Auntie, I want up!

This is Isaac. Isaac is adorable. Just plain straight up crazy cute. And he spends a lot of time at our house.

Yesterday, I was working from home, and there were nine kids in the house, a pretty normal afternoon. The older boys were painting at the dining room table, some other kids were coloring, and others were playing foosball. (Yes, we have a foosball table in our home. It is a loan from neighbors who are now in the US....)

Sitting at my desk, trying to write curriculum, I could hear the noise of the ball flying across the wooden stadium, children arguing over crayons, and the older kids, occasionally showing one another their creations. From time to time, one of the young artists would bring in a masterpiece for me to admire.

Just as I was working on a story application for Jesus' healing of the 10 lepers, Isaac walks in. I am ready for him to ask for an apple, to ask for more crayons, to ask me to make the other boys share the foosball table. "What do you want, Isaac?" I asked him, as he is one who is usually full of demands. Really, he is so crazy adorable, he can get away with this. He looked up at me with his enormous eyes and replied, "Auntie, I want up." I needed clarification on this. Not a banana? Not a toy? Not a glass of water? "What do you want, Isaac?"

"Up, Auntie. I want up." Well, okay then. I lifted him onto my lap, and he became an octopus, arms tight around my back, legs around my waist. "You just want up, Isaac? I am just going to be working here." He nodded and said, "Yes. I just want up."

And so, I turned to the computer and commenced with the rather challenging task of writing curriculum while embracing a three year old child, who was clinging to me like a life raft. His brother came in, trying to pry him away with a few toys, but Isaac would not budge. He just wanted up. He just wanted to be held. He just wanted to rest in someone else's arms for awhile.

I didn't get a lot of writing done, but in holding little Isaac, I realized how much I am like him. None of the toys or crayons or foosball tables or paints or apples or bananas in the world can really satisfy me. I can keep gathering things together, and try to build up a life that makes me feel safe. I can have a healthy savings account, a good safety net, a reliable car. But mostly, I just want up. I just want to be held. I just want to rest in someone else's arms for awhile.

And the arms that have always held me are those amazing arms of love that never fail. The one who will lift me up is the One who is always there, no matter what, no matter how I fail. When I just need to be held, I know that God is there to hold me. And when I say, "Auntie, I want up!" God is waiting with open arms.

Love is what we need. Open arms, open hearts, open lives. Open to the power and strength and gentleness of God. Open to loving one another.

Isaac was not satisfied with any of the things in the house. What he needed was love, arms wrapped around him, the promise that he is not alone. I know that I have never been truly satisfied by any of the things in the world, either. What I need is love, arms wrapped around me, the promise that I am never alone. And I am so grateful to follow a God who offers this time and time again. No matter what, no matter where, no matter who, when we say, "Auntie, I want up!" God is ready with open arms.

Overflowing

Over 800 women. Coming from Zimbabwe, Malawi, and all over Zambia. Sitting on the hard, concrete floor all day long. Singing and dancing all day long. Praising and preaching all day long. For five days. The building was overflowing. The Spirit was overflowing.

The theme of the conference was Women in Ministry and Leadership. The guest of honor, Rev. Suzzane Matale, spoke of women’s equality, education, and empowerment. Her passion, her eloquence, her energy was incredible. She offered a message of liberation, which was linked intrinsically to Biblical literacy. The freedom, the hope, the justice, the equality that she preached came straight from her reading of the scriptures. God wants you to know that you are beautiful, she said. You can do anything. Anything at all. The women were on their feet, cheering, laughing, clapping. Overflowing.

At the end of the talk, she had us all look into the eyes of another person and say, “I love you. I need you. I care.” Looking into the eyes of a beloved colleague, I knew how very true these words were. “I love you. I need you. I care.” The love. Overflowing.

I was also blessed to be one of the speakers, with my talk translated into three different languages. It was overwhelming to look out and see all these women, all this joy, all this love, all this power. My gratitude. Overflowing.

My talk focused on how we can overflow with the presence of God, when we open ourselves to the Holy Spirit, take care of our own needs, and live in love with one another. I spoke of strong Biblical women and Jesus’ message of liberation, freedom, and justice. I filled a pitcher full of water, and just kept on pouring until it overflowed. The living water, I said. It is for us and it can fill us, until it just spills out all over the place...Living water. Overflowing.

All week long, God was spilling out all over that place. Overflowing. My friends, my colleagues, so many women, filled with the Holy Spirit. Overflowing. What a blessing to sit among these faithful women of God; to be drenched. Let it flow, my friends. Let it flow.

