Q65rPJHthxP-Aiz_3ZzN-y-ASG_-iQC472FlqrYMK7eSEncrfx4xKnUoiRiNwBMaqJLlBH8KK2FXprYHKj98mWyRyCqOx1rL0XoLxxHKbudRF4VlzV-jPr-PmgNyzQPZjcCH-uH_E/s1600/DSC08793.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">But there are a lot of people who can’t just get water the next morning. A lot of people who wait and wait for rain to come. A lot of people who pray that the borehole does not dry up. A lot of people who weep as their shallow wells become empty holes. I was sick, and I could not get any water, anywhere. But I knew water would come in the morning. Others are sick, and they cannot get any water, anywhere. And they don’t know when water will come. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyKb3VKsdj2_6I9Hw9QjtYml5jYtTZxWLrEM_H7EqVBt9CEXT-vkP9NQTAdmqxL9iXxdJ9QYVHCrfD-UU0EuK91hkUFacoFJcIXccHqDGkROLDMGjA5-Ltg07UpNhBeONT00pUZaPl3IA/s1600/DSC03328.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyKb3VKsdj2_6I9Hw9QjtYml5jYtTZxWLrEM_H7EqVBt9CEXT-vkP9NQTAdmqxL9iXxdJ9QYVHCrfD-UU0EuK91hkUFacoFJcIXccHqDGkROLDMGjA5-Ltg07UpNhBeONT00pUZaPl3IA/s1600/DSC03328.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a><span class="s1">No matter where I live in the world, I hope I never forget the frustration, and sometimes desperation, that I feel when I turn on the tap and nothing comes out. I hope I never forget the feeling in my body, when I want water desperately, and I simply can’t find any. I hope I never forget how hot and dirty and sweaty and sticky and tired and nauseous and weak and sad and dried up it can feel, when the water does not come. I hope I never forget these things, especially if I end up living in a place where long, hot showers are always possible, where the water that flows from the faucet is cold and clean and abundant. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">The dry season will end in a few months. Because of climate change, it lasts longer now than it did five years ago. Less rain, fewer crops, drier land. But the rain will come, and the wells will fill again, and after seven months of parched bodies, parched mouths, parched crops, water will flow again. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">There is always hope, always possibility, always promise. The rain will come. But in the waiting, in the parched land and parched lives that stretch on and on, there is pain, there is suffering, there is death. For most people here don’t have the privilege we have; most people here cannot just buy water when their supply runs out. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Dqsqrsqy1agbVooLdRHBK3jmb3PxwpNxOz3yGXCnGG4IJL-ZK0PSy9uMOOO1mbUy0ps75Hn99a7iaLCrFH4jA10kPHWgKbqjoOM8rrM7lEldikGynnWM6t1Jf6_OiwetOBRea07q_ms/s1600/DSC09030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Dqsqrsqy1agbVooLdRHBK3jmb3PxwpNxOz3yGXCnGG4IJL-ZK0PSy9uMOOO1mbUy0ps75Hn99a7iaLCrFH4jA10kPHWgKbqjoOM8rrM7lEldikGynnWM6t1Jf6_OiwetOBRea07q_ms/s1600/DSC09030.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">And so we must do something, those of us who come from places where water is wasted and taken for granted. People like me, who lived in Michigan, the land of lakes. We must try to imagine a thirst that is so deep and powerful and all consuming, that we are desperate, absolutely desperate, for just a sip of water. Then we must transform that thirst into a thirst for justice, into our own thirst, a desperate need for a world where there is enough for all. And through that thirst, through that need, through that desperation on behalf of our sisters and brothers, we do something. We fight. For water, for food, for justice. We shout the words of our faith, "But let justice roll down like water, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream." (Amos 5:24)</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Below are links to two wonderful organizations, working to make sure that justice rolls down like water. The first is our organization, CCAP Zambia, and offers an opportunity to contribute to our Protected Water Department. The second is Church World Service, and you can purchase jerry cans, wells, filters, water pumps, and other items, to bring water to those who are thirsty. Finally, you can take action on climate change, which is causing tremendous pain for the most vulnerable, thirsty people in the world. The link at the bottom of the page will lead you to a petition and an action page.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">As I write these words, I am thirsty. And although our water is currently off, we have some reserved in buckets in our kitchen, and I can drink until I am satisfied. There are too many people who do not have this privilege. So, let’s work together to create the kingdom, friends. Let justice roll down like water. Amen. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Church of Central Africa Presbyterian, Synod of Zambia: Protected Water Department</span></div>
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<span class="s2"><a href="http://ccapzambia.businesscatalyst.com/protected-water.html">http://ccapzambia.businesscatalyst.com/protected-water.html</a></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Church World Service: The Gift of Water</span></div>
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<span class="s2"><a href="https://secure2.convio.net/cws/site/SPageServer?pagename=best14_gift_water">https://secure2.convio.net/cws/site/SPageServer?pagename=best14_gift_water</a></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvHh3ZdpzIn6xVAemjSTmR5Hh5tJdrQ-Qs_r5r2SSuqUckbUQScIcjssZrbAQhr516ULz0x6HQL9bHQKr7F8O2JEgjcHhopzooeKghKwaf8EcmbwnWbtKAfmIsn5mq7Qh_p5q7hHrvxG4/s1600/DSC02231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvHh3ZdpzIn6xVAemjSTmR5Hh5tJdrQ-Qs_r5r2SSuqUckbUQScIcjssZrbAQhr516ULz0x6HQL9bHQKr7F8O2JEgjcHhopzooeKghKwaf8EcmbwnWbtKAfmIsn5mq7Qh_p5q7hHrvxG4/s1600/DSC02231.jpg" height="132" width="200" /></a><span class="s1"></span></div>
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<span class="s1">Church World Service: Sign the petition and pledge to take action on climate change</span></div>
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<span class="s2"><a href="http://www.cwsglobal.org/get-involved/advocacy/take-action-on-climate-change.html">http://www.cwsglobal.org/get-involved/advocacy/take-action-on-climate-change.html</a></span></div>
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<span class="s1">So, a goat moved in next door. A very loud goat. And while it is fun to peek over the fence and see its beard and horns, it is somewhat inconvenient that the goat chooses to lament his situation very early in the morning. At some point, I am sure, we will be no longer be troubled by the noise of this particular goat, but at that time, we will probably have some deeply sad children, as the neighbors consume their cute gray friend.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">However, in my office, there is another gray companion who is not so cute, and really not a friend. He appeared running around the rafters, an enormous rat a few feet above me; yesterday and today, he decided that the area right above my desk is a good place to hang out. As I pointed out our visitor to my colleague, he suggested that we get the cat. It took a little while, because the cat didn’t want to enter, but after some time, we were able to shut the cat and the rat in my office, while I waited patiently outside for the execution to take place. It didn’t.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Instead, the rat escaped into the chicken coop attached to my office, where it terrorized a hundred chickens, all of whom are waiting to be killed in the next seven days. The red truck appears, the chickens get loaded, and the number slowly dwindles. They are now fully grown, so this flock will soon disappear. In any case, after the rat ran around with the chickens, and the cat gave up in disgust, I returned to my office, and we continued our work on a grant application. This particular grant would offer funding for an income-generating project, to sustain feeding programs in five of our community schools. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Many of you know that our family is vegetarian; Joel and I haven’t eaten meat in fifteen years, and our children have been vegetarian their whole lives. And so, the impending doom of the goat, the chickens, and even the rat should disturb me. But it doesn’t. So many things are different here, and different now. So many of my thoughts are gray and uncertain. I am delighted that the chickens are being sold and slaughtered; the income from their sale will support amazing projects in the church. And our neighbor, the goat, will provide protein for people who need it. And I am glad the rat is gone, dead or alive, so that my colleague and I can continue working on a vital grant application, to feed children who are very vulnerable.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I love the way I am challenged here, the way my assumptions and way of life are questioned by the circumstances that I live in. My theology, my world view, my issues with trust and self-confidence, my dogmatic perspectives...almost all of the truths in my life have been expanded and nuanced through daily life in a developing country, with peers who see the world in phenomenally different ways than I do.</span></div>
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In any case, I am not going to mourn the goat, or the chickens, or the rat (if the cat finally does her job). Instead, I am going to celebrate getting the grant application done. I am going to celebrate the young adult volunteers working in the community schools. I am going to celebrate the initial stages of translating the curriculum. I am going to celebrate the HIV/AIDS youth training. There is a lot to celebrate here, and a rat-free office is one of them, God willing.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-81938038253768028712014-09-26T05:39:00.004-07:002014-10-01T10:42:49.752-07:00Building TogetherTake a look at what our partners are building in Zambia....<br />
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And check out the new <a href="http://ccapzambia.org/synod-offices.html" target="_blank">Synod website</a> that Joel built...Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-30825512908260993312014-09-10T05:13:00.000-07:002014-09-10T05:13:52.400-07:00Jumping InIt is a good thing that laughing in church is a perfectly acceptable behavior here, because I couldn't control the tears of mirth flowing from my eyes, and Joel simply doubled over in a coughing fit brought on by too much laughter. The source: one of the YAVs passed over her camera as we were waiting for worship to start. On the camera was a video of her dancing at a Zambian wedding. It was funny. Really funny.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNWoxelbkXPI33wLTjbkvnZWV65d-VvfkC0M8jIoC-MTnrvPJHSYp0UMWxf9nx3o17N6a3Ri2M54nzIJIzsS5okaDTf4mHMvB7fWUF_bXJReWSPXpCmqaRSlIgN9xpZpg1znpoUf2lFs/s1600/DSC02661.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLNWoxelbkXPI33wLTjbkvnZWV65d-VvfkC0M8jIoC-MTnrvPJHSYp0UMWxf9nx3o17N6a3Ri2M54nzIJIzsS5okaDTf4mHMvB7fWUF_bXJReWSPXpCmqaRSlIgN9xpZpg1znpoUf2lFs/s1600/DSC02661.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-1X1k1VpbkLEjnpv-CUc5CuwsI3iJib_WbrmTH2MoRJdPPJrd2FM0HED0tuqZJ38VPkrdRP6Fe4HL-gwuW_lMcHxDAnvoUF3l8YttvUt4Q-Wed4Cr3npfUVNpMK-PXMMnb46U-jwOD4/s1600/DSC02638.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-1X1k1VpbkLEjnpv-CUc5CuwsI3iJib_WbrmTH2MoRJdPPJrd2FM0HED0tuqZJ38VPkrdRP6Fe4HL-gwuW_lMcHxDAnvoUF3l8YttvUt4Q-Wed4Cr3npfUVNpMK-PXMMnb46U-jwOD4/s1600/DSC02638.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a>It wasn't that she was dancing in a particularly humorous way. Instead, it was because she was dancing for all she was worth in front of a crowd of strangers, who were also laughing hysterically, while moving forward, to join in her dance. This was her explanation, "Well, they asked me to come forward and dance, and I figured I could just do some simple swaying from side to side. Or, I could really dance. I decided to just go for it." The crowd of strangers soon became friends, as person after person came forward, among cheers and laughter and shouts.</div>
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These past two weeks, the three young women have decided to just go for it, over and over again. They immersed themselves in a village stay, spending three nights sleeping on woven mats, hauling water from streams, learning to grind maize by hand, learning to eat properly and sit properly and dance properly. They have led Bible studies and given speeches. They have learned to wrap chitenges and eat with their hands. With only two weeks in Zambia, they have stood in front of hundreds of people, to offer their greetings in Chichewa. These three YAVs know what it is to jump right in, to choose courage over fear, to just go for it.</div>
