My Mom's Visit to Lusaka

Arriving in Lusaka

Yesterday, I said good-bye to my mother, as she headed towards a plane, to take her from Lusaka back to her home in Michigan. And while I was so sad to see her go, the blessing of her visit to Zambia left me feeling profoundly grateful. Not just that we got to spend a week with her, sharing the joys of living in Lusaka, but also because I was reminded, once again, of how deeply blessed I am that she is my mother.

Johnny and Grandma

While she was with us, my mom volunteered at a center for children with special needs here in Lusaka. She is a pediatric physical therapist, and in the United States, she works with kids who have a variety of diagnoses: cerebral palsy, autism, Down syndrome, spina bifida, and many other issues which create physical and developmental challenges. When I was growing up, my mother would sometimes treat children in her home office, and I was honored to become acquainted with some of her students, and witness my mother's love and care for each one of them.

One thing that I learned early on from my mother is that it is not our accomplishments that make us valuable. While I was so proud of learning to ride a bike, or reading a chapter book, or getting a perfect score on a spelling test, my mother would consistently demonstrate that her love for me had nothing to do with these things. She loved me, and she celebrated with me, but she also celebrated little Caitlyn, who would never be able to walk, much less ride a bike. She also loved Benjamin, who could not speak, much less read a chapter book. She also delighted in Jonathan, who struggled so hard to move that scooter board, and would never even take a spelling test. Caitlyn was not valuable because of what she could, or could not, do. Benjamin was not valuable because of what he could, or could not, do. Jonathan was not valuable because of what he could, or could not, do. They were all valuable, and loved, simply for being who they are, precious and sacred children of God. And my mother loved these children, and celebrated them, with a sincerity that impacted me profoundly. We are not valuable because of what we can, or cannot, do. We are valuable because we are precious, sacred children of God.

Visiting my office

And so, going with her to a center for children with special needs here in Lusaka, was an overwhelming experience. I watched my mother do stretches with a little boy whose face lit up with a brilliant smile. She did tracking exercises with an 8 year old girl who could not sit on her own. Another child, named Precious, clapped his hands and sang along as my mother led sound and movement.

As I watched my mother, and saw the children, I also watched their mothers. Each child was there with a mother or grandmother, and I know that these women do not have easy lives. They live in a compound in Lusaka, and struggle with the burden of poverty on a daily basis. But they also fight to care for their children, to advocate for these kids with the double burden of poverty and special needs. Sometimes, these women are blamed for bearing children with developmental delays, or their children are labeled the products of witchcraft. And so these moms have a profound struggle, to defend the dignity of their children, to care for their special needs, to face ridicule and blame, and to fight against poverty and hunger. But here, in this place, the women sat in a circle, with their precious children on their laps, and they sang songs with beaming smiles, as they helped their children by clapping their little hands together. During one of the songs, each child got a change to dance, and the mothers jiggled the kid's arms and legs, and everyone would laugh together, children and adults.

Oh, mommies. It is not easy to carry your heart outside your body. And it is especially hard for parents of children with special needs, and it is especially hard for parents of children with special needs living in a developing country, facing the burden of poverty and ostracism and inadequate medical care. But here is one thing that have I learned, thanks to my mommy:

The love that was visibly shining in that room cannot be taken away, and is not at all dependent, on whether a child can walk or talk or get straight As. The women in that room have joy in their lives because despite all the obstacles and challenges they face, they have chosen to love their children with reckless hope and courage. And each person in that room is of infinite, incredible, awe-inspiring value, not because of what they have accomplished, but because God made them exquisite, beautiful human beings. And so are we. Beautiful not because of what we can, or cannot, do, but because of who we are. A radiant, brilliant light of love, God glowing inside each of us.

Visiting CCAP Mtendere Community School

I miss my mom, but I get to keep her with me every day. Because she calls me to be my best self, and I cannot thank her enough for all that she taught me from the minute I was born. It feels pretty awesome to have someone love me for who I am, and not for what I can do. So, thanks Mom. I love you. And please, please, please, come back again soon!

2 bikes, 30 kids, 3 check points

There are about thirty children who live on the campus where we reside. And there are two bikes. And those two bikes belong to my two children.

What this means is that there is a track, worn down through the grass, creating a circle around our house. And on that track, children of all ages and sizes take turns riding Frankie and Johnny's bikes in circles. Yes, a 13 year old rides Johnny's 5 year-old sized bike, knees pointing out at very awkward angles, because that is the only bike the kid will get the chance to ride. And yes, the 2 year old sits perched on the bike seat, while older kids hold her on, because she can't stand to be left out of the fun.