I Will Dance With You

In the circle of pastors, I was the only white person in the room. Mostly men, a few women, leaders of the denomination. And I have to admit it, there were a few times that I wanted to leave, a few times that some words about gender made me squirm, a few times that I wasn’t sure how to respond, a few times that I was just so sure that I didn’t belong, so sure that I had gotten in too deep.

It was a real conversation, about women and power, about family and leadership, about children and parenthood. And one of my beloved colleagues, a friend who I deeply admire, spoke up, “I think it is that Western culture has come here too quickly. We don’t know what to do.” I stopped squirming and I started to listen. Real concerns about gender, real concerns about power, real concerns about how the church can embrace gender equality and still maintain its Zambian identity, still uphold the value of the family as they know it. I stopped squirming and started listening. And this is what I heard...

A man I do not know all that well, a Zambian colleague in his fifties, spoke up, “I have children who are teenagers. They are the children of a pastor, and I wanted them to act like it. I wanted them to show that they are my children, the pastor’s children. I wanted them to make me proud.” He paused and shook his head. “They knew that I did not like secular music, and when I was in the home, they would only play Christian songs. But one day,” he said, “one day, I came home early. The children scrambled to turn off the music, but it was too late. I walked in and found all four of my children laughing and dancing to secular music. They apologized right away and looked at me with fear. They were so afraid they would get into trouble.”
 
He smiled ruefully. “I asked, and I found out that they were doing this often, when I was not home. They were dancing without me. And so, I told them to turn the music back on. They didn’t do it at first, but I requested it again. ‘Turn the music back on.’ And then I said, ‘I will dance with you.’ And we all danced together, and we all laughed together, and it was fun. It was good. It was beautiful.” He paused again. “They need to be who they are. I cannot tell them who to be. But I can dance with them, and trust that God will be with them in their future. God is in charge of their future, God is in charge of who they will be. I am not in charge of that, so I can dance with them and they can choose the music.”

I loved that image, this 50 year old, staid Zambian pastor, dancing with teenagers to secular music, in his parsonage home. When I told him later how much I loved his story, he said to me, “It took me time to learn. I wish it had not taken me so long to learn that I needed to let them be themselves. But now I know. They need to be who they are.”

If only we could do that in ministry, in our churches, in our families, in our lives. If we could let people be who they are, and love them where they are. If we could just say, “I will dance with you,” instead of criticizing the dance music, or asking that the volume be adjusted. We can do our own dance moves, but can’t we dance together? Can’t we be who we are and give other people the same courtesy?

It made me think about about the challenging discussions on gender. I will be who I am, a woman in ministry, with a husband who is usually home with the children. And they will accept me, and love me, and try to understand why it is that Joel almost always cooks dinner. They will dance with me; will I dance with them?

These uncomfortable conversations are one way that we dance together. When we tell the truth about who we are, what we think, where our challenges lie, and then we listen to the other people talk about who they are, what they think, where their challenges lie. This is how we dance together. This is how we let people be who they are. And when we do this, we all move forward, when we do this, we all get a bigger, better, more wonderful glimpse of God.

I am grateful for the challenges of working here, for the ways that it draws me out of my comfort zone, for the conversations that make me uncomfortable. Because these new dance moves come in handy. These new partners introduce new rhythms. And I love to dance, oh how I love to dance...

So, thank you, Rev. Kalinga, for dancing with your children, for letting them be who they are, and for letting me be me. May we all learn from you. May we all join the difficult, interesting, life-giving, challenging, beautiful, squirmy, messy dance. May we choose some different dance partners, choose some different songs, and see where the music takes us.

A Housefull of Sick Men

Right now, all three of the males in our household are lying down, and it is 3pm on a Wednesday. In the past four days, all of them have had fevers, ranging from 101 degrees to 103 degrees, and they are all coughing like crazy. The other fun stuff, I will not describe. Needless to say, Joel, Frankie, and Johnny have had a miserable few days.

So far, I have been able to stay healthy and keep track of all the medications. Johnny is on 6 meds right now - some are to be taken twice a day, some three times a day, and one is taken once a day. Frankie is on 3 meds - all to be taken 3 times a day. Fortunately, Joel can keep track of his own pills! It seems the medication is helping; Johnny's fever is finally gone, and he was the first to bring this lovely bug into our house. So, I have every expectation that over the next few days, Frankie and Joel will follow suit.

