The Why.

I sat in youth group today and almost started weeping with joy as something FINALLY clicked.  It’s like I was given another glimpse into God’s heart and blessed with the “why” to my 7 years of waiting.

Everywhere I turned this week, someone was talking about the pain of waiting on God.  Ironically, I was the first person, as I shared my life-verse (Philippians 1:6) and part of my testimony in church on Sunday.  It felt like I was coming full-circle as I stood and declared to my Zambia family that God is GOOD and He DOES keep His promises.  And then the Pastor shared his message for the day, which was about dealing with disappointment and how to stand strong while waiting for God to come through.  And then today I showed up for youth group, exhausted from a morning of swimming and wishing I could just take a nap, and it felt like God was whispering into my ear the whole time, “You see?  Do you get it now??”

Our deaconess, Lisa, actually forgot that she was facilitating the “open sharing” time today and hadn’t come with a topic to discuss.  She thought for a few minutes and then turned to Genesis and read the story of God’s promise to the childless Abraham.  I’m pretty I was the reason God made her turn to that story.

It seems like everyone in Zambia is waiting on something.  There are 18 year olds in grade 9 because they have to keep pausing their education as they wait on the funds to continue.  There are thousands of 20-somethings sitting at home, praying for a job to help them pay for college, but facing the catch-22 that most jobs require a college education.  There are godly women who are desperately trying not to give in to the cultural pressures of settling for the first man who offers to pay your dowry.  There are families who can’t remember the last time they ate meat or something truly substantial.  There are millions of people with AIDS, living in fear as they pray day after day for something to undo their death sentence.

And instead of asking me how I deal with the pain of waiting, Lisa asked us how we look into the eyes of a desperate mother who can’t feed her children and tell her that God SEES and He is COMING.

And this is when the floodgates burst open.

I sat there and thought of the beautiful people I greet every morning as I walk to school and I realized (again) how different our lives are.  I realized that I don’t know the pain of losing a mother or a father, or God forbid both.  I realized that I don’t know what it’s like to go to bed hungry.  I realized that I don’t know what it’s like to stay awake at night trying to figure out how to pay rent or school fees that are long overdue.  I realized that I don’t know what it’s like to sit anxiously in a doctor’s office, praying for a negative result.  But I DO know the pain of waiting.

I know all too well how Habakkuk felt when he cried, “How long, O Lord, must I call for help, but you do not listen?”  I know what it’s like to pray year after year for God to fulfill his promise to you, wondering if He’s forgotten or changed His mind.  I know why so many of David’s Psalms are filled with his tears and anger and pain, crying out for a God that He KNOWS is capable of ending his trouble, but for some reason won’t. 

And if things had gone MY way; if I had never experienced the anguish that comes in the waiting, I would NEVER be able to look any of these beautiful people in the eye and testify to God’s faithfulness.  It would just be another wall separating me from the people I’m trying to love. 

But now.

Now I can sit in youth group and hear my friends share their worries and fears and heartaches and confidently tell them that God sees.  I can assure them that my story is NOT one-of-a-kind; God does not simply love me more than anyone else on this planet.  Now I can read through the Bible with new eyes, seeing the countless stories of people who went through this same pain and ended up with a story declaring God’s goodness.  Now I can encourage everyone I meet with the truth that I WAITED on God and it was WORTH it.

To add even more chills to my chill-filled body, Pastor ended our meeting with a passage from Isaiah.  A passage that I’ve ONLY ever heard Dannah Gresh speak on.  Dannah, my beautiful “mother” who started this whole journey.

And this is what it says:

But Zion said, “The Lord has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.” 

“Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne?  Though she may forget, I will not forget you!  SEE, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands!”

Oh, how He loves us.

Marathon.

I’m a doer.  No question.  I used to take those DISC personality tests and whenever I came to the “thinker or doer” question, I would never really know the answer; I thought I was more in the middle.  But after four months in Zambia, it’s become painfully clear that I’m 100% a doer.

There are few things I like better than sitting down at the dinner table after a long day, knowing I earned the food I’m about to eat.  Or crawling into bed, my body aching, knowing that I’ll sleep for a few hours only to wake up and do it all over again in the morning.  It’s why I loved Camp Adventure and every mission’s trip I ever went on.  With weeklong camps and short-term ministries, you HAVE to cram as much as possible into those few days.  You are going strong all day, every day, and at the end, you can look back and SEE the results of your hard work.

