Epilepsy, Fire, and Faithfulness

She knew she would not be able to eat her lunch; nshima and relish packed carefully that morning. But if she did not do it, who would? Everyone else refused to go near the man, with his rotting flesh, his septic skin, this living human being who smelled like death.

A man cooking nshima; the open fire is very
dangerous for people with epilepsy

He was epileptic, she knew that right away, because so many people with epilepsy walked in with burns like this, with limbs that had caught on fire, and stayed in the flames during the seizure. Like so many others, he was cooking his food, over the open flames, when the dancing lights of the fire set off another fit, and he had no control as his arm began to cook, instead of his meal. 

The difference with this man was that he did not seek treatment right away. In fact, it had been weeks, and the burns had melted away his flesh, the dirt had infected his body, and the wounds were now septic. He was alive, but that flesh was dead, and he smelled like a rotting body. He was covered with dirt everywhere; he lived alone in a compound.

My language partner was the only nurse at the clinic who would tend to him; she washed his body, she cleaned his wound, she wrapped the rotting flesh in clean, white cloth. And then she spoke to him, encouraging him to go to the hospital, telling him that there was hope for his arm. He just needed to trust her. And as he waited for transport to the hospital, she offered him her drink, brought from home. He sat, and he sipped, and he waited. And finally, he left.

Amayi Soto wondered about him, and prayed for him, for weeks. And then, a few days ago, she saw him on the street. He walked up to her and smiled, showing her a clean, healed arm. At the hospital, he received a skin graft, and despite the presence of a few scars, his arm was whole again. 

Amayi Soto did not just care for the man medically; she gave him her own drink, she spoke to him with kindness, she offered him hope. And when no one else would touch him, she did. She reached out her hand, and she helped to make him well.

Sometimes, I wonder how it is that I have the blessing of knowing her, how it is that God brought us together, every week, to study Chichewa and talk about our lives, our faith, our families. But I am so grateful for this women, who inspires me with her faithfulness, with her love, with her compassion. Even though she has lived with poverty, pain, and disease her whole life, she has never given into complacency. Instead, she keeps on reaching out, she keeps on touching the untouchable, and she keeps on living as Christ’s hands and feet in this world.

I am so grateful to know her and to learn from her, a bit about Chichewa, and a lot about love. 

Johnny's Three Mommies

Four years ago, in Ethiopia, when Johnny became our child

"Rushing river of days,
Cradle every parent's child in
your waters.
We launch our babes in fragile baskets,
Moses multiplied by millions,
released from muddy shores.
We squint to see around your bends
As our hearts are carried away.
We toss small sticks to float behind the baskets,
our prayers."
Rev. Meg Riley

"You are my sweet, sweet baby." I said a few days ago, as I squeezed Johnny and gave him a big kiss on the forehead. He looked up and me with a strange smile, and replied, "But you are not my only mom; I have three mommies." I was a bit confused by the three mommies comment, and asked for clarification. "I have you, and my Ethiopian mommy, and God," Johnny explained. "I have three mommies." I nodded and gave him one more kiss. "That is true. And we all love you very, very much."

Johnny and Mommy today!

Sunday was Mother's Day, and I thought of Johnny's comment quite often. His birth mother, an Ethiopian woman, spent a year loving her little boy, until she was too sick to care for him any longer. She brought him to a hospital, where she knew he would be safe, and she returned to her village, certain that she would not live much longer. I desperately want her to know how lovely Johnny is, how funny and generous and full of life! I want to thank her for loving him so much during his first year, because he radiates love, because the love that she gave him will always be a part of who he is. I want her to see Johnny's eyes light up beneath those beautiful long lashes and feel the way that he runs and takes a flying leap into my arms. But mostly, I want a world where all mothers can hold onto their babies, and watch them grow into the amazing, spectacular human beings that they were created to be. On Mother's Day, I couldn't help but cry for Johnny's first mom, and that is why I so desperately need the reminder that Johnny offered to me. God is our mother, too.