But my favorite part is what the kids do who are waiting for their turn with the bikes. Frankie, Johnny, and their friends have created a game called "license." In the game, as two children zoom around on the bikes, the remaining kids create check points, to stop the bicyclists and demand their "papers." The children on the bikes must produce their license (a leaf off one of our trees), and the "police" decide if it is real or fake. If it is fake, the leaf is ripped up, and the child speeds away on the bike, a fugitive. If it is real, the leaf is returned, and the child speeds away on the bike...All of the outcomes involve children zooming on bikes, but they also allow for ripping up leaves and shouting at speeding fugitives, so everyone is happy.

I love the creativity that I witness in the children here: They transform the inconvenience of a police check point into a rousing game of "license." Only 2 bikes for swarms of kids? No problem, they'll just find some leaves and create fake documents. Want to play cricket? Well, that stick will make the perfect bat, and they'll just grab a rock to use as a ball. As I write this, our kids are outside playing on a group "swing," created with a plank of wood. The children here make soccer balls out of plastic bags, and they create amazing cars and trucks (galimotos) using bent wire and plastic bottles. Joel and I watch kites fly high in the air, maneuvered by a child who transforms a thrown out plastic bag and a few sticks into this wondrous toy.

If we had that kind of creativity, I wonder what kind of transformation could happen. Can we look at a discarded plastic bag and see the beginnings of a high-flying kite? Can we look at an old soda bottle and realize that it would make the perfect wheel for a galimoto? Can we find a piece of old twine and decide to create a soccer ball? Can we look at 30 children, see only 2 bicycles, and realize that a hysterical game is about to be invented?

It is easy to give into the "not enough" mentality, especially here. There is not enough food, there is not enough education, there are not enough doctors, there are not enough clinics. But the people here do not give in. They simply do not. They look at what they do have, and they transform their world. They share the food they grow, they volunteer to teach orphans, they pool their money to arrange transport for a sick friend. They are creative, they are resourceful, and they don't give up. Right now, at Mandevu, the women are using old clothes - shirts, pants, skirts - and cutting them into squares, to sew into blankets. They will sell these blankets and use them to raise money for their many, many ministries. Yes, indeed. They look at an old, ripped dress and they see the beginnings of a beautiful quilt.

I am trying to learn from these wonderful children and these inspiring women, as even with all of my enormous privilege, I sometimes give into the "not enough" mentality. I worry that my Chichewa is not good enough, that I do not have enough to offer to my job, that I don't have enough savings, enough retirement, enough skills, enough knowledge. Can you imagine? The children can transform a plastic bag into a kite; the women can transform a dirty shirt into a blanket; and I cannot trust that I have enough?

The creativity, the trust, the faith here is amazing. And I hope it can inspire all of us to remember that we have enough, we are enough, and we can offer what we have. For when we look at the world with creative, hopeful, faithful eyes, we can transform garbage into galimotos, broken fabric into warm comfort, poverty and sorrow into a hope-filled future.

2 bikes, 30 kids, 3 check points, and 1 happy mother. Thank you, lovely children, for reminding me that through the grace of God, we have enough. We are enough. Amen.

My new office

As I write this, I am sitting in my new office; it is in a chicken coop, and I couldn't think of a better place to be. Our partners, the Church of Central Africa Presbyterian, Synod of Zambia, have their temporary offices in a line of chicken coops, and one of them has been remodeled to accomodate my department. The General Secretary, Deputy General Secretary, Accountant, and Administrative Assistant, all share another remodeled chicken coop, at the opposite end of mine. And in between us are chickens. Lots of chickens. Right on the other side of my door, there is clucking and squawking and strutting.

In front of my door is the community bore hole. Streams of people flow by to pour water into buckets and carry them home, often balancing one jug on their head, holding another in their hands. On my first day of work, a man stopped by and asked to buy a chicken from me. On the second day, someone approached my office to purchase manure. And every day, I greet men, women, and children, as they wait for their turn to fill a jug of water.

After seven months of working from home, it is delightful to be here. Baby kittens play near the bathroom, crops grow outside my window, and there is the noise of life all around me. But the best part is the people, of course. The laughter as women wait for water, the fearless girl who climbs on my lap, the men who play games with giggling children, the administrative assistant who comes into my office just to sit and chat. My colleagues, who speak of abuse and disease and HIV/AIDS and hunger, and then get to the work of changing the world. Wow. I keep thinking, I can't believe I am here.

This is a place where people come together; they come for water, they come for a chicken, they come for manure, they come for assistance, they come to serve. The other day, I watched as the General Secretary of our denomination got on his knees to clean the hands of his two year old granddaughter. Serving, loving, coming together. This is a place where love is.

I have come here from so far away, to do what I can to support the work of this wonderful denomination, as it seeks to follow in the ways of Jesus, loving all people, feeding the hungry, caring for the poor, witnessing to God's love. And I get to be here, where people gather together. I am so deeply grateful.

When God's people gather together, when we drink and eat and serve and farm and work together, beautiful things happen...and I can't think of many places more beautiful than my new office!

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.