My Boys

The man showed me his grocery basket; a little meat, a few vegetables, some bread. “Can you help me?” he asked. “I just need twenty kwatcha.” I looked at the food, looked at the man, and pulled out my wallet. It was about four dollars. I handed the money over and continued to pick out groceries for our family. 

Frankie was standing next to me. “Mom, what did that man want?” 

“Just some money for food,” I responded.

“Oh, can I give it to him?” 

“I already did, sweetie.”

“But, I mean, can it come from my money?”

“How much money do you have?”

“Twenty kwatcha.”

“Well, sure, but then you will have no money at all. That is what I gave the man.”

“Okay, that’s fine.”

“Are you sure? Because if the money comes from you, you can’t just have it back.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Then I will take the twenty kwatcha from your allowance.”

Two days later, we were at the boys’ school, where there is a snack shop. Johnny asked me for ten kwatcha of his own money, so that he could buy some chips. I handed it over. After Johnny walked away, I saw a bit of sadness on Frankie’s face. “I wish I had money. I want to buy a snack.”

“Sorry, honey. You know, you could ask your brother. He would probably buy you something.”

“No, that’s okay.”

We waited a few minutes, and Johnny came back carrying two bags of chips, one of them Frankie’s favorite. “Here,” he said, as he handed the bag to Frankie. “I bought these for you.”

Frankie hadn’t even asked, but Johnny decided to spend his own money to feed Frankie, just as Frankie decided to spend all of his money to feed a stranger. 

It happens with enormous frequency that I stand in awe of my children. I could easily give 20 kwatcha to that man. Four dollars is nothing to me. But for Frankie, it was everything. All his money. And somehow, Johnny just knew that his brother would love a bag of chips. And he fed him, without even being asked.

Even though I have lived here for a year and a half, I still haven’t really figured out the best approach to those who ask me for money on the street, in the store, at a restaurant. But, I guess, I just err on the side of offering something. Because I can, and because I want to be more like Frankie and Johnny. And maybe, a bit more like Jesus, too.

Yesterday's Burial

Rev. Mphepo had been sick for awhile. In his mid-fifties, the father of eight children, pastor, presbytery leader, brother, uncle, husband. He came to serve our sister congregation, just two months ago. And yesterday, with hundreds of mourners, and forty of my colleagues, we buried him in one of the compounds.

The burial was a first for me; despite many funeral visitations, I had not yet participated in the very dirty, very real, almost brutal procedure for putting someone’s body in the ground. Here, in Zambia, it is so very different than in the US. Having served as a parish minister for over a decade, I presided over countless graveside ceremonies. A lovely tent, folding chairs, green grass, and a beautiful coffin, lowered into the earth with a crank and pulley. Green astroturf to cover the hole where the body rests. And after all the mourners leave, after we return for a luncheon, that is when strangers will come to cover the coffin with dirt.

But here, the pastors get their hands dirty. Here, the mourners feel the earth. Here, the funeral clothes are clotted with mud. Here, the shoes bear witness to the red clay ground, to the reality that someone, a loved one, is being covered with soil.

The church service is not all that different: hymns and speakers, scripture and comfort. But at the end, everyone processes past the body, and the sounds are jarring and painful. The women wail, the men wail, some people fall to the ground, as their bodies shake in sobs. And through all of this, a choir sings and dances, waving their hands in the air as their melodies proclaim the promise and hope of resurrection. Loud wailing, joyous singing, human beings, falling to the floor in agony. And, then, we leave for the cemetery.

The simple coffin is loaded into the back of a truck, and once we arrive, we see dirt stretching on and on, interrupted by simple grave markers. I read the names, the dates, so many young lives, so many funerals. We walk to the large hole that family and friends dug into this earth early in the morning. It is ready and waiting for us.

Some of the pastors lower the body of Rev. Mphepo into the ground. And then we gather in a circle, forty pastors, surrounded by mourners. We grab handfuls of dirt and we throw it onto the coffin. In the name of God, of Jesus, of the Holy Spirit. But what happens next is what throws me the most. Shovels and picks appear and the pastors get to work. They shovel and pick, and sweat like crazy. They are burying their friend.