Johnny's third mother, our mothering God, holds us tight when we cry, wipes away our tears, offers us hope, and strength, and comfort. For all the mothers who have to say good-bye, our mothering God is right there, crying with them. And as I contemplated our mothering God, it brought to mind another one of my favorite poems. I will leave you with it, today, in thanksgiving for Johnny's two other mothers, and in faith that Johnny's Ethiopian mother is with Johnny's divine mother, and together they are watching Johnny with joy and love, just as I do, every day.

"Bread-baking, kitchen-dwelling, breast-feeding God,
We return to your lap and to your table
because we are hungry and thirsty.
Fill us again
with the bread that satisfies,
with milk that nourishes.
Drench parched throats with wet wonder;
feed us ‘til we want no more.
We come to your lap and to your table
and rediscover your romance with the world.
As you nourish us with the bread of life and the milk of your
word,
let your Spirit hang an apron around our necks.
Fashioned and patterned like that worn
by our Lord-become-friend, Jesus.
Instruct us here in the halls of your kitchen-kingdom,
with the recipes of mercy and forgiveness,
of compassion and redemption.
Leaven our lives
‘til they rise in praise:
Offered, blessed and broken
for the healing of the nations."
Rev. Ken Sehested

The Boys Who Kick Frankie

Here are the things that are true about my oldest son: He wears leg braces, every day, to school, due to toe walking and scoliosis. His two best friends are girls and his favorite color is pink. He is on the Chess Team, and is remarkably excited about getting a book on ways to check mate opponents. He is incredibly polite, so polite that he will say “thank you” to adults for saying “thank you” to him. He has been a vegetarian since he was born, and he adamantly refuses to eat meat, while trying hard not to judge meat-eaters. And finally, he is his teacher’s pet. (She has told me that she has two favorites in her class, and Frankie is one of them.)

He is a remarkably good kid. I often feel so shocked that he is mine, that somehow we must be doing something right to have a child as kind, sweet, and loving as he is. (I feel that way about both my kids, but this post happens to be about Frankie...) Frankie hates to see anything get hurt, and awhile back, at recess, he defended a colony of ants from getting stomped on by a couple of boys. But, that is when the trouble began.

For the past couple of weeks, a group of three boys has been chasing, kicking, hitting, trapping, and harassing Frankie every day at break. They have been doing the same thing to his two friends, and even trapped Frankie in the boys’ bathroom. Frankie came home with a scratched up arm from being caught and thrown down, and a week ago, he had a nightmare. After he woke up terrified, he told me that one of the boys from school was trying to kill him in his dreams.

We are addressing the situation with his teachers and other parents, and I feel assured that things will get better. In fact, the past two days have been good. But this is not the first time this has happened to Frankie. It is not even the second. It is the third.

In pre-school, he was pushed, trapped, and hit by two older boys, and came home from school with a black eye, after a kid hit him in the face with a stick. Two years later, at a different school, he would hide from a group of kids every day at recess. But, the kids still got to him, and one day, he came home with a black eye, after a boy pushed him down and kicked him in the face. He was five. And so now, at age seven, it feels like an old drill. Kids are picking on Frankie. He is getting hit, kicked, pushed. Time to do something. Again.

There are six kids involved in this current situation, and between the six of them, there are six different countries represented. Because our kids go to an international school, the kids who are fighting come from different cultures and represent three continents. So, why is it the same here as it was in East Lansing? Why does Frankie get picked on wherever we go?

We are pacifists, and Frankie does not hit back. He does not kick back. He does not fight. But it is hard, so hard, to trust God in this situation, to trust God with Frankie’s life. How do we protect him, cherish the unique, peaceful, artistic, polite, sensitive kid that he is, knowing that others will not cherish that in him? 

We work for peace with justice, for hope and health for all people, but we also want it for our kids. We want them to know that they are cherished, beloved, sacred children of God. And I don’t want anyone, ever, to make Frankie feel any less worthy of kindness, grace, and love.

So, please pray for us, that Frankie will know that he is beloved and cherished, and pray for the other children, too, that they might all walk in the ways of peace and love. And please pray for wisdom for us, as well, that we might guide Frankie through this in the best way possible. Thanks so much!