Our house has never, ever been this quiet, with all of us home. Other than the coughing, the boys are wiped out, and it is odd to have so much silence. I keep praying for their health, praying for God's presence, and praying for people who don't have access to the medicine and the doctors that help us when we are unwell. Having a sick family makes me feel so powerless, but it is a powerful reminder of all the safety nets in our lives.

Since Sunday, we have had 6 people visit our house, to come and pray for Joel and the kids. They simply show up at the door, stay for less than twenty minutes, offer a prayer and words of encouragement, and then leave. This is typical of Zambian compassion, and it is such a powerful way of showing God's love. There is no expectation that I will host them, there is no expectation that the house will be pristine. They just show up, show love, pray, and leave. Our friend Justin has visited our home twice since Sunday; he has lost three of his five children. His two remaining daughters are friends with our boys. When Justin prays for my children, I can't stop thinking of the ones that he has lost.

We have also had many phone calls and messages from Zambian friends, checking on the family, and reminding us of their prayers. In a country where so many people get sick, where children often fall ill and then die, I am overwhelmed by the consistent compassion and concern we receive. Our friend Elizabeth came to pray for Johnny while she was on her way to a funeral. A 30 year old man, the father of two young children, had just died. He was on a waiting list for surgery, and the surgery did not come soon enough. His young widow will now raise the children on her own.

The sickness in our family will pass. It is a pain to remember all the medicines. It is sad to see the boys in pain. It is frustrating when their fevers rise again. But we have every reason to believe that our health will be fine, that the medicine will work, that our doctors know what they are doing. And so, in this quiet time of sick, sleeping boys, I pray for those who have to say good-bye, for those who are desperate for medicine, for those who are terrified that someone they love will not make it. I pray for a world were health care is available to all people, where medicine is a right, where diarrhea and asthma and malaria do not kill anyone. I pray for Justin's children, and Elizabeth's friend, and Nathan's aunt, and Lecton's daughter, and so many, so many people.

But soon, I will get back up, and distribute medicine to my loved ones, and thank God for what we have; I will hug my children and live in hope. Because that is what my Zambian friends do. That is what we all can do. Live in hope, live in love, live in compassion, live in generosity, live in faith.

I know that you can't come into my living room today, knock on our door and walk on in to offer a prayer. But, I do invite you to pray with us anyway, not just for the healing of my family, but for a world where all people have access to the drugs, the care, the doctors they need. So let us pray together...

I Know Where I Am

Yesterday, I was so scared that I started crying. While I was driving. Which is what was scaring me. And so, the tears just compounded the fear, which compounded the tears. Grip the steering wheel, wipe your eyes, and STOP crying, Kari. It is going to be okay. Breathe.

Those who know me very well know that I hate driving. In my first year of having a driver's license, I averaged one accident every two months, which includes hitting gas pumps, rear ending a police officer, and driving down a Lake Michigan boardwalk (I thought it was a parking lot, until people started jumping out of the way...) Even after I was married, I could not keep a side mirror on my car, as I kept hitting things and breaking them off. Joel joked that he needed to order car mirrors in bulk, but really, it was not so much a joke. My in-laws still have a tree that bears the marks of the numerous times that I rammed into it, while backing out of their driveway.

I am careful, really I am, but I have terrible depth perception and I HATE driving. On the plus side, I know I am terrible, so I always drive very, very slow, with the result that while I have injured many an inanimate object, I have never hurt a living being.

So, back to yesterday. I was driving home from my office, which is about a 40 minute drive, and it does terrify me on a regular basis. But yesterday...yesterday is almost impossible to describe. On my way home, I pass an enormous cemetery, and when there are funerals, the road fills up with trucks and mini-buses. But yesterday, there was not one, not two, but three funerals all going on at the same time. And as I was driving away from the cemetery, an enormous number of vehicles, and hundreds of people on foot, were traveling towards it. As I moved forward at a snail's pace, giant trucks and zooming mini-buses passed me, going the opposite direction, on both sides of my car. With vehicles closing me in on both sides, and hundreds of people filling the street, I kept just stopping, waiting, then moving an inch or two forward. Finally, I got completely stuck. A giant water truck was parked in the middle of the street, and had no intention of moving. Other busses and trucks flowed past it, on both sides, straight at me. And there was no way to turn around, because hundreds of people were now surrounding my car.

So I stopped. Right in the middle of the road, I simply could not move the car. People began to look at me. I rolled down my window and asked if there was any way forward. They shook their heads and gave me a look of pity. This crazy white woman - what is she doing here?