It takes a long time. The hole is deep and the work is hard. It is hot. Very, very hot. Most of the pastors are in robes, in their nicest suits, in their collars. And they are getting covered in mud and sweat. Hands dirty, robes dirty, shoes dirty. They keep on working. The hole is covered, and yet they still keep working. They create a mound of dirt, and then, with their hands, they pat the mound down, creating solid earth over their friend. I watch them, sweat pouring down my face, as they wipe away some of their sweat, some of the dirt, and stand back. It is done.

But the service continues with flowers. Every single person there is called up, to take a rose and push it into the earth, into the mound that was just created. As the children come forward, they fall to their knees. One of the daughters needs help getting up. Again, the women are wailing, the men are wailing, and the choir is still there, singing and dancing songs of resurrection hope.

More and more flowers cover the dirt, and the sounds continue. The sweat, the earth, the wailing, the flowers, the praise, the dancing. It begins to swim in front of my eyes, the pain and love, the hope and faith, the courage and strength I see.

At night, the choirs and the pastors and the pastors’ spouses and the family and the friends all sleep at the home of the deceased. They sleep on chitenges in the yard, some sleep in the house, they will sing and pray and keep watch. The next day, some will leave, and some will stay. The family will not be left alone for a couple of weeks. They will be cared for, checked on, fed, allowed to weep and wail. And then the widow, the mother of eight, will figure out what is next. She will figure out how to feed her family, where to live, how to survive.

This is a place where people get their hands dirty, where death is real, where the earth swallows up a person that you love, and you don’t get the benefit of astro-turf and a sparkling coffin. But, perhaps, that is not a benefit after all. The reality of death, the horrible gut-wrenching agony of that loss, cannot be denied in a place where pastors bury two or three people in a week. They get dirty, they shovel the earth, they allow mud on their most special clothing. And then they sing, and then they dance, and then they trust. There is something more, something more powerful than death. This they believe. Because they must, because it is so very real. Because God’s promises are breath and life to them.

As a pastor, I performed many, many funerals. Some of them were so painful that I had to struggle to lead the liturgy and keep my own tears in check. Some of the people I have buried remain with me still, as inspirations, as memories of love and strength and faithfulness. But never in my life have I experienced a funeral so real. The wailing, the dirt, the pain. I wonder what it would be like if we let ourselves do this: mourn with everything we have, and also trust with everything we have.

It seems to go hand in hand. The songs of praise and the sounds of wailing. The promise of heaven and the thudding of shovels. The power of love and the dirty shoes. The mud and the mystery. 

Death is very real here. It is expected that we will get dirty and covered in mud. It is expected that we will wail and mourn and fall down. It is expected that we will pick up shovels and get to work, the real work, of saying good-bye. But hope is very real here, too. Love is very real here, too. Mostly, things are just very real here. 

Maybe we all need to be a little more real, get a little more dirty. Can we let ourselves live in the depth of love and loss and pain and faith? Can we, too, mourn with everything we have, and love with everything we have, and trust with everything we have? Mud-stained shoes and faith-filled hearts. May it be so.

To Be Here Learning

“I am thankful to be here learning.” Her tiny voice traveled up to my ears, and I repeated her words in a booming tone, to a hundred children, gathered in a huge outdoor circle. “She is thankful to be here learning,” I proclaimed. “We thank God!” One hundred voices responded in unison.

After six months of writing, meeting with colleagues, researching, creating, editing, and using my children and neighbors as guinea pigs, I was there for the first curriculum trial. A ten hour drive from Lusaka, I brought along my curriculum draft, a children’s Bible, and nothing else. The curriculum is meant to be accessible in resource poor settings. So, I would not be using crayons and paper, puppets or play things. I would just use the curriculum we are creating, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s children’s bible, which will accompany all the lesson copies when they are distributed.

I expected 30-50 children; our congregation in Lusaka is one of the larger churches, and we generally have less than 40 kids on any given Sunday. And so I got ready, chose a lesson, prepared to teach it, and waited for Sunday to arrive. 

I walked into the building, reminding myself that this is a trial. It is meant to expose the weaknesses, so that we can improve the document, before it is approved, finalized, translated, printed, and distributed. Therefore, this should not be smooth, I reminded myself. I breathed deeply as I went through the door. There were over one hundred children gathered, ranging in age from 4-15. Not exactly what I had expected. 