But I’m learning that long-term ministry is totally different. 

I guess deep down I knew that; but I think I had this idea that my year in Zambia would just be a longer version of my other trips.  I was very wrong.

Moving to another country is completely different than just visiting.  There are a lot more housekeeping things to deal with, like: visas and permits and learning the language and figuring out the transportation systems and cultural differences and your body adjusting to the food/environment and simply settling in.  These things tend to take up the majority of your time the first few months you are here, and all of a sudden it’s October, the school year is almost over, and you can’t really pinpoint what you’ve accomplished since your arrival.

This can be VERY frustrating for a doer.  After 7 years of anxiously waiting to move to Zambia, I was ready to dive right in.  I knew that so many people had given time and money and prayers to get me here, and I felt like my ministry needed to be worthy of those sacrifices.  In my mind “worthy” meant seeing results ASAP.  In my last blog, I wrote a little bit about how I was antsy and directionless and feeling like I was accomplishing nothing by being here.  I would go to the schools, see how our teachers run those places like well-oiled machines and ask God why I was even needed in this place.  But in the middle of my frustrations, a wise mentor wrote these life-breathing words to me:

“it’s a marathon and not a sprint.” 

I’ve heard those words plenty of times before, but somehow they had new meaning.  I started to see my time in Zambia through new eyes.  I realized that I had NOT wasted these first four months in Zambia.  I realized that it was silly and a bit pompous of me to assume that I could come here and immediately earn the right to impact people’s lives; that I would show up and suddenly all our students would start reading at grade level and behaving like little angels.  That’s not how it works in America and that’s certainly not how it works for a Mzungu in Zambia.  It’s a grueling process that takes time and dedication.

I’m realizing that my “preparation period” did NOT end the minute I landed in Ndola.  In fact, these past few months have been the most crucial period of my preparation.  I have spent a lot of time over the past four months just sitting.  Sitting on the porch as Charity and Adolf explain different tribal traditions to me; sitting on the couch as I watch the nightly news to see what’s going on in our country; sitting at my desk as I listen to students read, trying to determine their strengths and struggles; sitting on my bed as I quiz myself with Bemba flashcards; sitting in the taxi as I share my story and listen to other’s stories; sitting in the back of the classroom as I observe one of our 4 incredible teachers love on our kids; sitting in the circle of chairs during Bible Study as I get a new perspective on Christianity from the least of these; sitting next to a student in the dirt as I hear in broken English what hurts and how I can make it better.  And while these months of sitting may not seem glamorous or life-changing, they are paving the way for Jesus to step in.  They are breaking down barriers between me and the people of this beautiful country.  They are teaching me to see life from another’s point of view.  They are helping me create a HOME in Zambia, and not just a 2-week vacation spot.

And I praise God that in the midst of the sitting, I have had moments of movement.  I have formed deep, meaningful friendships.  I have seen teachers catch on to the vision of our training and implement those tools into the classroom on a daily basis.  I have found a church family that adopts me as their own, failing to see the differences in our skin color.  I have watched students who came for tutoring during the August holiday improve tremendously in their reading skills.  I often hear my name called by church-mates, taxi drivers, students or random friends as I shop in town.  I am settling through the sitting.

I’m not quite sure what my expectations were when I came here, but I don’t think I expected it to feel so normal.  So average.  I’m learning that Zambia is just like any other place in the world.  People take care of their families and go grocery shopping and have trouble getting up on Monday mornings and come home and crash on the couch in front of the TV.  And now I’m a part of it all.  I’m not just the Mzungu Missionary.  I’m Amy (or Amapalo as my church family has renamed me), resident of Luanshya, teacher at Haven of Hope and member of Praise Chapel Christian Church.  And I pray that through these months of settling and sitting and listening and learning, I have somehow earned these positions in the community.  That I have earned the right to cheer at games and teach at schools and rejoice at baptisms and weep at funerals.  That I have crossed the line from foreign, white-girl to friend and community-member.  Because with that foundation, running this marathon will be that much sweeter.