Kid Update

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. 

Needless to say, we all had the "Oompa-Loompa Dupity-Doo" song in our head for an entire month.

Frankie was the one to carry in the giant chocolate bar.

He had a lot of fun!

Johnny's birthday: There was no power and no water, but he did have a birthday apple crisp topped with seven tea-light candles.

The principal and vice-principal awarding Johnny with his academic medal.

The awards were in literacy, math, and science.

Johnny's birthday party

Six happy children; much easier than the 30+ at last year's party :)

The Dandelion Has It

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 poem: 'I have lost my smile, but don't worry. The dandelion has it.'"

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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. 

And tomorrow, we will go to another friend's home, and Saturday, to yet another friend's home...Dandelions, dandelions, and more dandelions....

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. 

It is nice to have my smile back. Thanks, dandelions. Thanks, friends.

Party for a Prisoner

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. 

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?

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.

“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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.”

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.”

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.

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.

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. 

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.