Walking Humbly

It took a good long while to get there. In a car. But he walks it every day. I was sure it would be a quick trip, and I had appeased Johnny with this assurance. Half way there, Johnny whispered, “You were wrong, Mom. He lives far away.”

By the time we got close to his house, we had to get out off the car, leaving it on the side of a rocky dirt path, and walk the rest of the way. No car could make it to his home. We climbed up rocks, and I held onto Joel, so as not to fall. We crossed a rickety bridge, just two logs going across the river, held together with a few planks. Under us, people washed dishes, clothing, and children in the water. Frankie and Johnny walked ahead of us, fearless. I held Joel again.

After the bridge, and a few more hills, we ended up at his house. Elias’s house. Our gardener. Who walks to our campus almost every day.

As we got closer and closer, debris filled the land, and chickens peeked out from underneath the trash. Fires burned on piles of charcoal in the dirt, and women walked with baskets on their heads, eyeing us with curiosity, as the bravest of the children called out greetings. 

We entered a small room that served as dinning room, bedroom, and living room. There were a few chairs and a bamboo mat on the floor. Off to the side, a small pantry completed the house. Elias’ ten month old son saw his dad and practically flew into his lap, small arms wrapped tightly around the smiling father. The three year old clung to his mother and started to whimper when I greeted him in Chichewa. Their mother, Amayi Phiri, shook our hands, offered us seats, and then sat on the mat with her oldest son.

Our conversation quickly turned to money. It turns out that we were invited into his home so that we could see all the need, so that we would give more money to the family. “Mwana wanga sagona bwino.” Elias said. My child does not sleep well. “Timagona pamodzi pa mpasa.” We all sleep together on the mat. I looked at the bamboo mat on the floor, which served as the family bed.

Elias spends a lot of time at our house; he has eaten at our dining room table, tossed Johnny into the air, taught our kids how to prune roses, and fixed Frankie’s bike when the chain broke. He is an incredibly hard worker; our garden is beautiful, overflowing with vegetables, and our yard is full of colorful flowers. Without him, we would just have dirt and dying plants.

But Elias has seen our bedrooms, our mattresses set atop wooden frames, our comfortable blankets, our fluffy pillows, our extra beds for guests. And he wanted me to see how his family sleeps. He wanted to me to know that no matter how often he holds Johhny’s hand or ruffles Frankie’s hair, or laughs with me when I say something ridiculous in Chichewa, his life is exponentially different than mine. He struggles to feed his children, he does not have money for medicine, and his boys sleep with him on the hard floor.

It is true that we paid for the clinic visit for his son and the medicine for his wife; it is true that we sent him to the doctor with funds and days off. It is true that we send him home with extra food, feed him two meals a day, and pay him 30% more than the average daily rate. But Elias’s family needs more. And he is not afraid to ask. This visit to his home was his way of asking, again, that we support him, so he can support his family.

Joel and I have discussed our plans and our responsibility to pay Elias a fair, living wage, to make sure that he gets the health care that he needs, to not accept what is status quo as that which is just. But there are so many gray areas, and it is hard to live with the incredible disparity that cannot be ignored. When we lived in the US, it was easier to pretend that our lives were “normal.” But here, we know better. Our lives were, and are, lives of extreme privilege.

I am glad we went to Elias’ house, and I am so glad that we have the honor of knowing him. But I know that it will be a constant struggle for me, and for many of my colleagues, to figure out how best to do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. 

Perhaps the humility part really is what resonates right now; I so desperately want to change the world, to fix all the problems, to create equality, to end these awful disparities, and I cannot. All I can do is trust God, do my best, and be humble enough to believe that I, alone, simply cannot do all that I want to do. But when we work together, with God, I can trust that there is justice, there is life, there is hope. And it is a gift to be a small, confused, imperfect part of it...So, I guess, we just try to walk together.