Some men approached my vehicle. One was holding a jug of shake-shake, a cheap, ubiquitous alcohol in Zambia. I looked around. I was surrounded by hundreds of people, sitting trapped in my vehicle. I knew I was safe, but I was certainly far from comfortable. As yet another mini-bus zoomed past me, rattling my car, I felt the beginning of tears leak from the sides of my eyes. Stop. Breathe. You will get out of here. One of the men tapped on my window. I rolled it down. "I will help you," he said. "You need to turn around." And so, with the help of a few of his companions, he cleared a path for me. He stopped the vehicles flying past on both sides, cleared all the people filling the street, and guided me out, moving around the car, directing me backwards and forwards and sideways, until the path was clear, until I could turn around. I waved my thanks, and drove back to my office.

When I arrived, my boss, the General Secretary of our synod, Rev. Maleka Rabson Kabandama, was just sitting down to lunch. He knew I had been leaving for home; he knew I had to get back for a meeting, and so he was baffled as to why I had returned to the office. He could tell I was shaken and frazzled, and he asked what had happened. When I explained that I was stuck, he looked at me with gentle understanding, and said, "I can get you home." I protested. He was just sitting down to eat! "No," he said. "I will eat when I get back. You can follow me."

I accepted his offer, and began to follow him through twisting backroads, over paths I had never seen, for almost a half hour. Finally, I saw a familiar church, and I knew how to get back. Rev. Kabandama pulled over to the side of the road, and I unrolled my window. "You know where you are now?" he asked. "Yes," I said, trying again not to cry in gratitude. "Now I know where I am."

And so Rev. Kabandama turned back, having taken an hour out of his very busy day and returning to a cold lunch. But he had led me forward, so that I would know where I am.

With Rev. Kabandama in my office

I know where I am now. I am in a place that sometimes scares me, because it is unfamiliar, and I don't always know what to do; this is especially true when it comes to driving. But I am also in a place that exudes grace and kindness and generosity and patience and understanding. I am in a place where a person is more important than a project, where a stranger will clear my path, where a very busy man will leave his food, to take me home. I am in a place where love lives, and I can't believe how blessed I am to live here, too.

I know where I am. I am surrounded by the love of God. That is where I am. Thanks, stranger. Thanks, Rev. K. I see God because of you.

Zero.

Her eyes clouded with tears as she told the story; it happened years ago, but the pain was still strong enough to infect those of us around her. 

“My friend, she got sick. And I asked her to get tested, but she said no. And then she got sicker, and I begged her to get tested, but she said no again. And then she got angry. ‘Do you think I am that type of a person?’ her words were bitter and harsh. ‘Do not ask me about this again. I am not that type of person.’”

“She was married, and I knew her husband was unfaithful. But she did not want anyone to think that she was that type of person. And so she refused the test that would have saved her life. She got sicker and sicker and sicker. And when it was way too late, she finally took the test. It was AIDS by then, and there was nothing anyone could do. She died in June, and I sat with her until the very end.”

“The drugs would have saved her life. Testing would have saved her life. AIDS did not kill my friend. Stigma is what caused her death.”

My Zambian colleagues nodded. For this was not one person’s story. It was story after story after story. “A woman will get beaten if she is positive. It is better not to know.” “A man will get fired if he is positive. It is better not to know.” “A child will be kicked out of school is she is positive. It is better not to know.” So many reasons to avoid testing. If you do not get tested, then no one knows for sure. Then you are safe from the stigma, even though it might cause your death.

And so one pastor stood up. “I get tested every year,” he proclaimed. “And I tell my church to do the same. If we, the leaders of the church, get tested, then other people will, as well.” Another pastor spoke out, “When someone is positive, we must provide support and care. We can form support groups in the churches, so that people will be tested.” By the end of the workshop, pastors and Presbytery leaders were making plans, creating concrete strategies to address stigma in their churches and in their communities. How many lives will be saved when these pastors address stigma? How many people will be tested and treated, when they realize that they will receive support and care? How many children will not become orphans? How many women will not become widows? How many men will live to see their grandchildren?

Shortly after I arrived in Zambia a year ago, I visited the home of Mrs. Nkoswe, an HIV positive woman, who was an active leader in her church. I went along with a group of women, and they were deeply proud of their sister in Christ. There was no shame, no judgment, no fear, only joy - joy that Mrs. Nkoswe was healthy, on medication, and able to raise her two grandchildren, while living with HIV. But not only that, they were proud of her because she was leading her community in addressing HIV. She was public about her health status, and encouraged others to be tested, to be treated, to be healthy, to be open, to be whole. Her Christian faith gave her the strength to live openly with HIV, and to encourage others to get tested and treated. And her sisters in Christ, the women of her Presbyterian church, held her up, supported her, and celebrated her. 