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Even after two years here, I still worry about getting it right. Before I stand up in front of a congregation, my stomach rumbles with nerves: Will I get the grammar right? What if I forget the Chichewa word? Can I remember the order for a proper greeting? There are even times when I have avoided eye contact, in hopes that I am not asked to stand and address a church. </div>
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And yet, when I do, something amazing happens. It is not that I get it right. In fact, I frequently get it very, very wrong, especially when I try to branch out and try a Timbuka word or two. But when this happens, and the congregation is roaring with laughter, because I said the word for "forgiveness" while acting out the word for "tree," I am laughing, too. Being wrong is not the problem, but being scared of other people...well, that is a problem.</div>
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I am so proud of these three young women, who are willing to risk being wrong, who are willing to risk looking silly, who are willing to risk discomfort, in order to build something beautiful, to trust a community with their vulnerability. They have not had an easy two weeks. But they have certainly jumped right in, with singing, with dancing, and with lots and lots of laughter. It bodes very well for their year in Zambia. </div>
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When we offer ourselves, our real, silly, crazy, fun, flawed, grammatically insufficient selves, that is when laughter and love flow. That is when we show that instead of being scared of one another, we are united with one another. Brothers and sisters dancing our lives, calling one another into the dance. I am grateful for the inspiration of these young women, and for the reminder that being vulnerable, being real, is what leads to real relationship. And I am also really grateful for that video. Because it was funny. Really funny.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-83393929980625215972014-08-31T11:12:00.000-07:002014-08-31T11:12:34.063-07:00YAVs arrived. Curriculum approved. Resources distributed. Kari happy.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It has been an amazing four months. From May-August, I have been able to visit all 13 presbyteries in the Synod of Zambia, traveling all over the country with beloved colleagues to present on our curriculum and HIV/AIDS resources. We have held four curriculum trials, and prepared orientation for the Young Adult Volunteers, who are coming to spend one year teaching in our community schools. We have collected, printed, and selected resources for our HIV/AIDS portable libraries. Together, with dedicated colleagues, we have prepared for this past week.</div>
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And now, in the past six days, we have arrived in a beautiful place: The YAVs are here (arrived Tuesday), HIV/AIDS resources were distributed (at Synod meeting on Thursday), the Curriculum was approved (at Synod meeting on Friday), and Kari is happy and Kari is exhausted (as of worship this morning.) But mostly happy...(and getting ready for leading orientation during the month of September.)</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rebecca and Devin meeting with Rev. Muwowo</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hannah meeting with the Stewardship Committee</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reuniting with clergy friends</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">YAVs resting after a long day!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Preparing for the formal introduction to CCAP, Synod of Zambia</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I get the honor of introducing these wonderful young women!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The curriculum approval - and a happy me!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At the market</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Three happy YAVs</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At worship in Rebecca's home community, Mtendere</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhorwf9K4zjkVxlcfEdaIdcQpuOeUad6mZm8aYCZfXBBK3dU55IppodiTL-4YjGs_pgtzj72RUzOT0D-7Ih1SOMO5GnvJ77Pda5XM4-RYDJ7YmKYRKtNgvb-_jfm6gqdKPJjvoltatGDHE/s1600/DSC02575.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhorwf9K4zjkVxlcfEdaIdcQpuOeUad6mZm8aYCZfXBBK3dU55IppodiTL-4YjGs_pgtzj72RUzOT0D-7Ih1SOMO5GnvJ77Pda5XM4-RYDJ7YmKYRKtNgvb-_jfm6gqdKPJjvoltatGDHE/s1600/DSC02575.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rev. Phiri welcoming Frankie and Johnny</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfrMUr-M0knC4u9zCuy3vRq63Vxfzmap-rKty6Hei4LKpOuKFLa7czB4uvgGFZboZ0eB9a6SaysbnRNuAqu1lIIkL5B6FNl48dD1a9gZvRy5a_mL-e5IQta9gyXAweT-rw1saiGKkpssk/s1600/DSC02583.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfrMUr-M0knC4u9zCuy3vRq63Vxfzmap-rKty6Hei4LKpOuKFLa7czB4uvgGFZboZ0eB9a6SaysbnRNuAqu1lIIkL5B6FNl48dD1a9gZvRy5a_mL-e5IQta9gyXAweT-rw1saiGKkpssk/s1600/DSC02583.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another welcome for the YAVs</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix-knaMXu5mg_V8pAlNG2gbBhNatiBxmrrUdo3pcF33pA8KTwMC2Ac-6nXNhWSPtvK1dznPZLcDF7vEeakhE0DHlEVCA47c-dCNSeA4v049Gc-zJSsL_oSxnnft7fmbzeyiGAjD33LB4k/s1600/DSC02615.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix-knaMXu5mg_V8pAlNG2gbBhNatiBxmrrUdo3pcF33pA8KTwMC2Ac-6nXNhWSPtvK1dznPZLcDF7vEeakhE0DHlEVCA47c-dCNSeA4v049Gc-zJSsL_oSxnnft7fmbzeyiGAjD33LB4k/s1600/DSC02615.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rev. Phiri with his "daughter" Rebecca, who will be staying with his family<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-72790516025196000832014-08-22T11:33:00.002-07:002014-08-22T11:39:03.966-07:00Rural Running<div class="p1">
When it takes seventeen hours of driving through the bush to arrive at a village, it is a pretty safe bet that you won’t run into other Americans. In fact, in this particular area, my white skin stood out so much that fingers pointed, adults stared, and children swarmed. One woman asked twice if she could have my skin. I was not sure how to respond either time, except to say that I was pretty sure it would hurt a lot if I tried to take my skin off. And that her skin was quite lovely as it was. She laughed, and so did I. </div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">Race, privilege, socio-economic status....all these things are stark here, and this woman wanted my privilege. I understood, and despite the laughter, I was once again reminded of the privilege that I never earned, and was simply granted by virtue of my birth. So, I could handle the stares, the swarming, the fingers pointing. It was a reminder of the things I have that I never earned. No, white skin is not better than brown skin. But my white skin told everyone in that village that I had access to things they could never even touch. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">After three days, we moved on to the next town, three hours away. It was a bit bigger; and this rest house had actual toilets, instead of an outdoor squat latrine. It also had electricity, so I was feeling quite excited. But after all the travel, I really wanted to run. In the last village, I had done my exercises in the cramped room within the guest house. But here, I wondered if I could get away with actually running outside.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I asked my colleague, a pastor who had once served in this area. He gave me a weary look. “The children will run after you, and all the adults will be so surprised.” I nodded. It was fine; I could continue to exercise in my room. But Moses, our driver, had a suggestion. “I can drive you outside of the village, and you can run in the bush.” My colleague was concerned, “You will watch her?” Moses nodded and smiled, “I will watch, but I cannot run. I do not have the proper attire.” We all agreed that this was a very kind solution, and I thanked Moses for his generous offer.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">A few hours later, after I had changed into running shoes, running clothes, grabbed my iPod, and filled my water bottle, I climbed in the truck. We drove to the edge of town. Moses parked the car. I set my timer and my music and took off, promising to be back in thirty minutes. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">As I ran, the red dirt path wandered over a tropical landscape, banana trees bending in the strong wind. After some time, I passed a very small village, five houses made of mud, covered in thatch. People stared, children waved, and I continued on. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuyuM9jK4lFjJDctMj-Ou4lTvJ-JG5_tUU9Vvb4S-XqIL2Er7o1z3q_VCKBt7NUDoqq8EVU6RcZRHm2_CjF23jbFgWfJ0dWHfqZYUku7otVv5ymXjRW9KpptJSP-czLQguLdQne5enSY/s1600/DSC00928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuyuM9jK4lFjJDctMj-Ou4lTvJ-JG5_tUU9Vvb4S-XqIL2Er7o1z3q_VCKBt7NUDoqq8EVU6RcZRHm2_CjF23jbFgWfJ0dWHfqZYUku7otVv5ymXjRW9KpptJSP-czLQguLdQne5enSY/s1600/DSC00928.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">A little while later, I passed a group of women. They were carrying trees. Not logs - trees. Huge trunks over their shoulders, enough weight to curve their backs as they struggled up the hill. Through the headphones, my music continued to blare, as I greeted the women, bent with their labor. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">When it was about time to turn around, I encountered a work crew. A large group of men, covered in sweat and dirt, carrying picks and shovels. I was far from the truck, Moses couldn’t see me, and I was in the middle of nowhere. I smiled at the workers, they gave me bewildered greetings, and I continued on.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">As I ran back towards the truck, I thought about the women carrying tree trunks up and down these hills; the men pounding away at the rocks with heavy picks; children walking miles with buckets of water on their heads. I chose to run and sweat in these hills; they did not choose their backbreaking labor. I listen to music and time my run; they listen to birds sing and hope there is time to get home and do all the chores that await them.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">I have the running gear, running clothes, iPod, water bottle, and even a driver who will take me out of town to run on the red dirt. When I return to the rest house, I will eat a granola bar and bathe. Now, it is true that I didn’t have running water for three days. It is true that my only toilet was a shared, outdoor, squat latrine. But it is also true that there was a woman to bring me a bucket of warm water for bathing, and it is also true that in my current guest house, I have electricity most of the time, and running water for a few glorious hours each day. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Perhaps the most important truth of all this is that I can choose. I can choose to sweat in the hills, or I can choose to rest in my room. I can choose to travel to a remote area of Zambia and deal with squat latrines and bucket bathing, or I can choose to live in luxury and never worry about water, toilets, and electricity. I can choose my career, and I can choose to never carry an entire tree on my back. I can even choose what music I want to listen to, as I run over the red land in my proper attire.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtDwbkIpR8TR58cLkrLESgXIx79Bq8s90woohSDYu_Jdwsp_vx_tyivRLAt6ubIaViW0WuJBBo7ZqKEo2VS3BdlR8V2SyGU63TJrBoOm6o3r36b12vCiSOChkThyphenhyphenyJETqmyWrkohGYxFQ/s1600/DSC00861.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtDwbkIpR8TR58cLkrLESgXIx79Bq8s90woohSDYu_Jdwsp_vx_tyivRLAt6ubIaViW0WuJBBo7ZqKEo2VS3BdlR8V2SyGU63TJrBoOm6o3r36b12vCiSOChkThyphenhyphenyJETqmyWrkohGYxFQ/s1600/DSC00861.jpg" height="320" width="186" /></a><span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And so, when the woman tells me that she wants my skin, I am reminded that it is not fair. It is ridiculous that my skin, my birth, my origin, gives me so much privilege, so much choice, so much freedom, when her skin, her birth, her origin, limits her options and forces her into a life of illiteracy and poverty.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">They make me uncomfortable, these realities. But running makes me uncomfortable, too. And I think they are both healthy things. Struggling with the reality of our privilege is a healthy thing. And while my rural run made me uncomfortable in many ways, I am grateful for the discomfort that it brought. Because we have a choice, with the privilege we have, to work for justice. We have a choice, with the privilege we have, to do something. So let’s all get uncomfortable and do something healthy with our lives - to seek justice, to love mercy, to run humbly with our God.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">If you are feeling uncomfortable, check out these links:</span></div>