A big part of my job lately has been the development of a holistic Christian Education Curriculum, to be used for children, youth, and adults. I am writing three different curricula, one for Sunday School, ages 4-9, one for Hearers, ages 10-12, one for Catechumen, ages 13-15. The ones for Hearers and Catechumen also have modifications, so they can be used for adults, as well. 

The curriculum is meant to be used in resource-poor settings, using only items that can be easily procured. All of the lessons include an application that is specifically African, lifting up people, practices, organizations, or cultural issues that relate to the Biblical theme. Finally, the lessons address challenges that students in Zambia face, from poverty to domestic violence to HIV/AIDS to hunger to gender issues. In all of these lessons, a Biblical theme is proclaimed and a holistic, relevant message offered. The curriculum will have fifty-two lessons for each of the three age groups. 

Back to the trial: the lesson on Jesus healing ten lepers, on showing gratitude. The little girl, thankful to be there, learning. One hundred kids, listening, responding, laughing, acting out the story. And towards the end, as I told them the Zambian application story, all of the children created a tight crowd, quiet, listening. It was the most attentive they were during that hour. Hearing a story of their people, and their relationship to God.

It was not all smooth, that is for sure. It was loud and chaotic and hilarious and crazy. It did involve at least one little girl in tears, and it ended with me having a very hoarse throat. But after the lesson, the teacher told me how much he wanted a curriculum, a simple children’s Bible, a bit more training. He loves to teach, he told me. But he needs a little help, he needs something to work with.

The lesson would have been a complete failure, without the teacher and his assistants. They were remarkable teachers, and the students were full of energy, because these adults emanated joy and love. They already have the church, already have the students, already have the faithfulness, already have the gifts. They just want a few resources, to help them do the work that God has called them to do. And I have the blessing and privilege of working with them to create and provide these resources. A curriculum, a children’s Bible, a training.

The children’s Bible, which will accompany all the curricula, comes from the Presbyterian Church of Okemos, in Michigan. That church decided that they wanted to help with the curriculum, and when one of my Zambian supervisors mentioned that he wanted something beautiful, illustrated, to go with the curriculum, the church stepped up. They offered to provide Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s Children of God Storybook Bible, full of beautiful illustrations from all around the world, full of the stories of God. That congregation raised money, through their Sunday School, to buy enough children’s Bibles for every congregation in CCAP Zambia.

It is such an exciting partnership! The Church of Central Africa Presbyterian, Synod of Zambia, identified Christian Education materials as a priority in its holistic ministry. I was asked to create materials, with help from my Zambian colleagues. And our partner church in the United States offered to walk with us, sending along beautiful Bibles. 

“I am thankful to be here learning,” said the little girl. And I was thankful, so thankful, to be there learning, too. As we walk together, love together, learn together.

The Pregnant Women, Part II

The pregnant women are no longer laying on a grass mat, on the dirt, surrounded by cows and chickens. I know this, because I saw the new beds and the new building and the new light in their eyes. 

The windows are no longer shattered, the nurse’s home no longer vacant, the roof no longer full of holes. I know this, because I looked through the windows, into a home, full of life and hope.

The cleaner is no longer on her own, to offer basic first aid, to administer medication from a closet, using a large book to determine what drugs to provide. I know this, because I met the nurse, the community health worker, and saw the joy in the cleaner’s eyes, no longer burdened with trying to do it all on her own.

And the pregnant women. They are no longer worried about long, long walks to the clinic, while in labor. Because a home is being built for them, to stay there in their last month, so that when the labor pains start, they are right where they need to be. 

The cleaner told me about a woman, a few months ago; she had tried to get to the clinic, but ended up delivering on the way. She was hemorrhaging, bleeding way too much, on the side of the dirt road, far from the clinic. But her fellow travelers made a stretcher with a chitenge and some sticks, and carried her to this clinic. Both she and the baby were saved. Both of them lived.

With this new home, however, the hope is that no more babies and mothers will lie bleeding in the dirt. They will find peace and welcome as they anticipate the birth of their children.

Rural Zambia has one of the worst maternal death rates in the world. But there is so much reason for hope. When I visited the clinic this time, a year after my last visit, I could not believe the change. There was so much hope, so much joy, so much progress, so much life.

The Church of Central Africa Presbyterian, Synod of Zambia, has built this clinic in faith and hope that lives will be saved. They have sustained the clinic, supported the clinic, created new structures so that it can thrive. We do this because of Jesus, the great healer, who wants health and wholeness for all of us. As I see these women, as I experience their smiles, I know that Jesus is smiling, too.