Our partner, the Church of Central Africa Presbyterian, Synod of Zambia, is hosting workshops, addressing stigma, creating change, so that Mrs. Nkoswe’s story is repeated over and over and over again, as more people are tested and treated, as lives are saved, as new infections decrease, as we move towards zero. 

Zero new infections. Zero AIDS related deaths. Zero stigma. With the grace of God, we can get there.

My Shower This Morning

At the airport in London with a sleeping Joel

We arrived back in Zambia yesterday, after two days of travel, and two red-eye flights. We were tired and dirty and ready for a bed and a shower. We found our beds with ease and joy, but the shower was not so easily obtained. We are in the dry season in Zambia, and water can sometimes be hard to find. And so, yesterday, we skipped showers and decided to rest instead.

But this morning, I was not going to miss a shower. There was no hot water, but there was, at least, cold water, so I got into the shower and rinsed myself despite the frigid temperature. I turned the water off, shampooed my hair, washed my body, and turned the water back on. But nothing came out. The water was gone. With shampoo in my hair and soap on my body, I found my way into the kitchen and grabbed a bucket of stored water. It was just enough to rinse off, and I finally felt clean. Cold, but clean.

What I did not realize was that this was the last bucket of stored water. Because we had been gone for a month, we had not stored enough water, and it was all gone. There was not a drop in our house. Nothing for brushing teeth, nothing for washing hands, nothing for cooking. I had used the very last of our water to rinse off the soap.

Fortunately, there is a borehole on the campus where we live, so I got ready, and grabbed an empty bucket, and left the house. On my walk to the borehole, I ran into some friends I had not seen in awhile, and also saw my boss, who happened to be visiting another colleague. We had a great conversation, and then I proceeded to the borehole. I filled my bucket, and began to walk back to our house. It was not a long walk, and the water was heavy, but I enjoyed the sunshine and greeting my friends on the way. Needless to say, by the time I arrived home, I was thoroughly warmed up from the cold shower.

At home, we purified the water, brushed our teeth, and had breakfast. It felt great to be clean and rested, to be home.

Just taking a shower, just getting water to brush our teeth, just making breakfast, can be challenging. We are out of gas for our stove, and a city-wide shortage of gas has prevented us from refilling our tank. But this morning, there was electricity, and we have a back-up hot plate, and so I was able to make french toast. It was delicious, and we even had maple syrup that we brought back with us from Michigan. A good morning.

During our month in the US, many people that I met with commented on how hard life must be for us in Zambia. There are certainly aspects of life here that are harder for us; water is a huge issue during the dry season. But, I didn't have to worry about rushing, so I wouldn't be late for work; people here understand if I am late, and there is a culture of grace that surrounds us when things go wrong. And on the walk to get water, I could stop and talk to my friends, run into my boss, enjoy the warmth of the sun, and the friendliness of my neighbors. This morning didn't feel hard; it felt blessed.

While we were in the US, I could not believe the number of people who offered their time, their money, their kindness, and their support to us. The generosity that we encountered in churches, among friends, and from family, was overwhelming and beautiful. So many of you came to worship services, presentations, and meals, to hear about our work in Zambia and to offer encouragement, kindness, money, and prayers. We were prayed for in beautiful ways, and I felt showered with the warmth of love and the power of generous lives.

Life here is good. It is beautiful and lovely and hard and meaningful. And so much about our lives here is good because of our partners in Zambia, and because of our partners in the United States. There are miracles that happen, and they happen when we travel together (if you heard me preach last month, you heard me say that a lot!) In any case, my shower this morning reminded me of a few things: I have to walk for water on occasion, many people have to walk for water multiple times a day. My walk is short, theirs is often very long. I have a way to purify the water, others do not. And later today, the water came back on, and my children we able to bathe in warm water. We are blessed - our family, and many of you in the United States. But when we share our blessings, when we walk together in the warm sun, when we stop and talk and listen, life abounds; we are refreshed and renewed as living water flows from generous hearts and shared lives.

So, thanks so, so, so, so, much to all of you in the United States who supported us over the past month (and over the past year), who offered your time, your money, your support to us. It was such a blessing to see you, and your kind words and encouragement and prayers mean more to us than I can describe. It feels nice to be clean, it feels great to be rested, and it feels amazing to witness the love of my friends in the US, as I am blessed to walk again with our friends here in Zambia.