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<span class="s2">Donate to empower women through our organization: <span class="s3"><a href="http://www.presbyterianmission.org/donate/E051151/">http://www.presbyterianmission.org/donate/E051151/</a></span></span></div>
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<span class="s2">Donate to address global poverty through our organization</span>:</div>
<div class="p3">
<a href="http://www.presbyterianmission.org/donate/E052143/"><span class="s3">http://www.presbyterianmission.org/donate/E052143/</span></a></div>
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Donate to address global health through Partners in Health: </div>
<div class="p3">
<a href="https://donate.pih.org/pages/give"><span class="s5">https://donate.pih.org/pages/give</span></a></div>
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Advocate for foreign assistance through Church World Service: <a href="https://secure2.convio.net/cws/site/SPageServer?pagename=advocacy_alert_foreign_assistance_saves_lives"><span class="s3">https://secure2.convio.net/cws/site/SPageServer?pagename=advocacy_alert_foreign_assistance_saves_lives</span></a></div>
<div class="p3">
Advocate for food aid through Bread for the World:</div>
<div class="p3">
<a href="http://www.bread.org/ol/2014/">http://www.bread.org/ol/2014/</a></div>
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*As a post script, Moses decided to run with me the next day. He lapped me, while wearing loose sandals, brown work pants, and an enormous smile.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-83288237701053620562014-08-15T11:04:00.000-07:002014-08-15T11:04:54.132-07:00Um. My Mistake(s).<div class="p1">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTF5ZKiHyOxcluysgHe-NqJu4uHAyX_SIoi2IKLr1lddrPAsU-5loTIngzYTM-YTbq_v7QSXPD680_9jJvpU80okSQOhS0OHuTgoJ5biwIug7xbTovDigyEMpnGaEvAw4rQKAOlcolXQU/s1600/IMG_0618.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTF5ZKiHyOxcluysgHe-NqJu4uHAyX_SIoi2IKLr1lddrPAsU-5loTIngzYTM-YTbq_v7QSXPD680_9jJvpU80okSQOhS0OHuTgoJ5biwIug7xbTovDigyEMpnGaEvAw4rQKAOlcolXQU/s1600/IMG_0618.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">She unrolled the window, about to throw the used water bottle onto the ground. “Oh, I’ll take that,” I quickly said, hoping to nonchalantly save the world from one more piece of litter. She turned to me with a quizzical look. “Why? Do you need it?” I was now distinctly uncomfortable. “No. It’s just that I have a bag for trash here. I’ll put it in and throw it away later.” She shook her head, “No, that’s fine. I can toss it here.” I was still undeterred. “But isn’t that littering?” I asked. Usually, I would have have held my tongue, but Emelia was a good friend, and I was surprised by the conversation. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">She smiled at me, finally understanding. “No. Watch what happens. One of those boys over there will take the bottle in less than a minute. They use them. It is a waste to throw them away.” With that, she tossed the bottle out of the window of our parked truck. Within two minutes, a small boy had darted over, grabbed the prize, and run back to his friends. I was embarrassed. “Wow. I really didn’t know that.” I had been so high and mighty about the litter, with my garbage bag in the back seat, full of empty water bottles. But Emelia, my Zambian friend, knew that sometimes, the best thing to do is toss an empty bottle from the truck window.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It took seventeen hours of driving to reach Muyombe. The last seven were driven over two track dirt paths, and I was frequently thrown to the roof of the cab as we hit enormous pits. We passed two broken down trucks on that path, and only one other moving vehicle. Along the way, we faced traffic jams from herds of cattle blocking the path, and an occasional ox-drawn cart. The car was swarmed by tsetse flies, which carry the dreaded sleeping sickness, so we drove with our windows up, despite scorching heat and broken AC. Covered in sweat, constantly jostled, like a roller coaster that would not end, and very hungry, the four of us finally arrived in Muyombe, and settled into a very, very basic rest house.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Over the next few days, as we paid for food and lodging, I asked for receipts. Our treasurer in Lusaka needed them in order to reconcile the trip budget, and I didn’t want to disappoint him. But over and over again, the workers refused. I was frustrated, but finally realized that they probably did not have pen and paper. I handed over a blank sheet and writing utensil to my friend. “Could you please ask them to write what we have purchased, the cost, and then sign it?” I figured she might have better luck. Emelia took off to go and find the workers.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">A few hours later, when I asked about the receipt, she shook her head. “None of them can read or write. They looked all over, but not one of the workers knows how to write. Only the owner, and he is gone.” Oh. I hadn’t thought of that. She handed me back the paper, covered in words and numbers. “I just wrote it out. I hope that will be good enough.” I nodded, embarrassed again. Yet another time I had simply not understood. I was frustrated that it was so hard to get a receipt, not thinking for a minute about the frustration of those who could not write or read a receipt.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">My lack of awareness, after two years of living in Zambia, and many, many travels in rural areas, reminds me of a game that we played after just a few months of living here. Frankie and Johnny like Checkers, and we did not have a Checker board. So, they spent days collecting bottle caps - Fanta and Coke - to serve as checkers, and they colored a piece of paper to make a board. </span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Other children gathered around them when the game was finally ready. All the kids took turns playing, but after a little while, Frankie came over to me with a look of frustration on his face. He whispered to me that the other kids were cheating. He was bitterly disappointed, as he had so looked forward to these Checker games. Joel watched a bit and then nodded towards me. It was true, he confirmed. The other kids were cheating. My boys were sad and stopped playing after awhile. Their Zambian friends were confused, but kept on playing among themselves.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Months later, we saw some adult friends playing Checkers. We asked them about the game, and discovered that it was not Checkers at all. It was a game called Draft that looks just like Checkers. The pieces and the board look very much the same, but there are different rules. We realized that the other children had not been cheating; they had simply been playing a different game with different rules. While our kids were playing Checkers, they were playing Draft.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I wonder how often this happens in life, and we don’t realize it. I saw a friend throw a bottle out the window and immediately assumed she was littering. A woman refused to give me a receipt, and I became frustrated that she wouldn’t do such a simple thing. Some boys played a game with my children, and we were sure they were cheating. But they were not cheating, they were simply playing with different rules. And Emelia was not littering, she was providing some children with a useful bottle. And the woman at the guest house was not being difficult, she was offering all that she could. It is so easy to assume that we are all playing the same game, and to become angry, frustrated, or judgmental when we think someone else is breaking the rules.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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<span class="s1">I hope that next time I am ready to judge, I stop and consider that the other person may be playing a different game. Whether they are from a different culture, different socio-economic situation, different country, different religion, or even if they look like me and seem to be similar to me, perhaps there is a different game going on, and perhaps that is worth exploring.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
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</div>
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<span class="s1">Sometimes, I like being wrong. And that is fortunate, because I am wrong so often, as the above stories illustrate! But being wrong gives us a chance to learn new games, to learn new rules, to open our eyes to different cultures, different ideas, different ways of living in this world. And I am honored to have people around me who love me even when I am wrong, even when I am embarrassed. They simply invite me in, to play along with them. And, wow! I really do like that game.</span></div>
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<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-30657021475181642142014-07-29T07:21:00.001-07:002014-07-29T07:21:32.146-07:00Joy Riding on an Empty Tank<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dNe9Zdme78cuHGVDLwcimMhxHZTSPML41KETvZ1sfZYj0se0i1PjLPE_wxJ0YxtfDg6WAzZQaSpV4fW3FUmR6tKHKPK_Nm1gdH8aF37LlfljxvBbidlnfV3WRLMULQCYGdGdrXoXHNQ/s1600/Children.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3dNe9Zdme78cuHGVDLwcimMhxHZTSPML41KETvZ1sfZYj0se0i1PjLPE_wxJ0YxtfDg6WAzZQaSpV4fW3FUmR6tKHKPK_Nm1gdH8aF37LlfljxvBbidlnfV3WRLMULQCYGdGdrXoXHNQ/s1600/Children.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>I have to admit I was a little irritated. Sure, the children were squealing with joy, the adults were laughing, and the driver's smile filled half his face. And, of course, I couldn't help finding it very sweet. Yet inside, I was feeling some frustration and fear. Why was our driver giving a dozen kids a joy ride through the village, when our gas tank was running on fumes?<br />
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We were two hours from a filling station and the gas light was on. In fact, as we approached the village, we realized that we wouldn't make it much further. The driver stopped, and thus began a short trip through another village, wondering if anyone had a little jug of diesel anywhere. After the third home, we found someone with a small container and a funnel. It wasn't much gas, but hopefully it was enough to get us to the little church and then back to the town with gas pumps.<br />
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And so, there we were in the village, almost ready to depart, and our driver was zipping along the dirt paths, red dust flying in the air, as children squealed in delight. They had piled into the cab, so many kids that they couldn't shut the door at first. The children squeezed in tight, the driver cranked up the music, and they flew into the distance. <br />
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As I waited, I spoke with colleagues and laughed with friends, and finally, when the truck returned with a load of happy children, I found that my irritation had disappeared. One way or another, we would make it back to our hotel. I would sleep in a bed tonight, and ride in the truck tomorrow, and make it to another church, in another village, for another presentation the next day. All will be well.<br />
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Sometimes, it is not always best to be practical. I have learned that from my friends here, who value relationship over functionality, friendship over efficiency, and laughter over self-importance. The kids in that village didn't have much opportunity to ride in a vehicle. Their families don't have cars or trucks. The wealthy ones might own one bicycle. But the opportunity to fly around their village in a big red pickup was not to be missed. It was joy, it was fun, it was laughter.<br />
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I think life would probably be pretty amazing if we decided to joy ride on an empty tank a little more often. We can take some risks, just for the sake of laugher and friendship, just for the sake of loving life. We can offer what we have, even when it is risky, to bring joy to another person and to ourselves. Our driver offered that precious fuel, in order to delight some children. What can we offer, just for the sake of bringing someone else joy?<br />