I am so grateful to work for an organization that touches people with the healing love of God. And although there is still so much work to be done, every single mother matters, every single baby matters, every single family matters.

Last year, when I wrote a blog post about my visit to the clinic, it reflected my sorrow and concern over the challenges faced by pregnant women in rural Zambia. It is true that the sorrow and concern are not gone; I still pray for them and ask you to pray, too. But seeing such amazing change in just one year helps me to believe that things are moving in the right direction. It brings me great joy to know that as women bring new life into the world, there are many who care deeply about protecting their lives, as well.

I visited the clinic a few days before Christmas; thinking about another pregnant woman, who traveled far and just needed a place to rest. Another pregnant woman, who ended up in a barn full of animals, who must have worried about delivering a child, who was also poor, also afraid. No bed for her, no space for her, and yet the child came. That child, God-with-us, the light of the world.

As the pregnant women come to the clinic, as they look for a place to rest, as they hope for a bed and a person who will help them, it brings me great joy to know that there will be room at the inn. There will be room at the clinic. There will be a safe place for them to rest and wait and prepare. And when they deliver that child, they will see and know the love of God, in this clinic, a visible sign of God’s great care and compassion.

I think of the long journey, the aching feet, the weary eyes, the extra weight of a child, and I know, at the end of that journey, there will be a bed for the pregnant women. There will be a light for the pregnant women. There will be love for the pregnant women. Because of the light, because of the love, because of the hope that was born in a barn. Because there was no room for him, he has made room for all of us, especially the poor, pregnant women. Like his mother.

The borehole serves the whole community, providing water for the village and the clinic

The kids gave Johnny the chance to pump some water into their buckets

Vaccines are stored in this solar-powered refrigerator; Amayi Nyrenda puts them in small coolers and takes them by bicycle to nearby villages in order to administer the vaccines.

This is the Oral Rehydration Therapy post; this saves the lives of children with diarrhea. 

The clinic offers medication and education for the prevention of mother to child transmission of HIV.

The outhouses that serve the clinic

The main clinic building

The house that is being built for pregnant women

Amayi Nyrenda at her home on the clinic campus

Unity

This weekend, we attended a meeting of the General Assembly of the Church of Central Africa Presbyterian. The General Assembly consists of representatives from the five synods of our denomination: Livingstonia, Blantyre, and Nkhoma (all in Malawi), Harare Synod (in Zimbabwe), and the Synod of Zambia. These five synods, from three different countries, include people from more than twenty tribal groups, at least seven different languages, and an incredible diversity of economic conditions. Different tribes, different languages, different nationalities, different economic stations, different educational levels, different perspectives on gender and faith. And yet, they are all part of one denomination.

This General Assembly was monumental, in that it was the first General Assembly in seven years. Seven years ago, the General Assembly meeting ended in conflict and anger. The different groups, different synods, different countries, different people, left in dissent and severed relationships. When the General Assembly was due to meet again, it did not happen. There was simply too much anger, too much antagonism, too much pain.

Year by year, the division continued, until some of my colleagues began to speak up. “Are we called to unity in Christ? Are we not one denomination?” They built bridges, listened to frustrations, offered compromises, and finally achieved what many thought impossible. All five synods agreed to meet, bringing together the various countries, various tribes, various languages, various socio-economic stations, various educational levels, various theologies. And this weekend, they all came together.

During the meeting, there were elections, and new leadership was chosen. The newly elected moderator offered a sermon on unity, on the joy that parents feel when their children get along. “When a father sees his son and daughter laughing together, playing together, sharing together, the father feels deep joy. When a mother sees her children loving each other, caring for each other, helping each other, the mother feels deep joy. This is how God feels when we are united; it is precious.” He continued, “But how do you feel if your children quarrel and are cruel to one another? This is how God feels when we refuse to listen to one another, when we refuse to care for one another.” 

His sermon went a step further than I was initially comfortable with, for he declared that in order to really find unity, we have to be willing to give up a part of ourselves. For me, as an American, this statement was a bit unsettling. Shouldn’t we be fully ourselves? Shouldn’t we refuse to give up who we are? Isn’t it wrong to cave in, and offer up a part of what we want, what we believe? I wondered about this, and I am still thinking it over. But the idea that I can bite my tongue sometimes, that I can work with people with whom I disagree, that I can give up a bit of my own dogmatism, in order to find unity, is a powerful and on-going challenge.

