Inevitable.

It’s almost been a quarter of a year since I arrived in Zambia.

Before I moved here, everyone warned me that there would be a day when everything wasn’t so perfect.  When I would wake up from the dream and realize that life isn’t going to be easy and happy all the time just because I’m living in Zambia.  But I foolishly refused to listen.  I smiled and nodded, but inside I was thinking how wrong everyone was.  That my experience would be different.  That after 7 years of waiting for this dream to come true, nothing could ever dampen my joy.  That I would wake up every morning with a smile on my face.  That I would never get tired.  Never get frustrated.  Never get overwhelmed.  That I would be the perfect teacher.  Perfect church member.  Perfect friend.  Perfect missionary.

But I was wrong.

I don’t want you to think that I’m suddenly regretting my move here, because that couldn’t be further from the truth.  I don’t want you to think that I’m suddenly sad or mad or wishing I was back in America.  But I do want to be honest.  And the truth is that I’m still the same Amy in Zambia as I was in America.  Yes, I feel whole and joy-filled because I wake up every day knowing I’m where God wants me to be, but that doesn’t mean everything is rainbows and roses.  There are hard days.  There are days when I’m so exhausted that I fall asleep on my desk in the office (true story).  There are days when I am completely out of creative ideas for teaching the letter sounds to my struggling grade 1 students.  There are days when I stop answering my phone after it rings 20 times with friends who just want to say “hi.”  There are days when the idea of leaving for church at 8:30 and not getting back till 2:00 makes me want to stay in bed.

Before I moved to Zambia, people kept asking me, “What will you be doing over there?”  That was always a difficult question to answer, because I honestly wasn’t sure.  I knew I would be working with Haven of Hope, but I didn’t know what exactly my role would look like.  And that was 100% okay with me.  I’m a very laid back person, and all I needed to know was that I was moving to Zambia…the rest would fall into place.  But after 3 months, I’m more unsure than ever about what I’m supposed to be focusing my time and energy on.  The need is just SO great and I want to do everything.  I’ve always had a hard time saying no, but that tendency is multiplied by 5 over here.  In addition to the two HOH schools, I also have my church, youth group, Saturday sports, Bible study, another ministry I got hooked up with, teacher training, tutoring, household chores, learning how to cook/speak like a Zambian and an abundance of friendships to invest in.  The hardest part is that ALL these things are good.  ALL these things bring me joy and are things I WANT to do.  But I know myself; and I know that when I’m stretched too thin I start to shut down.  I get frustrated with not being able to put my whole heart into something and I stop doing anything. 

I saw myself starting to go down this path last week and I had a conversation with Satan that went something like this.  “Satan, you are not going to win.  You are not going to make me ineffective.  I have waited TOO long for this and too many people have invested prayer and support into this dream for the story to end like that.  So stop trying.” 

So this week I’m taking a sabbatical.  I hate that I’m a human with limitations, but I’m learning to give myself grace.  I’m learning the difficult life-lesson of how to say no and where to draw boundaries.  I’m praying that God refills me with Himself and with His passion.  I’m praying that He realigns my vision with His and that I learn what things need my attention and what things can be left for someone else.  I’m praying that He teaches me it’s okay to say no and that I can’t always please everyone. 

I’m praying that He teaches me to rejoice in the truth that His grace is sufficient for me and His power is made perfect in my weakness.

Simplicity.

So it’s been almost 2 months since I started making my home here in Zambia.  I am still in awe that this gets to be my life’s story.

After the team left in July, I spent most of my time with the school in Luanshya, which only has students in Grades 1-3.  The children are very quiet, but they are incredibly sweet and most of my break-time’s are spent just walking around with 5 little boys all holding my hands or arms.  The teachers here are incredible.  Esnart teaches Grade 2/3 and she has been with us for a few years now.  She can be quiet at first, but she does the best read-alouds that make the children giggle uncontrollably. Simon is a new teacher who just joined our team in May.  He has never taught before, but he is handling the new responsibilities very well.  The children clearly respect him, and he is eager to learn new tricks and strategies for teaching these Grade 1 students.  Every day I come in he has a new question about a book he’s reading on classroom management or reading philosophies.  Those first few weeks of being on my own, I spent a lot of time observing and modeling for the teachers.  I would teach maybe one lesson a day while the rest of my time was spent watching them or working with individual students.  I tested all of the kids on reading and math to see what levels they are at so I know how to approach things when I start teaching in September.  I did the same things over in Ndola, where we have Grades 1-5 with only two teachers.  Dorcas has been with us for quite a few years and she actually stays in the house where our school meets.  She is very funny and is extremely good with our Grade 1 students.  Sandra just joined us in May and she definitely has a heart for kids.  She is pretty quiet, but she did a great job with all the parents who came in for our open house last week. 