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We did make it all the way to the filling station, despite the gas light that beamed from the dashboard. And tomorrow we will drive to another village, and the next day, we will continue to drive. As I sit in that backseat, for hours and hours on end, I hope I will remember that one afternoon, when it was filled beyond capacity with beaming, laughing children. Because the tank wasn't really empty. It was enough. We have enough. So let's go for a ride and let our lives rise up in laughter and friendship and joy.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-29613345356572441172014-07-24T08:54:00.000-07:002014-07-24T08:58:07.100-07:00Just Below the Ground<i>There was once a little girl who lived in a very big city, in a place surrounded by concrete and buildings. She had never been to a farm, and had been in that very big city her whole life. Well, one day, her grandfather came to visit her, and he told her that he had brought a very special present. But when he handed the present to her, it was a cup, filled with dirt. The little girl was disappointed. She didn’t want dirt! Why would that be a special present?</i><br />
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<span class="s1"><i>But the grandfather said to her that she should put water in that cup, every single day, and something wonderful would happen. She was very confused about that, but she loved her grandfather very much, and so she agreed to put water in that cup, every single day.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>At first, it was easy to do. She wanted to see what would happen! But days went by, and the dirt did not change, and even as she kept putting in the water, she grew more and more disappointed. She tried to keep her promise to her grandfather, but it became harder and harder. Sometimes, she would forget, and then she would have to get out of bed, get some water, and water the dirt. It was hard to remember, and she got very sick of doing it, but she had made a promise to her grandfather, and so she kept on putting water in the cup.</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>And then, one morning, she woke up, and there were bright green leaves sprouting from the dirt. She was astonished! Each day, they continued to grow and grow. She could not wait to tell her grandfather! </i></span></div>
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<span class="s1"><i>When he visited next, she ran to get the cup and brought it out to show her grandfather. “Look what happened, grandfather!” she said. Her grandfather explained to her that life is everywhere, potential is everywhere, hidden in the most ordinary and unlikely places. The girl was delighted. “And all it needs is water, grandfather?” she asked him. “No, my dear child,” he responded. “All it needs is your faithfulness.”</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">The girl watered that dirt, even when it seemed that nothing was happening. She was faithful and committed to that work. And even though she could not see it, something was happening beneath that soil. A plant was growing, a seed was sprouting, and finally, it emerged from the mud.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">This is not my story; it comes from My Grandfather’s Blessings, by Rachel Naomi Remen. But I told this story in one of my first sermons, here in Zambia, when I was blessed to preach at the graduation ceremony for a group of new pastors, graduating from Chasefu Theological College. That was almost two years ago, and just yesterday, one of the pastors reminded me of my sermon.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Sitting in my living room, drinking sparkling juice and sharing stories, he asked me, “Do you remember that sermon you gave at Chasefu? At the graduation? Well, I remember it. I was just talking to one of the other reverends about that sermon. That really helped us. That really encouraged us a lot.” I thanked him for the kind words about a sermon I preached almost two years ago. A sermon about planting seeds, and not knowing if there is something growing underneath the dirt. And I wondered why he would bring it up on that day, when I spoke of my frustrations and challenges. Was he preaching it back to me? I think he was, in his gentle, affirming way.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Sometimes, all we can see is dirt. We plant some seeds, and we want to see something amazing happen. But instead, there is just a cup of mud. We see budget challenges and miscommunications. We see bureaucratic red tape and tricky power dynamics. We see a flawed, imperfect system and we wonder if anything will ever grow. We get tired, we get discouraged, we get overwhelmed. That is true in any type of ministry. That is true any time we seek to follow Jesus. That is true over and over again in our lives. We get excited about the seeds we plant, but after a little while, we can get discouraged when all we see is dirt.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And so my colleague was preaching my sermon back at me. The seeds you planted two years ago, he said, are growing right here, in your living room. Because I am a pastor and I am ready to remind you: just be faithful. Just keep watering the dirt. Something is growing, even if you cannot see it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am in the midst of many, many travels. From May through August, I am traveling to thirteen different presbytery meetings, all over the country. I will be gone for a week, home for a couple weeks, then gone for a couple weeks, home for a week, then gone again. Just this month, I will be traveling fifteen out of thirty-one days, and next month, I will be gone thirteen out of thirty-one. And I am a bit tired; I just want to skip out on the next few trips. I want to stay in bed and refuse to get out, and put any water in the cup.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">But I know that in each and every meeting, I am blessed to see the fruits of someone else’s faithfulness. As I go into these rural congregations, all over the country, I am blessed to see vibrant, life-giving, beautiful churches. I am blessed to learn about the ministries in the communities I visit: home-based care programs for people living with HIV/AIDS, agricultural education, exuberant worship, phenomenal music...ministries of compassion and grace and praise abound. These ministries exist because of the faithfulness of those who just keep at it, who refuse to give up, who pour water into the cup every single day.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I am excited that I get to be a part of this. I am amazed that I am offered the opportunity to walk with my faithful colleagues here in Zambia. And I am overwhelmed by the incredible work that is being done. So, I will keep up my small part, a little bit of water in a tiny little cup, every single day, as best as I am able. Because the faithfulness of my friends here reminds me that there are miracles all over the place, growing just below the ground. </span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-64327279031327958742014-07-14T10:02:00.000-07:002014-07-14T10:02:37.188-07:00Surpassing Beauty<div class="p1">
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<span class="s1">I had some pretty good rationalizations. And I will share them with you, as I hope you will agree that they are quite acceptable. First of all, the organization employs over 70 rural Zambians. Secondly, it gave us the opportunity to experience the wondrous awe of God’s creation. Third, we chose the cheapest package. Fourth, it is a remarkably unique opportunity. Now, don’t those seem like good rationalizations? I do think so myself. And so, we decided to spend three nights at a safari camp in South Luwangwa National Park. It was not inexpensive, but based on the above rationalizations, we made our reservations.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQC07V118_uCBMkEXBcrjnGA6IGhYz_otWHIn0Ug2JvasycrWfcB-KY-db283tUfN1MNgazf4UYcJKDKUVfxtiLdBLYIjkKgeVAEHiWzHI86Myi7eDdMXxB0EYGMYRluesAJxaYbEvbiY/s1600/DSC01792.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQC07V118_uCBMkEXBcrjnGA6IGhYz_otWHIn0Ug2JvasycrWfcB-KY-db283tUfN1MNgazf4UYcJKDKUVfxtiLdBLYIjkKgeVAEHiWzHI86Myi7eDdMXxB0EYGMYRluesAJxaYbEvbiY/s1600/DSC01792.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">It was breath-taking; in the midst of a work trip through the rural Eastern Province, we took a detour to one of the most amazing national parks in the world. We watched baby puku nurse from their mothers, giant storks fish in green bays, young impala practice fighting, horns locked against each other. We saw herds of zebra rolling in the dirt, removing ticks from their bodies. We witnessed trios of giraffes walk towards us, as curious about our family as we were about theirs. We stood over a river, keeping a good distance from the crocodiles sunning on the shore, as hippos bathed nearby. </span><br />
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One early morning, we watched a leopard up in the branches eating a baby impala. Below the tree, two hyenas waited for the legs of the impala to fall to the ground. Behind us, an owl was hunting, and a herd of guinea fowl squawked in terror. We sat and watched the leopard eat her meal, as the hyena chomped on bones, and the owl swooped towards his prey. In the distance, the phenomenal colors of the sunrise created the atmosphere of a dream. Too much beauty, too much pain, too much awe to absorb.<br />
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<span class="s1">After three days of such wonder, we departed to continue our work, journeying towards the Malawian border. There we encountered different beauty, different pain, different awe..... </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKhfqfck51ABbKDKP0Kw4PSDQMA7lZHkESR0_2zqiZuytJf5Mw-r1yM2fqdYWg1ONgIU6DPTXo7oTgqJQla2iQppca2DFk5EnSSoneO1a47SOEWzDREVaT4Fe4xaIDDKMOVxEgIgQlLU/s1600/DSC02278.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKhfqfck51ABbKDKP0Kw4PSDQMA7lZHkESR0_2zqiZuytJf5Mw-r1yM2fqdYWg1ONgIU6DPTXo7oTgqJQla2iQppca2DFk5EnSSoneO1a47SOEWzDREVaT4Fe4xaIDDKMOVxEgIgQlLU/s1600/DSC02278.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">“Where are your boys?” As we ducked under the thatched roof and emerged into the brilliant sunlight, we scanned the village for Frankie and Johnny. “Hmmm. I don’t know.” Joel and I laughed, as this was pretty much our normal pattern these past two weeks. Spending hours inside a rural church, with walls made of mud bricks, a roof of branches, on rough wooden pews. Speaking and teaching, listening and learning, singing and dancing, praising and praying. Discussing condoms and circumcision, home based care and stigma, church growth and discipleship, grace, love and unity. Meanwhile, our boys explore the village, and we trust them into the care of the community. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">And so, this particular afternoon, as we walked from the dark sanctuary into the sparkling blue sky, we had no concerns about their location. It was time for lunch, cooked over an open fire in a small thatched hut near the pastor’s home. These are the rural kitchens. In the distance, we saw a large group of women, gathered around a fire. Their bright chitenges contrasted the brown earth, and pretty soon, I saw my two boys, covered in dirt and dust, emerge from among the women.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I hadn’t seen them for hours, so as we waited for the meal, I asked my kids about their morning adventures. They had met a boy named Sam; he showed them his house and led them around the village. When they came to a group of women in the distance, they were offered tea and bread. The boys sat and drank; the tea was sweet and delicious, full of warm milk. And then, the women introduced them to Daniel. Daniel was laying on a mealie-meal bag, close to the fire, trying to get warm. He was around Frankie’s age, an eight year old boy, shivering with illness. “Hello, Daniel,” Johnny said in his squeaky, seven year old voice. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">“Will you pray for him?” one of the women asked. Frankie, who can be painfully shy, nodded. With the women, and the children, and Johnny and Sam, Frankie lifted up a prayer for Daniel, praying for health for this boy, a child his own age, living in such a different world.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">While all this was happening, Joel and I were in the church, oblivious to our children’s whereabouts, and unaware that they were sipping tea with new friends and offering up their own prayers. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNwID-e3n__8DuGmsQYkrbFC7BgMLzojeAN1RhXJiO4USrHpYw5TYbJ3H73rsHetfEwcfWWYxGYq6qxaix5jIEo_1EUcrOV3T_QqWeuxeg9l0skjc2ZxubA6t3CMSOPO-xeW1I7oYHJo/s1600/DSC02284.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNwID-e3n__8DuGmsQYkrbFC7BgMLzojeAN1RhXJiO4USrHpYw5TYbJ3H73rsHetfEwcfWWYxGYq6qxaix5jIEo_1EUcrOV3T_QqWeuxeg9l0skjc2ZxubA6t3CMSOPO-xeW1I7oYHJo/s1600/DSC02284.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">We went into the pastor’s home, a small structure with a pit latrine in the yard, one room for sitting, one room for sleeping, and an outdoor kitchen, consisting of a fire and a pot. The food was served: goat and greens and nshima. We were offered a traditional Zambian drink: sweetened, boiled, watery corn meal, consumed cold. It is surprisingly good, despite its grittiness. We ate and drank and talked, until it was time for us to go.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">As we stood up to leave, our hosts motioned for us to sit again. “We must pray for your journey!” they insisted. We nodded and bowed our heads, and Rev. Mithi lifted up a prayer of remarkable kindness and love, thanking God for our visit, and entrusting our travels into God’s care. We thanked them, numerous times, and set off.</span></div>