So often in America, I spent time only with people who were like me; we had similar political and theological beliefs, similar educational backgrounds, similar careers. For those who were deeply different, especially those with very different beliefs, I had love, but at a distance. I simply did not think I could be fully myself and still find unity. But, perhaps, that was the flaw all along. Maybe I don’t always need to be fully myself...

The denomination I work for, the Church of Central Africa Presbyterian, has agreed to work together in unity, despite significant differences and challenges. They have proclaimed that they are willing to give up a part of themselves, in order to move forward together. This challenges me to figure out where I am willing to give up a part of myself, in order to find unity.

I remember packing to leave for Zambia, as we were getting ready to move our family half way around the world, to a place I had never been. I was told I could only wear long skirts, and so, I piled up my jeans, my trousers, my shorts, my tank tops, any skirts that fell above the knee, and dresses that revealed my shoulders. I actually cried as I looked at the pile of clothes that I would not wear again. There was no point in packing or saving them; I would be donating them the following day. I looked at a favorite pair of jeans, at the dress that I wore to my sister’s wedding, at the comfy tank top that had lasted me through many summers, and I felt like I was giving something up. Some sort of comfort, some piece of me that was familiar, was piled up, like so much trash.

That was small, so small, and I am now well aware that I had the blessing of all those clothes to give away, as I live among many who wear ripped and stained garments by necessity. I feel a bit of shame as I remember crying over that pile of clothes that day, wondering what I was giving up, wondering if I was giving up a part of me.

Now, as I wear long skirts and walk with my Zambian sisters, as I wrap a chitenge around my waist, I feel the incredible blessing of unity across difference, the amazing gift of having friends who are different than me, who think differently than me, who believe differently than I do. I get the privilege of sharing meals, sharing lives, sharing stories, with people who choose to love me, even though I am different. Surely, it is worth wearing a skirt!

It is a challenge for me, where to bend, where to change, where to bite my lip, where to speak. But I think that for Americans, the biggest challenge is a willingness to give up a bit of ourselves, a bit of our dogmatism, a bit of our certainty, so that we can find true unity, walking together, working together, worshipping together, loving each other. For this is not only pleasing to God, as a parent who watches laughing children, but it is also pleasing to us, as our lives open, as our hearts open, as our worlds open.

Congratulations, Church of Central Africa Presbyterian, on a successful General Assembly meeting! Thank you for choosing unity and love over dissension and division. May we all follow your example.

The Longest Night, The Longest Day

I served for twelve years as a parish minister, and one of my favorite services was The Service of the Longest Night. We usually held it between December 20th and December 23rd, marking the Winter Solstice, when the day is short and the night is long. It was a service to acknowledge the pain that can accompany the holidays, and to lift up the hope of God's light, shining in the darkness. The service involved candle lighting and readings, songs and silence, and usually ended with hugs and tears. For those who are mourning or alone or just rudderless, The Service of the Longest Night was a reminder that God's light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it.

Here, in Zambia, we are in the middle of summer. It is really, really hot, and we are approaching the longest day, instead of the longest night. And yet, for some reason, I keep returning to that service, to that chapel, to the little tea lights glowing across the altar, representing both hope and pain, loss and gratitude, sorrow and strength.

Sometimes, the longest night happens when there is gray slush everywhere, and the chill is so strong your back aches. But sometimes it happens when the sun is brutal and you have to carry the water, carry the charcoal, carry the babies, carry the burden of wondering where the food will come from today, and tomorrow, and you just won't think beyond that.

In Advent, we are waiting. Waiting for hope and joy and wonder. Waiting for something spectacular: God's love made flesh. But, in the words of my friend, Rev. Alice Townley, some of us "are numb by waiting too long in the cold night."

Ann Weems, who lost her 21 year old son, writes this poem,

"In the godforsaken, obscene quicksand of life, 

there is a deafening alleluia
rising from the souls of those who weep,
and of those who weep with those who weep.
If you watch, you will see
the hand of God
putting the stars back in their skies
one by one
Yesterday's Pain
Some of us walk in Advent
tethered to our unresolved yesterdays
the pain still stabbing
the hurt still throbbing.
It's not that we don't know better;
it's just that we can't stand up anymore by ourselves.
On the way of Bethlehem, will you give us a hand?"