In Memory of Mayden Mbewe

A little over six months ago, when we first came to Zambia, I went on a walk with five women. Over the past six months, these women have become friends and inspirations, people that I have grown to love, respect, and admire deeply. Amayi Phiri, Amayi Banda, Amayi Kahlua, Amayi Mbewe, and Amayi Mvula walked with me into the homes of people who were very sick, and sang with them, and prayed with them, and brought them food. These are not women who have a lot of resources; they, too, live in the compounds. They, too, have struggled with gripping poverty that has made 4 of the 5 of them widows, and most of them have lost at least one child.

Amayi Mbewe was a relatively quiet woman, but she loved to sing and dance. In fact, I remember attempting to have a conversation that kept getting interrupted by her breaking out in song.  She considered herself a "soldier" and even though her leg was very painful, she would walk for hours with us, going to visit others who were in even more pain than she was. Her very small house was decorated with a huge picture of Jesus, and she was very patient in speaking Chichewa with me, although my broken use of the language always caused her to double over in laughter. Making her laugh made me very happy.

When we visited her home, I met two of her grandchildren, double orphans who had only their grandmother left in the world. Mother, father, and grandfather had all died, and Amayi Mbewe was committed to keeping her granddaughters in school. She was fierce, in many ways, having lost so many people, but refusing to give up her hope, her faith, her generosity.

While I was in South Africa, Amayi Mbewe died. Some blood vessels in her brain ruptured and by the time she got to the hospital, her earthly life was over. That day, she had been at the church, meeting with the Women's Guild, faithful and loving, as usual. But that evening, her body gave out on her, and she returned into the arms of her loving God.

Amayi Mbewe's grandchildren have now lost their parents, their grandparents, every caregiver they have known. And I know that the church will surround them with love; I know that they will not be totally alone; I know that God is going to be with them, through this loss and pain. But I am sad, and they are sad, and the church is sad, for a wonderful, caring woman is no longer here, on earth, with us.

So, please pray for Amayi Mbewe, for her grandchildren, for her church, and for her work, that the flames of love that she kindled will continue to shine in this world, that her life might continue to be a testament to the powerful, generous, amazing love of God.

Why we added a donation button...

One of the most beautiful memories of my career occurred while I was pastor at Edgewood United Church, UCC, in East Lansing, Michigan. Edgewood is full of remarkable people, who inspired me throughout my five years there, and continue to inspire me today. And so, when we learned that the heating system in the church had to be overhauled, I tried not to give into fear. But when it turned out that the bill would be around $400,000, I had a hard time controlling my worry.

We spoke of many different options, prayed together, and tried to trust in God’s provision, but my anxiety continued to grow. And then, one day, I received a phone call from a congregant, requesting a meeting later that day. I agreed and was shocked by what I heard when we sat down together. “We will give $200,000 to the church as a matching grant. We think the congregation can come up with the other $200,000.” And in response to this generosity, the church did raise the needed money over the next three months. It was an amazing outpouring of gifts, of goodness, of hope, of faith. The congregation reflected God’s love in one of the most powerful ways I have witnessed, by giving, and giving, and giving some more, so that the church could serve as a warm place, inviting all into the love of God.

The faithfulness of the God who provides, the generosity of God’s people who respond, and the unquenchable joy that comes when we give our gifts could never have been more obvious to me than it was that summer.

Another beautiful moment happened recently, in a church in Lusaka, located in one of the compounds. The congregation was getting ready for the offering, and the groups were divided into women, men, and youth (18-35 year olds). As the offering took place, the youth sang and danced up to the baskets, songs of praise pouring from their lips as they swayed forward, clapping and beaming. At the end, the money was counted, and the youth were only a little bit behind the women. Again, the young people rose, with songs on their lips, smiles on their mouths, and money in their hands, ready to give more, and more, and more, laughing as they tied the women in generosity.

The people in that congregation did not have a lot of money; many of the people in the compounds in Lusaka struggle to have enough to feed and shelter their families. But, I have seen women take out 20 kwatcha, and donate it to care for HIV orphans. I have seen youth pull out 50 kwatcha, and donate it to build their church. I have seen men offer what they have, to keep a young girl in school. The generosity of the people here in Zambia reminds me again and again: it is a blessing to give money - it is an act of joy and praise and faith in God.