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It is a powerful thing to pray for one another, to pray for strangers in such a way that they become a part of your heart. It is a powerful thing to eat together, to share nshima or tea or bread, to share stories, to share lives. It is a powerful thing to remember that all of us have a role to play in the coming of God’s kingdom: children like Frankie and Johnny can sip tea and offer prayers, children like Sam can invite strangers into their homes, children like Daniel can remind us all of our responsibility to create a healthier, more just world. And adults like you and me and Rev. Mithi can live up to that responsibility. A different beauty, a different pain, a different awe....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyUjFgJsQbwNtFD8SP7kkZK82UEZhNU-yiZkrRKR-XXBJTH_43KeS-vFAKQQhlox6X1ijFbK1MEyKEgKWlE6D2pPrc3fDyFkPqxpXATpeb303VeCrSPoJnStb8qhLxXf2fhxn9JnC4nE/s1600/DSC02220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAyUjFgJsQbwNtFD8SP7kkZK82UEZhNU-yiZkrRKR-XXBJTH_43KeS-vFAKQQhlox6X1ijFbK1MEyKEgKWlE6D2pPrc3fDyFkPqxpXATpeb303VeCrSPoJnStb8qhLxXf2fhxn9JnC4nE/s1600/DSC02220.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">And now, back to the rationalizations. I do not regret our investment in the safari; it was an amazing experience of renewal, wonder, and joy. But I also hope that I will invest as much in children like Daniel and Sam. I also hope that I will invest as much in rural Zambian communities, who are working against HIV/AIDS, struggling with food insecurity, and still offering hope and joy. I hope that I will invest my time and money in creating God’s kingdom, not just in enjoying God’s creation.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyAzFDKt1JxudkHBm3CHuLxn7kbFZ4iy7asMEPbmyZieBqs5xHMwYe56zbDF0h4tFuT9khF-DfhycrscE4Od_PthTZntTgsQm2sE87hsM-No_drXwkOwVx2txq0_GBEJSkz8LMEICEtJY/s1600/DSC02357.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyAzFDKt1JxudkHBm3CHuLxn7kbFZ4iy7asMEPbmyZieBqs5xHMwYe56zbDF0h4tFuT9khF-DfhycrscE4Od_PthTZntTgsQm2sE87hsM-No_drXwkOwVx2txq0_GBEJSkz8LMEICEtJY/s1600/DSC02357.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp9DKBPMQF4ACQazbTXMi0rAPFXFU0Bnfe7zKpTJNIZhs-QlcNxwX8P2KxZ7Nm3xAN5DWXekXtk8VI4-dWSFIai90XA9gdtEdxLbdXiettZW1Kw2eturLmcgal-PwxdXSoLXdCj-thdr4/s1600/DSC02327.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp9DKBPMQF4ACQazbTXMi0rAPFXFU0Bnfe7zKpTJNIZhs-QlcNxwX8P2KxZ7Nm3xAN5DWXekXtk8VI4-dWSFIai90XA9gdtEdxLbdXiettZW1Kw2eturLmcgal-PwxdXSoLXdCj-thdr4/s1600/DSC02327.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">We all have a role to play. And I think it is important that we do not rationalize our spending, or our lives, in such a way that we resist our responsibility, while embracing our privilege. Certainly this is a temptation I face every single day. Appreciating God’s creation, experiencing God’s beauty, these are good, faithful things to do. But we also have a role to play in the building of God’s kingdom, in bringing peace and justice, in feeding one another. I am so grateful for the people in Eastern Province who fed me, and reminded me that the beauty I found in the Luwangwa Valley is only surpassed by the beauty of an outstretched hand, offering my children, perfect strangers, a cup of tea.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-16073146006852313012014-06-29T07:55:00.000-07:002014-06-29T07:55:30.469-07:00Kid Update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
It has been a very fun month with the kids! After months and months of rehearsal, Frankie performed as an Oompa-Loompa in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Johnny celebrated his seventh birthday and received three academic awards and a medal at school. The kids are also really enjoying watching the World Cup, and are very excited about their term break. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUCRRxmdHu_AjwlGRWJ8ylC2_6KtIKDjupn-Zsg_J2FHGjMTrb7AnQWJkITK_dDDlbJUZQ2qCIYREeSAUlljyt1R0b56OxQ9vIxwO0Sv-2KnOyAibJZW_48rcgXWniUoIOlZwd5Z7tSQ/s1600/DSC01455.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCUCRRxmdHu_AjwlGRWJ8ylC2_6KtIKDjupn-Zsg_J2FHGjMTrb7AnQWJkITK_dDDlbJUZQ2qCIYREeSAUlljyt1R0b56OxQ9vIxwO0Sv-2KnOyAibJZW_48rcgXWniUoIOlZwd5Z7tSQ/s1600/DSC01455.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Needless to say, we all had the "Oompa-Loompa Dupity-Doo" song in our head for an entire month.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1T73FKvWQdvK4wk87vYlJXycPay5IC1FHtMf4jMhToXZSZIrRKRmxsed081LVZ-U8Jkk4C3T-Q3a2Ewyb-aaiJgixGYqLA100yncLyGYevfvpFh90bbAxrjD5p_ubo5U2eV8NndEj9hg/s1600/DSC01459.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1T73FKvWQdvK4wk87vYlJXycPay5IC1FHtMf4jMhToXZSZIrRKRmxsed081LVZ-U8Jkk4C3T-Q3a2Ewyb-aaiJgixGYqLA100yncLyGYevfvpFh90bbAxrjD5p_ubo5U2eV8NndEj9hg/s1600/DSC01459.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frankie was the one to carry in the giant chocolate bar.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2glt9Sg5TN3mVdui92nXceUGqISnxbPMyR1FwY25MF9t2atzdJ-oq5LP6JHU8RQNiFYtJHN2jmfQMF5qrSm3wFG7husnIugJGl_L749bwYxKYxlLFWLYr4nEn6zBe9YbvLbzHcrdKExk/s1600/DSC01464.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2glt9Sg5TN3mVdui92nXceUGqISnxbPMyR1FwY25MF9t2atzdJ-oq5LP6JHU8RQNiFYtJHN2jmfQMF5qrSm3wFG7husnIugJGl_L749bwYxKYxlLFWLYr4nEn6zBe9YbvLbzHcrdKExk/s1600/DSC01464.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He had a lot of fun!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSRTGaCbBYMSlpg1mlj-EdURdGfv1GQJ_xMFohzgeMIP2IfEpmbn1sOP2QOpDDy7z3o8HuKK3New2zaSN57DBNDjLikwZhW-_z77KoUlVFm1gR-TIe3AKAWrWPu7d41eUNAG4SjT5irMc/s1600/DSC01526.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSRTGaCbBYMSlpg1mlj-EdURdGfv1GQJ_xMFohzgeMIP2IfEpmbn1sOP2QOpDDy7z3o8HuKK3New2zaSN57DBNDjLikwZhW-_z77KoUlVFm1gR-TIe3AKAWrWPu7d41eUNAG4SjT5irMc/s1600/DSC01526.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Johnny's birthday: There was no power and no water, but he did have a birthday apple crisp topped with seven tea-light candles.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUgqKjc8BWIEhnT-QXiipCYlK3YtPt7RkPsd5rG79oOP1PRBzHhLJcrBc2d8mAC-6IF9vBEbEH8HhWOh1jRzVGrNhpD3MngfpGfgOB1k4k8F9l0UoSJYhmVGbB9rxgiZ9w8o-U2H2Jyk/s1600/DSC01541.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUgqKjc8BWIEhnT-QXiipCYlK3YtPt7RkPsd5rG79oOP1PRBzHhLJcrBc2d8mAC-6IF9vBEbEH8HhWOh1jRzVGrNhpD3MngfpGfgOB1k4k8F9l0UoSJYhmVGbB9rxgiZ9w8o-U2H2Jyk/s1600/DSC01541.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The principal and vice-principal awarding Johnny with his academic medal.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixc5KBVTjJ6S5WQD8VlM-T3iB-PWtH-Tw6ZQAgb2qfnrhL_CRFKmQIo22Gmen7447Y6VVD9dfWR00TW4s0mJWNaUndvai6VxCTSrn5ZxUvmKiF5WOSIVOv4ovCjKTBVgHmhD_ABbIasMs/s1600/DSC01546.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixc5KBVTjJ6S5WQD8VlM-T3iB-PWtH-Tw6ZQAgb2qfnrhL_CRFKmQIo22Gmen7447Y6VVD9dfWR00TW4s0mJWNaUndvai6VxCTSrn5ZxUvmKiF5WOSIVOv4ovCjKTBVgHmhD_ABbIasMs/s1600/DSC01546.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The awards were in literacy, math, and science.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6QY95h0C_pc-d6HT8i2pyG7nBEbv3Ke1eG_RNltnpqEZIyD9Zk8s4dOMQ3seDHmja_wuBCw-11Hb83eiapxGkgapHeNLkU_D0tdCrXcOd7xf48z5GB-xCwSHgrOU7i9Vl6DJbv3T3Ek/s1600/IMG_20140627_130338_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd6QY95h0C_pc-d6HT8i2pyG7nBEbv3Ke1eG_RNltnpqEZIyD9Zk8s4dOMQ3seDHmja_wuBCw-11Hb83eiapxGkgapHeNLkU_D0tdCrXcOd7xf48z5GB-xCwSHgrOU7i9Vl6DJbv3T3Ek/s1600/IMG_20140627_130338_2.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Johnny's birthday party</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZovkglJ5s1hwM_eVcFlEOHDubAbr8T1D-XI_jaZiXdrkpp-mES3jjODaS-g2yQgUM3yO1gsN3x7tjEzljMOuj1kGqyxkTKH8QsuclgvaP0BXRxfQRSokrqpYA7z1tWhChHc_HMDtUj-w/s1600/IMG_20140627_124559.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZovkglJ5s1hwM_eVcFlEOHDubAbr8T1D-XI_jaZiXdrkpp-mES3jjODaS-g2yQgUM3yO1gsN3x7tjEzljMOuj1kGqyxkTKH8QsuclgvaP0BXRxfQRSokrqpYA7z1tWhChHc_HMDtUj-w/s1600/IMG_20140627_124559.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Six happy children; much easier than the 30+ at last year's party :)</td></tr>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-41800598848619234402014-06-19T07:54:00.002-07:002014-06-19T07:54:49.989-07:00The Dandelion Has It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In his book, Peace is Every Step, Thich Nhat Hanh writes a meditation about smiling. He closes with this paragraph, "Our smile will bring happiness to us and to those around us. Even if we spend a lot of money on gifts for everyone in our family, nothing we buy could give them as much happiness as the gift of our awareness, our smile. And this precious gift costs nothing. At the end of a retreat in California, a friend wrote this poe<span style="background-color: transparent;">m: 'I have lost my smile, but don't worry. The dandelion has it.'"</span></div>
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Awhile ago, I wrote that I had lost my joy, that sadness seemed to rob me of my smile. In truth, this rough patch had lasted a few months, and I was really ready for the dandelion to give me my smile back! But that image of God coming out to find me, lifting me on sturdy, steady shoulders, placing my feet on solid ground, kept assuring me that I would find lush pastures again. And looking around today, I find that I am in such a field, and that I am surrounded by dandelions. So many smiles, such abundant joy, that I can pick any dandelion I choose and offer up my bubbling thanks to God.</div>
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On Friday, a lovely family came to our home for dinner. We spent hours talking and sharing, their son playing with ours. After eating together, the boys set up a tent in the backyard and had a sleepover. We could hear them giggling with their friend throughout the night. A dandelion. </div>
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On Saturday, we had dinner at the home of good friends, who prepared a feast of vegetarian Zambian food for us. Our family has been vegetarian for 15 years, but when they came to eat at our home, we had served them chicken, knowing that in Zambia, special guests are always offered meat. But when we arrived at their house over the weekend, they had prepared seven different dishes, all of them meat-free. After the meal, they read a letter, a beautiful testament of love and friendship, and we spent time talking about culture, sharing stories, and laughing together. Another dandelion.</div>
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On Sunday, we celebrated Father's Day with worship and communion, followed by a meal and a rare opportunity to watch a polo match at the Italian Club. We spent the afternoon playing soccer in our yard, which was full of laughter and about a million penalty shots. Dandelions all over the place.</div>
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Over the week, we had a very productive meeting of the HIV/AIDS department, I was able to complete a twenty page grant report, and finish up some lessons. Dandelions bloomed as I worked with colleagues; even writing the grant report was a joy, a reminder of what has already been accomplished in our synod. More and more dandelions.</div>
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And tonight, we will have a good-bye dinner with friends we love, and it will be hard, but also lovely. Also a reminder that we are so, so blessed to have these friends, so, so blessed by the wonderful, inspirational people in our lives. </div>
