You Have to Receive It

It 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."

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.

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.

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.

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."

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."

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.

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.

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...No! I am not worthy. You will never wash my feet. You have to receive it, I thought. You have to receive the blessing.

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.

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.

In Need of a Savior

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. 

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

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. 

A lovely former congregant made this
for me to remind me to carry joy.

Zumba in Zambia

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Sound of a Woman Graduating

It is not something I am able to replicate. Not only am I incapable of producing that high-pitched 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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

Driving Forward

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?

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.

Elias is the young man I wrote about in the post "Broken Down" 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.

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.

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.

Anne Lamott tells this story in her book, Operating Instructions:

“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."

"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."

"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.”

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.

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.

Even More Than I Love Frankie

He 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."

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.

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. 

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.

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."

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. 

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.

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. 

Letting Our Hearts Hurt

One of the hard parts about living here is that my friends move away all the time. My Zambian and Zimbabwean and Malawian friends finish their studies and leave campus; they spread throughout central Africa, ready to serve God with faithfulness and courage. My American friends finish up two to four year terms and move back to the US, or on to another assignment. The same thing happens to Frankie and Johnny; at their international school, children come and go with enormous frequency, as their parents’ terms begin and end.

In the past year, I had a rash of losing friends that hurt a lot. An American friend, who served as auntie to our children and family to me, returned to do important work in the United States. A Zimbabwean friend who was a sister and beloved cultural guide, returned to her home, to work as a nurse. A Zambian friend moved to the other side of the country. My pastor took on a new church, hours away. And a lovely Zambian colleague left Lusaka for the Copperbelt. Five good friends in a very short period of time; it left me reeling. In a different country, very, very far from family, these friends provide space to breathe and process and feel less alone.

I have made new friends, and some of my old friends remained. And yet, as I anticipate this fall, I know that three more neighbor families will move away. Two of the families have children who are dear friends to our boys; the other family sang to us in Chichewa last time we had dinner together. And now, I am getting tired. Tired of trying to form new friendships, knowing that everyone is in transition, moving from one place to another, and the effort of loving another person will most certainly result in the pain of saying good-bye.

I remember being eight, finding out that my best friend was moving to another state...I sobbed until my whole body shook, and my dad held me on his lap, and he said, “Oh, Kari. Your heart is so big it is going to break a million times.” And I remember thinking that was a good thing: a big heart. What could possibly be wrong with that? Why would it hurt so much?

In Zambia, friendships don’t just end because people move away. They also end because of death, and I look at people I love who are very sick, and I am terrified. It hurts. Over and over again, it hurts.

My Zambian friends, colleagues, neighbors, choose to love. And they have big hearts, and when they lose someone, they sob until their whole body shakes and they fall to the ground and they let loose the pain of love. They don’t give up, despite tuberculosis and HIV. They don’t give up, despite dysentery and malaria. They don’t give up, despite hunger and disease. They keep on loving. They don’t give up on people. They don’t give up on love. They let their hearts break, over and over again. A big heart. Bigger than mine, because I struggle intensely when friends leave my life, and yet they have struggled with more death and loss than I will ever face.

This month, I am in the United States, initially for work, and then for my mother’s wedding. I will hug my darling sisters, and my hilarious brother, and my beautiful mom. And I will cry. I will cry a lot. And then, I will say good-bye, and I will go back to Zambia, and I will welcome new neighbors, and start all over again. Because we just don’t give up. We choose to love. We choose to let our hearts hurt. We choose to face loss, guaranteed loss, and I am not sure why.

It is either something that God does to us, or something God does for us, and I don’t know which it is. This power to love so much that we will crumble, that we will have to say good-bye, and yet we decide to do it anyway. I think it is because God’s love remains. It always remains. It is the one thing that will not leave us. And once our heart is big enough for God’s love, it is tough enough to mend, strong enough to heal, and brave enough to love again. So, I guess it is something God does for us, after all.