It helps me to remember that the story of the first Christmas is a story about life in the real world. Mary discovers she is pregnant. Joseph plans to break the engagement. She will be alone and shunned. He feels betrayed. The angel comes; but still, this is no easy time for the family. Their country is under Roman occupation and the rulers are known for cruelty. These are not ideal conditions for bringing a child into the world, especially a poor child, especially a child conceived before a marriage.

The baby comes, and in the midst of Mary and Joseph's joy over the safe birth of Jesus, a new crisis looms. King Herod orders the death of all children under two and so they have to flee as refugees to Egypt. Children are killed, women are wailing, the world is turning upside down with violence and loss and pain. Unimaginable horror. This, too, is part of the Christmas story.

But Jesus grows up, and God-with-us remains, through unspeakable acts of cruelty, and through the everyday sorrows of human life. God-with-us remains, even when the cross comes, even when the nails come, even when the mother watches her son take his last breath. God-with-us remains. Even if we are numb from waiting, even if we are sick from sorrow, even if our eyes are too puffy to open, and we just can't see that tiny flame of hope.

And so, whether you are approaching the longest night or the longest day, whether you are full of joy, or struggling with sorrow, I want to share one more poem in honor of those who trudge through Advent, putting one foot in front of the other, hoping that God-with-us will help ease the pain, praying that God-with-us will bring some peace, waiting for God-with-us to carry the burden for awhile. May it be so.

The Thing Is
to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you've held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again

Ellen Bass, Prayers for a Thousand Years

Our Thanksgiving

My plan was to ignore Thanksgiving this year; I figured that was the best I could hope for. Maybe, if I ignore it, I won’t feel this aching longing to be with my mother, my sisters, my nieces and nephews...Maybe, if I ignore it, I won’t miss the pie and the stuffing and the fudge that Joel’s grandma always makes....Maybe, if I ignore it, I won’t be frustrated that I have chosen to live half a world away from the people I love the very most.

Last Thanksgiving, we had been in Zambia for less than two months, and I remember spending a lot of that day in tears. In the kitchen, trying to cook, trying to make Thanksgiving work, while tears flowed and frustrations grew. And just as I was attempting to create some semblance of a Thanksgiving meal, the power went out. No electricity, no water, and a half cooked meal. I think that was the point that I sunk to the floor and asked Joel to just leave me alone to sob in the kitchen.

So, this year, my goal was to ignore it. I could be thankful, that was for sure. And I try to be thankful every day. There is so, so much that I am thankful for. But on this day, I figured, I could just give myself a break, and get through it. Without tears. That seemed a good goal.

And then, some American friends invited us to their house for Thanksgiving. I took a little while to respond, but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to ignore Thanksgiving anyway, so we accepted the invitation. They didn’t ask us to bring anything; we chose a few things to take along, but they cooked and created and brought us to their table. And not only was it a Thanksgiving feast, it was a vegetarian Thanksgiving feast, and our family is vegetarian. It was delicious.

Something happened today, as we prepared food with friends in their kitchen, as our children played together, as we all joined hands and shared what we were grateful for, as we ate and laughed and shared our stories...I realized that I was having Thanksgiving. Not a tear-filled day of missing my family, not a stubborn day of ignoring my pain, but a real feeling of gratitude, for these people who were strangers to us a little more than a year ago. But even more than that, a feeling of gratitude that no matter where we are, we are never far from love.

We were far from home today, but we were not far from love. We were invited into a home, to share in that love, to share in the gratitude of the day. I was ministered to, and cared for, and fed. And that is exactly what I needed. And I am so grateful.

Lately, I have heard way too many horror stories. Really, really bad stuff about pain and suffering and violence. From Joel’s travels in South Sudan, to my colleagues’ terrifying accident, to a friend struggling to keep her son alive, I have spent days sick with sorrow. But I do believe that we are never far from love; that no matter what we are going through, whether it is simply being homesick, or having one’s heart ripped open, God’s love is present and powerful and real. In fact, this is the one and only thing that I really can depend on.

And so, today, my friends reminded me of this love, through their kindness, their invitation, their open home, and they filled me with gratitude. There is love. It is real. It is God. And I do believe that this is the foundation of everything that makes me feel grateful.