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And tomorrow, we will go to another friend's home, and Saturday, to yet another friend's home...Dandelions, dandelions, and more dandelions....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG5QaANYPgRV2ANGxLasrkAuCZS1Ld45jyVSjPAVVsgwTLFgAAxQGCKWu5YIM5xnAwdL9qdKJALud0WdvU8a0WB9LxkI-4rY-f0aWYVW6GKrmHCrmxooiq5kcgxct7XP0EoHCyw4_YBKc/s1600/Photo+on+6-19-14+at+4.37+PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG5QaANYPgRV2ANGxLasrkAuCZS1Ld45jyVSjPAVVsgwTLFgAAxQGCKWu5YIM5xnAwdL9qdKJALud0WdvU8a0WB9LxkI-4rY-f0aWYVW6GKrmHCrmxooiq5kcgxct7XP0EoHCyw4_YBKc/s1600/Photo+on+6-19-14+at+4.37+PM.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a>It is not the case that we have five dinner engagements in nine days on a regular basis. But, being the extreme extrovert that I am, perhaps this is God's way of reminding me of all the love that is in my life, all the joy that surrounds me, all the human beings who act as dandelions for me, holding my smile and mirroring it back to me. And I begin to remember who I am, and whose I am, and where I am. And how blessed I am. </div>
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It is nice to have my smile back. Thanks, dandelions. Thanks, friends.</div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-33533300303437310372014-06-04T12:57:00.000-07:002014-06-04T12:57:55.431-07:00Party for a Prisoner<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOYBKePTfQNP8nPGFnP3z2hnKmIUk-_V7SC5izN5_tNWZSjPZh3vGy3yTeRdLl94UTqF2JquSGrYV2HcSjpzG3rLIkSVWpwFlPWxtwW5f5uqgXVpFV2cCdM9_qN2yLAqrnX9Bj1mF2nM/s1600/DSC01374.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipOYBKePTfQNP8nPGFnP3z2hnKmIUk-_V7SC5izN5_tNWZSjPZh3vGy3yTeRdLl94UTqF2JquSGrYV2HcSjpzG3rLIkSVWpwFlPWxtwW5f5uqgXVpFV2cCdM9_qN2yLAqrnX9Bj1mF2nM/s1600/DSC01374.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">They were speaking rapid Nyanja, and while I could pick out a few words, I was completely unable to keep up with the discussion. I could tell that they were speaking about a man in prison, a man who would soon be released. And as the church vestry continued its heated discussion, I filled in the blanks. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">Of course there would be nervous debate about a prisoner soon to be released into the community. I guessed that they were figuring out if they could let him back into the congregation. Would they be safe? Would the community be safe? I remembered similar conversations about ex-offenders in my previous congregations. What to do when a person gets released from prison? How does a church behave?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I watched them continue to speak, and was surprised by the smiles on their faces, the lightness with which the conversation continued. I had completely stopped listening as I imagined the content of their discussion, and finally, my colleague turned to me. “Were you following?” she asked. I admitted that I had not understood the majority of the discussion and she was happy to explain.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEC_FwOvoQSNzYiIqjbDTRXwKcRWYdo55RBRcQagOCv0S048MyGMwUOkSZF_xL8Cs6GK7Xor5onS80PERICOFjJrYtR82Nn7kCU5gdO4dHDFH2OocO7UKhQQEY6wb22OnJmWnFFqpOx90/s1600/DSC01329.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEC_FwOvoQSNzYiIqjbDTRXwKcRWYdo55RBRcQagOCv0S048MyGMwUOkSZF_xL8Cs6GK7Xor5onS80PERICOFjJrYtR82Nn7kCU5gdO4dHDFH2OocO7UKhQQEY6wb22OnJmWnFFqpOx90/s1600/DSC01329.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">“Very soon one of our members will be released from prison. He is getting an early release and we are very happy. So, we are planning on throwing him a party. We are figuring out how to throw this party.” She returned to the conversation and I nodded as if that was exactly what I had expected. Of course. They weren’t debating whether or not this man could return to their community. They were discussing the details of the party they would throw for him, and how they would raise the funds.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I spent that morning with the congregation, and by early afternoon it was time to begin the long drive back to Lusaka. As we were ready to depart, the minister asked us to wait outside for just a few minutes. We complied, and I wondered what they needed to discuss without us present. It took longer than a few minutes, and I began to feel a bit impatient. I don’t like driving in the dark and I really wanted to leave, in order to get home before nightfall.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Finally, the minister came out of the church building and said farewell. As we were getting into the car, she shoved a wad of money in my hand. “Please, use it to buy food and soft drinks on your drive home,” she said. I began to protest, but she stopped me immediately. “Please. You must. This is for you.” I accepted the gift, realizing that they had been taking a special offering to collect this money. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">We did not need soft drinks, and we had traveled with a bag of food and water in the car. That money could have gone to feed someone else - someone who was hungry, someone who did not have a couple of chocolate chip cookies hidden in the glove compartment. But we had to accept this extravagant generosity - from this church full of rural Zambians who throw parties for prisoners and collect money to feed Americans.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There was a woman - an unnamed woman - in the gospels, who poured out expensive perfume, all over Jesus. She came to him and spilled the whole bottle on his skin, she wiped it with her hair. And when the disciples protested, “What a waste! This could have been sold and the money given to the poor!” Jesus said, “Why do you trouble her? She has done this beautiful thing to show her love. What she has done will be told again and again, in memory of her.”</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7PyMf4uB-wPyZHbOi2UxtXnih6WNePFb3z-GjF2PyXx6qgUWq_mSL8gHeWzo9mOthWDcjZII-E-wkWeTA9vNpASNkv0ISIwfLO_Yk9NNTEaong2W6xsTO2eGEmxKIH6lmYc5hrkD1Io/s1600/DSC01266.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7PyMf4uB-wPyZHbOi2UxtXnih6WNePFb3z-GjF2PyXx6qgUWq_mSL8gHeWzo9mOthWDcjZII-E-wkWeTA9vNpASNkv0ISIwfLO_Yk9NNTEaong2W6xsTO2eGEmxKIH6lmYc5hrkD1Io/s1600/DSC01266.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1">This little church, in this little town, in south central Zambia, is pouring out perfume. They are throwing parties for prisoners, they are collecting money to buy soft drinks. They are singing and dancing and wiping in ointment with their hair. They are showing love - joyous, crazy, grateful, faithful love. And I can see Jesus smiling and laughing with them, saying, “Let their story be told over and over again, in memory of them.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There is no doubt that this congregation is caring for its neighbors. It already runs a small community school, where kids can come and learn for free. They are beginning plans for a Home Based Care program, to provide assistance to people living with HIV/AIDS. They provide clothes and sustenance for those who are struggling. But they also throw parties for prisoners, they also shove cash into my full hands, they also dance and celebrate and trust in God.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I believe that extravagant generosity is closely aligned with unwavering faith. People who truly trust that God will provide are better able to give sacrificially. People who truly believe that God loves everyone are better able to love their neighbors. People who truly believe that God has a plan for us are better able to release their plans, their resources, their intentions, and practice the radical hospitality of God. People who truly believe that God is like a prodigal parent are able to throw better parties.</span><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNlHPNii2iMZAoFgOcKDdGpQi8dVVmNRQmGI92J8-sBaS5uelrKSn0ZOKf0IRnSJkJNR-2EyMtKYHCFb-upH8UL7TbZQBB402eU7bqHpalsU41DpkEQFPC3B8agbVAzBJH_jsZAmC2ges/s1600/DSC01260.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNlHPNii2iMZAoFgOcKDdGpQi8dVVmNRQmGI92J8-sBaS5uelrKSn0ZOKf0IRnSJkJNR-2EyMtKYHCFb-upH8UL7TbZQBB402eU7bqHpalsU41DpkEQFPC3B8agbVAzBJH_jsZAmC2ges/s1600/DSC01260.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="s1">I deeply want to trust God like that - to have a faith that allows me to engage in such extravagant generosity, such reckless hospitality. Because even though I did not need the money for soft drinks, I certainly needed the lesson. Thanks, friends. </span></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-58561625496290901972014-05-27T06:45:00.000-07:002014-05-27T06:45:19.559-07:00You Have to Receive ItIt should have taken two hours, maybe three. But, the detours through the bush, the potholes, and the road blocks added at least an hour. By the time we arrived at the meeting, we were very late. My colleagues welcomed us with hugs and warmth. They hurried to offer us seats and greeted us with clapping hands and wide smiles. Cookies and soft drinks were immediately provided, and after some refreshment, the moderator turned to me. "We are ready for you now."<br />
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I began to arrange my big bag of stuff. The handouts, the sample books, the folders, all jammed into an overstuffed pack. As I placed it on a heavy wooden bench, I noticed that it was not all that stable. Unfortunately, I noticed a bit too late. With a loud crash, the bench fell onto my foot. I tried not to cry out, but it was impossible to hide the pain. I could feel the swelling begin and the pain throbbed. My colleagues rushed towards me, apologizing as if my clumsiness was their fault, and I assured them that I was okay. I limped forward, to the front of the cinder block building, and began to speak.<br />
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I had rehearsed many times and I was delighted by the responsiveness of the men and women, the great questions, the enthusiastic engagement. When it ended, they clapped and thanked me. The moderator suggested that not only do they applaud my presentation, they also give me the gift of the spirit. I was confused, but watched, as they all rubbed their hands together, quickly and repeatedly, as the moderator spoke of his gratitude for my work and excitement at the new resources. And then, he said, "One, two, three..." All the people gathered stopped rubbing their hands and clapped three times, in unison. Then, they held their arms, palms out, towards me. "The spirit of gratitude," declared the moderator.<br />
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I smiled, unsure how to respond to this incredible kindness. The moderator looked at me gently. "You are supposed to receive it." And so I held out my hands, palms up, and brought them to my heart. "I receive it," I said. "Thank you." And having received the spirt, the love, the gratitude, I limped back to my seat.<br />
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As the hours passed, my foot continued to swell. By lunchtime, my limp was obvious. Rev. Naomi Daka, a good friend, came over to me. "We have decided," she smiled. "We will heal you in the African way. The water is already boiling. Follow me."<br />
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Outside, there was a fire and a pot over the open flame. The water was, indeed, boiling. She looked at me, with laughter in her eyes, "You will not cry?" She teased. I laughed. "Um, that looks hot." She had mercy and poured in some cooler water from a bucket. "Sit down."<br />
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I sat, feet hanging from my car, and she knelt in the dirt, in her clergy collar and long black skirt. She took a basin and a ripped cloth, dipping it in the steaming water. "It won't hurt," she promised.<br />
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She removed my foot from my shoe and held it gently for a moment. And then came the rubbing and pulling and kneading and stretching and squeezing. I bit my lip. She continued to massage and wash and immerse my foot in warm, healing water. "How is it?" she asked. As I stood, I felt the muscles stretched out again, the throbbing decreased. "It is much better," I replied.<br />
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She rose from her knees and brushed off the dirt, ringing the cloth in the basin of water. I thought of Jesus and the disciples and dirty feet, of Peter's resistance...<i>No! I am not worthy. You will never wash my feet.</i> You have to receive it, I thought. You have to receive the blessing.<br />