And so, we are adding a donate button, because we really believe that giving is an opportunity. We ask you to prayerfully consider donating to our ministry, with a regular monthly gift, or a one-time gift, if that is what you can do right now. We want to invite you to be a part of something special and wonderful with us, to be partners with us in this ministry. It helps us enormously when you give, but we think it will also bless you. Because joy comes when we offer what we have, and watch God use it, in order to transform our world!

If you can't give, then please pray for us, and tell us that you are praying. Because your gifts, your words, your friendship means so much to us. And we thank you deeply for offering what you have to the ministry that is ours, together, through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Treading Water

Shortly after arriving at the conference a week ago, we learned that our 15 year old neighbor had almost drowned. While swimming at the beach, a riptide pulled him out into the Indian Ocean. We were in Capetown, South Africa, along with colleagues from Zambia, and from all over Africa. This particular neighbor, a very sweet kid who lives near us in Lusaka, arrived with his family a few days early. They went swimming at the beach, and were unaccustomed to the currents that flow in South African waters.

As Adam moved further and further away from shore, it became apparent to everyone on the beach that he had been caught in an undercurrent. His mother tried to get to him, but the people on the beach stopped her. “There is no way to bring him back,” they said. “You have to wait for the rescue team.” They called emergency services, and Adam continued to recede into the ocean. On the beach, everyone started to pray, and some called their prayer chains, to lift up prayers all over South Africa. They prayed for angels to hold him up when he grew weak, that he could stay afloat until the rescue services arrived.

His distraught mother tried again to go to her son, but again was told not to go. Finally, she grabbed two life jackets and swam into the very cold water. She could not handle the thought of her son, alone, struggling to stay alive in the frigid waves of the Indian Ocean. As she swam towards him, waves rose so high that she kept losing sight of her child. But she kept on going, kept on swimming, and finally, she reached him. And there, next to her son, was another man, who was calmly treading water at Adam’s side. For when this man saw what had happened to Adam, he decided to jump in, to swim out, and to simply tread water with the boy.

Together, the three of them stayed afloat, until a boat arrived to bring them to the shore. Adam was taken to the hospital, treated for shock and hypothermia, and came back, safe and healthy, to our conference center that night.

I sat with his mother while she cried and shared her story, and one thing that she said will never leave me. “They were right,” she stated. “We could never have pulled him in from that current. When they told me not to go, when they told me that I couldn’t save him, they were right. And they all stayed on the shore praying. And I really appreciated their prayers.” She paused. “But, there was one man who dove in, and even though he knew that he could not resuce Adam, he knew that he could tread water with him, that he could stay near him, and keep him company, and help him stay afloat.”

She breathed deeply and continued, “I think of all the times I do that. All the times I say that there is nothing I can do to save someone, that there is nothing I can do to change things, and so all I do is pray. But that man, he knew the one thing he could do. He dove in, and he swam out, and he treaded water with my son. He stayed at his side, and kept him company, and gave him strength, and that was enough. I need to dive in more,” she said. “I need to tread water with people, even if I cannot save them. I need to find the one thing that I can do.”

I am so grateful that our friend is alive, so grateful for that complete stranger who treaded water at his side, and so grateful for the wisdom of his mother, who offered me those words that will never leave me. “It is enough to tread water with someone.”

Here, in Zambia, I know that we cannot save everyone. People will die of preventable, treatable diseases. People will be hungry and people will be abused. Children will lose their parents and parents will lose their children. And I will witness poverty that is too difficult to see, much less live. But, I hope that I am here to tread water with the Zambian people. To be with them, to encourage them, to lift them up, even a little, as they also lift me up. And as we float in the water, as we feel the chill of the sea, as we battle the swelling waves, we can pray together, we can hope together, we can trust together, that God is coming, that love will win, that life is stronger than death.

For we are an Easter people, and together we will tread water and wait, knowing that love wins, that life wins, that hope is our heritage. Thanks be to God.