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I have been spending time lately, far too much time, focusing on the image in the mirror. The person who is full of imperfection - the Peter who denies and hides and messes up over and over again. But God is asking me to open my hands to the spirit, to place it on my heart, to feel it in my feet, to lower my injury into the basin, to let the servant of Jesus wash me clean, to remind me. I am blessed. I am loved. I am worthy. I just have to receive it.<br />
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It may be the hardest thing, to receive the blessing, to find ourselves worthy of love. But with open hands and wounded feet, with a limp and a broken heart, we can find that this is exactly when we need to receive it. Exactly when we sit and place our feet in the warm, healing waters. And we know. Jesus is there, with a towel and a smile, ready to immerse us in undeserved grace. Ready to remind us, again and again - all we have to do is receive it.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-80434724991099619102014-05-20T06:43:00.000-07:002014-05-20T06:43:30.965-07:00In Need of a Savior<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Lately, I have been going through a rough patch. I have tried to dig myself out of the hole, out of the sadness, out of the frustration and guilt, the confusion and blame, the conviction that I cannot do enough, that I will never be enough. </span></div>
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<span class="s1">I have tried to focus on the things that are going so well: The HIV/AIDS portable library that we have just completed. The curriculum previews over the next few months. The community schools and trauma programs where we are placing young adult volunteers. The new church start that is taking off in northern Zambia. Conversations with colleagues who are excited about the new resources. Fascinating discussions on HIV/AIDS, sexuality, healthy masculinity, gender based violence. So many things are beautiful and good here. There is transformative work being done and I am so blessed that I get to be a part of it.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">But none of these things will pull me out of the pain. Nothing I do will help me to find my way back to joy. I am so accustomed to carrying joy, so convinced that this is not only my name (Kari Joy) but also my purpose, that I cannot figure out where the joy went, why I seem to have dropped it along the way.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">And then I remember a conversation with a friend, when I was in the midst of working on an anti-genocide campaign, addressing the horrors of Darfur. My friend, a secular professor of political science, asked me this question, “How can you do this? How can you work on these things without just giving into despair?” My immediate response was, “It helps to believe in God.” She looked at me and slowly nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I guess it would.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">There is a song by Tori Amos called “Crucify” and in it she sings, “I’ve been looking for a savior in these dirty streets, looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets...” There are so many ways we look for a savior - in our work, in our accomplishments, in other people, in substance abuse, in money, in prestige, in possessions. But every day, every hour, every minute, I am in need of a real savior. I am in need of God, to lift me out of sadness and despair, to set my feet on solid ground. I just can’t do it myself.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I have been reading a lot of Psalms lately, and it helps to remember that frustration and sadness are just as much a part of prayer as praise and gratitude. It is okay to feel lost and alone, afraid and confused, angry and frustrated. But it is also an amazing gift that we have a God who hoists us up on those big, sturdy shoulders and carries us home. We have a God who leaves behind 99 sheep and comes out, just to get us, whenever we feel lost. We have a God who will carry us, when we are shaky and frail, and hold us until our legs are strong enough to bear the weight.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I have every expectation that God is carrying me back to lush pastures, to a place where my feet will land on solid ground, and not only will I be able to stand, I will be able to jump and skip and spin and hop. I have every expectation that God is holding me close, and promising that the joy never fell away in the first place. God is carrying the joy for me, and pretty soon, I will be able to carry joy again. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4jlU1mD1uke4aHPX2XorkLGuGRjZM5vtQgFi6pI7t5u4maa_EkGX_yugLgIroiQFqoseHpzGIxizrjtWsO-fXmqrN6YF1MM3SH7B7wcjl01kDVevPDCHaOElfhiG9NdemrTtwgOPt9yY/s1600/DSC00802.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4jlU1mD1uke4aHPX2XorkLGuGRjZM5vtQgFi6pI7t5u4maa_EkGX_yugLgIroiQFqoseHpzGIxizrjtWsO-fXmqrN6YF1MM3SH7B7wcjl01kDVevPDCHaOElfhiG9NdemrTtwgOPt9yY/s1600/DSC00802.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A lovely former congregant made this <br />for me to remind me to carry joy.</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-79684019342441532922014-05-08T12:34:00.001-07:002014-05-08T12:36:12.883-07:00Zumba in Zambia<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Let's just say there is a lot of giggling. And some really hysterical dance moves. And maybe, on occasion, an unseemly wiggle. And only women. That part is important, what with the unseemly wiggles.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It is one way we take care of ourselves. Women come in veils, covered from head to toe, and underneath the black robes they are decked out in workout clothes. Other women arrive on their way to work, Zambian ladies in three piece suits, changing into tennis shoes. Some come from home, having dropped off children at the international school, like the Italian woman whose son goes to school with my boys. Some of them are 10 years younger than me. Some of them are 30 years older. They are Muslim and Christian and Jewish and Hindu and secular. They are all shapes and sizes, all colors, all ages. And together, we rock some pretty awesome moves.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">We dance to Latin music; the Spanish words flowing into Zambian rhythms, as we mix Dominican merengue with Timbuka drum struts. Every once in a while, an American hip hop song appears, and we throw in a few body rolls. No matter what we are doing, though, we are laughing. Because we know we look ridiculous. And we simply don't care.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I love to look around during these sessions, not to see the ways that we all butcher the dancing, but to observe the remarkable diversity in that circle. From so many different parts of the world: all over Africa, the Middle East, Europe, Asia, America... From so many different religions, from such different socio-economic backgrounds, such different languages. We all have different reasons for being here in Zambia. And yet, when we dance together, when we workout together, we laugh together, we encourage one another, and we moan in unison every time our instructor requires us to plank.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">When the class is over, the women headed to the office put their heels back on. Our Muslim friends don their robes. I grab a skirt and get ready for a meeting. We do live in separate worlds with different world-views and real issues that can create distance and division. But at the same time, at least for awhile, we can see each other. We breathe together and laugh together and dance together and remember that we are one - all of us children of God...children of God who sometimes engage in unseemly wiggles.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-22488213308535235832014-04-28T01:25:00.000-07:002014-04-28T01:36:02.725-07:00The Sound of a Woman Graduating<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2IaoYuLhu0qhFc8ZTR76Pw1l_-ydnx4xAY_u6g_NmwkNA7PJzoZyOEXlB8sd7r3d5e4XffB8bgrhbGNKJA5n5TijBW6MUB-rbQ_m5KIF00SFY_naslVNr38LPxdl_Eue0YaAYGz70D9E/s1600/DSC00648.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2IaoYuLhu0qhFc8ZTR76Pw1l_-ydnx4xAY_u6g_NmwkNA7PJzoZyOEXlB8sd7r3d5e4XffB8bgrhbGNKJA5n5TijBW6MUB-rbQ_m5KIF00SFY_naslVNr38LPxdl_Eue0YaAYGz70D9E/s1600/DSC00648.jpg" height="259" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span class="s1">It is not something I am able to replicate. Not only am I incapable of producing that high-pitched </span><span class="s2">ululation in my own mouth, I certainly could not convey in any shape or form the thundering elation that I witnessed in that huge white tent on Saturday. The sound of a woman graduating; I suppose it simply has to be experienced.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6sE2Aiklj5d300AeGyKPnJB8qFsZYXy6-1ke8u_NI2wJRbFA-7z7Iyw9QAuiXiYtSmAGvq7U_1yNLlcGKlPfNmZlkJbRR2GpLuYM8saDBvroqxZlYVLbEJKapedlZfyR2eS0KTo83BI/s1600/DSC00630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn6sE2Aiklj5d300AeGyKPnJB8qFsZYXy6-1ke8u_NI2wJRbFA-7z7Iyw9QAuiXiYtSmAGvq7U_1yNLlcGKlPfNmZlkJbRR2GpLuYM8saDBvroqxZlYVLbEJKapedlZfyR2eS0KTo83BI/s1600/DSC00630.jpg" height="254" width="320" /></a><span class="s2">But I can describe what it felt like for me to sit in an enormous tent, full of my Zambian brothers and sisters, as the names of people I love were read, as friends in caps and gowns glowed luminous with the light of God. I knew many of their stories; the stony roads that they trod to arrive at this place, at this time, to hear the cheers and feel the sun and hold the diploma. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4kZIsnmyrAX2dj58Qx5gnCq3VMk5ELixx9ob3ElUPU8isI94wnp4Koe5MuXL8hDq3PLFlvMiB7ZDy5zGRbvoP9FGJlQ74U7vuvBXRpmo9Z2cv0-FS1RZBhoeEbe1sQBnUGHeFgyWg64/s1600/DSC00708.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw4kZIsnmyrAX2dj58Qx5gnCq3VMk5ELixx9ob3ElUPU8isI94wnp4Koe5MuXL8hDq3PLFlvMiB7ZDy5zGRbvoP9FGJlQ74U7vuvBXRpmo9Z2cv0-FS1RZBhoeEbe1sQBnUGHeFgyWg64/s1600/DSC00708.jpg" height="320" width="268" /></a><span class="s2">And I can describe what it felt like for me, to watch this class of 41 students receive their bachelors, and witness the four female students - yes, 4 of 41 - walk forward with their heads held high, as every woman in the audience hooted and beamed their congratulations. Watching the current female students, struggling through the bachelors program now, knowing that they will get there, too. Believing that the numbers will slowly increase, that these women graduating are our pioneering sisters, following their call despite enormous obstacles.</span></div>
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<span class="s2">The sound of a woman graduating is the sound of every hope, every triumph, every time we travel the stony road and end up at our destination. It is the sound of courage and faithfulness, the sound of sisterhood and community, the sound of God. God’s power, God’s love, God’s encouragement, God’s presence. It is a sound I will never forget.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlh72QocJ3_XPKxS7rc73fHCYA2cxOHV6xinKnI_S2pWhowPTtIBhZLNHI8Qo6S7dBdwoDApizNaRZqguf3Wqu-lMRlHmAyKmfSX_pAUCNfpa54NCprMHcgEsgV_jkhnrpTLT_nCy0mow/s1600/DSC00700.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlh72QocJ3_XPKxS7rc73fHCYA2cxOHV6xinKnI_S2pWhowPTtIBhZLNHI8Qo6S7dBdwoDApizNaRZqguf3Wqu-lMRlHmAyKmfSX_pAUCNfpa54NCprMHcgEsgV_jkhnrpTLT_nCy0mow/s1600/DSC00700.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a><span class="s2">It is true, of course, that these women are not done. Far from it. Now that they have received their bachelors in theology, they will be assigned to congregations in Zambia, Zimbabwe, Malawi. They will most likely be the first female pastor in these churches, and they will struggle to prove themselves, as they encounter resistance and double standards. It will not be easy for them; some of the stories of my sisters in ministry are incredibly challenging. But they are doing it. They have done it. They will keep doing it.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKiHI0Hxhd-w9GwdFXrDVWRoDnphGN4gnMNbB3sBof0dsQhVlcxRS7zw4rZaBe3I1BBpUgIFvyaygpBEOtxxIzRc4nAITV29XPY-iIbBHMDx-JiklG_c-EMNkOcGt7waHTcjNXoQWsjVU/s1600/DSC00634.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKiHI0Hxhd-w9GwdFXrDVWRoDnphGN4gnMNbB3sBof0dsQhVlcxRS7zw4rZaBe3I1BBpUgIFvyaygpBEOtxxIzRc4nAITV29XPY-iIbBHMDx-JiklG_c-EMNkOcGt7waHTcjNXoQWsjVU/s1600/DSC00634.jpg" height="320" width="251" /></a><span class="s2">I wish you could hear it. But maybe you can. Every time someone stands up and defies oppression. Every time someone follows God’s call into the breach. Every time someone refuses to give up. Every time someone runs the race and arrives, breathless, spent, and exhausted, at the finish line. </span></div>
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<span class="s2">The sound of hope. The sound of strength. The sound of endurance. The sound of faithfulness. This is the sound of a woman graduating. Let’s listen. Let’s celebrate. Let’s believe.</span></div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-41592356265234757882014-04-24T08:28:00.000-07:002014-04-24T08:35:38.383-07:00Driving Forward<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The hand written note is in my purse. Careful penmanship, broken English, creative spelling, one clear message: "Please, can I borrow money." Now, this is a daily event in our lives, and we have a system for loaning money that works for us, in the Zambian context. But this particular note, from someone we love and trust, asks for a large amount of money. A lot more than we have ever loaned. It has been on my mind all morning. What is the faithful response?</span></div>
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<span class="s1">The funds are to be used for driver's training and a driving license; with this certification, Elias can serve as a driver, dramatically increasing his income potential. This will allow him to plan for the future, to create sustainability in his life, to augment his salary and feed his family. It is an investment in Elias, in his potential, and in the lives of his little boy, his young wife, his future children. Ultimately, it is an investment I know that we will make. We believe in Elias, and we believe that God is at work in his life.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Elias is the young man I wrote about in the post <a href="http://lovinglusaka.blogspot.com/2014/02/broken-down.html" target="_blank">"Broken Down"</a> in February. He is the father of little Victor Phiri, who died three months ago, a one and a half year old child. In the months since Victor's death, Elias has mourned and struggled. But he has not given up. And today, receiving the letter from him, the request for a loan, the plans for his future, I know that he is able to take one step forward. He is going to continue to be a father, a husband, a man of faith and hope. He is going to believe in his future.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">It is not something I can understand; I don't know how you move forward, having lost a child, having lost a part of yourself. I am not sure I have the faith to endure that kind of pain, and trust in a future that is anything but agony. But Elias has this, and I am honored to have the opportunity to invest in his life, to invest in his family, to invest in his hope.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">In small and large ways, we all face loss, pain, challenge. We all come to places where we want to fall down, to stop, to give up. We all have times when we don't want to move forward, where we are stuck, where we are broken down. But Elias is taking driver's training, Elias is working on getting a license, Elias is going to move forward into a future where God is present, where love will win. I hope that we can do that, too. To trust in a future that is infused with the presence of God.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Anne Lamott tells this story in her book, <i>Operating Instructions:</i></span></div>
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<span class="s1">“I have a friend name Anne, this woman I’ve known my entire life, who took her two-year-old up to Tahoe during the summer. They were staying in a rented condominium by the lake. And of course, it’s such a hotbed of gambling that all the rooms are equipped with these curtains and shades that block out every speck of light so you can stay up all night in the casinos and then sleep all morning. One afternoon she put the baby to bed in his playpen in one of these rooms, in the pitch-dark, and went to do some work. A few minutes later she heard her baby knocking on the door from inside the room, and she got up, knowing he’d crawled out of his playpen. She went to put him down again, but when she got to the door, she found he’d locked it. He had somehow managed to push in the little button on the doorknob. So he was calling to her, 'Mommy, Mommy,' and she was saying to him, 'Jiggle the doorknob, darling,' and of course he didn’t speak much English—mostly he seemed to speak Urdu. After a moment, it became clear to him that his mother couldn’t open the door, and the panic set in. He began sobbing. So my friend ran around like crazy trying everything possible...calling the rental agency where she left a message on the machine, calling the manager of the condominium where she left another message, and running back to check in with her son every minute or so. And there he was in the dark, this terrified little child. Finally she did the only thing she could, which was to slide her fingers underneath the door, where there was a one-inch space."</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"She kept telling him over and over to bend down and find her fingers. Finally somehow he did. So they stayed like that for a really long time, on the floor, him holding onto her fingers in the dark. He stopped crying. She kept wanting to call the fire department or something, but she felt that contact was the most important thing. She started saying, 'Why don’t you lie down, darling, and take a little nap on the floor?' and he was obviously like, 'Yeah, right, Mom, that’s a great idea, I’m feeling so nice and relaxed.' So she kept saying, 'Open the door now,' and every so often he’d jiggle the knob, and eventually, after maybe half an hour, it popped open."</span></div>
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<span class="s1">"I keep thinking of that story, how much it feels like I’m the two-year-old in the dark and God is the mother and I don’t speak the language. She could break down the door if that struck her as being the best way, and ride off with me on her charger. But instead, via my friends and my church and my shabby faith, I can just hold onto her fingers underneath the door. It isn’t enough, and it is.”</span></div>
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<span class="s1">I don't understand why Elias lost his son, why it is hard for him to feed his family, why there is so much loss here. But I do feel like God's fingers are slid underneath closed doors, and that somehow, we get the strength to jiggle the knob every once in a while, and sometimes, those doors open, and we step out of the dark, scary room, into the light of love and hope and joy. There are ways forward, there are doors that will one day open, and in the meantime, there is a God, offering us her hand through gaps in the darkness, inviting us to hold on, to trust, to wait upon the Lord.</span></div>
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<span class="s1">Elias is going to go to classes and hopefully get his driver's license. He is going to jiggle that doorknob, and move forward, trusting that God will see him through. He has felt that touch underneath the doorway, and he knows that he is not alone. And as he drives forward, in faith and hope, he inspires me to do the same. Whatever the pain, large or small, we can feel that God's hand is touching us in the darkness, and as we keep trying to jiggle that doorknob, we can trust that at some point it will open, and the light and love and peace of God will flood through.</span><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1948916644830243514.post-32187160494712023302014-04-10T08:52:00.000-07:002014-04-11T07:17:54.722-07:00Even More Than I Love FrankieHe blinked rapidly, but not fast enough to stop the large tears, leaking down his reddened cheeks, past his mouth, still waiting for grown-up teeth to fill the gaps. And when he started to hit himself in the face, I gently held his hand, and waited for the words to come. "Oh, little boy," I wanted to say to my son, "whatever it is, please just be gentle with yourself." But I waited, and pretty soon, Frankie started to speak. It turns out that he had lied at school. Some other boys teased him about having a crush on a certain girl, and Frankie told them that he did not. "I lied, Mom." He choked out those words like the confession of a terrible crime and then collapsed on himself again. "I am a bad person." A few days later, the same thing happened. A minor infraction, a small perceived sin, and Frankie was ready to beat himself up, literally and metaphorically. "Oh, sweet, sweet child," I wanted to say to my son, "whatever you do, no matter what, just try to love yourself half as much as I love you."<br />
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I look at my oldest son, who won the Impeccable Manners award at his school, who gives away all his money before he can spend it, who is always ready to share any dessert, who protects colonies of ants at school. I admire his generosity, his kindness, his courage, and I want to be more like him when I grow up. And yet, any lapse of behavior on his part, any perceived sin, and he is convinced that he is the worst person in the world. He can't stand his own imperfection; he seems to believe that being perfect is the only way to live faithfully in the world.</div>
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I understand how he feels. It is easy to give into guilt living in Zambia, easy to see the ways I don't measure up...The times I choose to eat at an expensive restaurant, knowing that my neighbors are going to bed hungry. The times I give into anger over a towel on the floor, when I should be angry that my friend is struggling with a disease that should have been eradicated a long time ago. The times I am just too tired to visit a struggling colleague, knowing that if I am struggling, fifteen people will come with prayers. The list goes on an on of all the ways I fall short, all the ways I choose what I want, instead of ministering to the very real needs of people who I love. </div>
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Around me, I see Zambian colleagues who have given up so much. My boss was a successful art teacher. He was offered a job at a school in Botswana, and received a decent salary. He was even able to afford a car. But he felt the call to go back to Zambia, to enter ministry, and he took an enormous pay cut to move into a small, leaking parsonage in a remote rural area. He suffered, his family suffered, but he helped move the denomination forward in powerful and world changing ways. I look at him and I listen to him, and again, I see all the ways I fall short.</div>
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I think many of us are like that. It is harder to hear that we are loved, that we are cherished, that we are beautiful, as we are, than it is to hear that we have work to do, we are not enough, that we had better just step up. But I think God looks at us the way that I look at Frankie. "Oh, sweet, darling, beautiful child," God says to you and me, "If only you could love yourself half as much as I love you."</div>
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All the brokenness inside of us, all the sin and shortcoming, all the pain...none of that is even remotely as big as the power of God's redemptive love. We are redeemed, we are chosen, we are enough. We are called, we are empowered, we are sustained. </div>
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In the liberal church, we often skip prayers of confession in our worship services. We resist conversations around redemption. We hush any whispers about sin. But it still clings to us. It is still there, and we carry the burdens of our imperfections, because we are not told over and over and over again that we are forgiven. And we need to hear it. We need to know it. We need to talk about sin and brokenness, because otherwise, we are like my little boy, sobbing on the floor, hitting our heads, trying to take away the pain ourselves. We forget that God is already there to take away the pain, that God is already there to forgive us, that God is already there to tell us that we are beloved, we are cherished, we are redeemed.</div>
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There is a lot to do in Zambia. And while I am there, I will do some ministry that matters, by the grace of God who can work in and through broken vessels. But I will also make mistakes, I will also fall down, I will also spend too much money at a restaurant. And that will be okay. I will be okay. And so will Frankie. And so will you. We keep on moving forward, keep on loving God, keep on caring for our neighbor, keep on trying. And we must know that it is enough. Because redemption is everywhere we look, because God is bigger than our imperfection, because God loves us even more than I love Frankie, and that is so, so, so very much. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14198913997426109183noreply@blogger.com0