Schools in Zambia go year-round, so they have the months of April, August and December off.  Last week the students were busy taking their end-of-term tests and then parents came for “open” day to pick up their report cards and talk to the teachers.  I was able to tell them a little about myself and why I’m here, as well as show them pictures of their student from when the team was here in June.  It was such a blessing to meet the parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers, or whoever else is caring for our students.  One mother raved about how her Grade 2 son reads so much better than his older brother (who is in a government school) and many more asked if we had open spots for their other children because they recognize how well their students are doing in our school.  There is still a lot of work to be done, but it’s days like these that remind me that we ARE making progress and impacting these communities.

So far my “holiday” month of August has been full of relaxation, planning, and learning.  Monday I spent a good 3 hours hand-washing clothes in the tub and my hands definitely bare the scars to prove it.  It seems pretty counter-productive when the detergent rubs open my skin and I start bleeding all over the white socks I’m trying to clean.  (Yes, Shannon DID warn me not to wait too long to do my wash.  Lesson learned.)  But even that can’t get me down cause the victory in taking down all my clean, dry clothes at the end of the day was totally worth it J  This month I will be spending my Tuesday and Thursdays mornings with some students from Luanshya to hopefully get them caught up with their reading skills.  From 8-10 I have about 10 Grade 1 students and then 10-12 is for Grade 2/3.  It’s been fun to have smaller groups of students that I can truly concentrate on and cater lessons to their needs.  For the next two weeks, I will be doing a teacher training seminar on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.  The four teachers from our schools, as well as random community teachers who heard about the program, will be coming to watch a DVD series from Penn State’s education department.  I will be doing follow-up lessons and discussions to give them some practical, hands-on tools they can use in their classrooms every day.  I’m slightly nervous that all these people are coming to learn from me (who has never actually taught full-time!), but I know that God will get me through.

Other than that, my life here is not particularly glamorous.  In fact, when I tell people how much I love it here, they constantly ask me, “But aren’t you bored??”  And I simply smile and answer, “Not even a little bit.”  Cause here’s the thing: my heart craves simplicity.  I LOVE the fact that my days are filled up at school and my evenings consist of coming home, hanging out in the garden, sitting on the porch learning how to make nshima or roast groundnuts, watching the news, and taking walks with my dear new friends.  I love that some days I walk 30 minutes into town just to buy a Fanta and then walk back.  I love that I leave at 8:30 to walk to church with Miriam, only to sit around for an hour until the rest of the church arrives and we start the service.  I love that I can walk to school with Charity, fully intending to work on lesson planning, only to spend the entire day talking about life and relationships in the office.  I love that every day after getting dropped off by the taxi, I am greeted by 15-20 children on the street who just say, “Muli shani!” (How are you?) over and over again cause they like talking to the white girl.  I love that most nights I take a walk with Daniel and Adolf to pick up fresh vegetables at the market in our neighborhood.  I love that I am learning to recognize the difference between mango, avocado, and banana trees.  I love that I go to my friend, Chisha’s, shop just to hang out and listen to music.  I love that at least once a week the power goes off and I get to have dinner by candlelight.  I love that I can confidently catch the two taxis I need to get to and from school every day. I love that I am learning about the MANY different tribal traditions here in Zambia.  I love that I can usually sit at a table filled with people speaking Bemba and understand the gist of the conversation.   I love that this is my everyday life.  That even when I’m not actively doing ministry at the school or church, I am being filled by God’s spirit and (hopefully) dispensing it to those around me. 

As always, thank you for encouraging me every step of the way.  I can’t even begin to tell you all the things I am learning and the visions that God is planting in my heart.  Please continue praying for me and all my beautiful friends here in Zambia.  God is so good.

Moses.

I was walking to church with a friend the other day and she told me that she is HIV-positive.  She told me how the only man she’s ever loved gave her the virus without even telling her his status.  She told me how she lived in denial for a year after finding out, refusing to take the medicine that would keep her healthy and help her live longer.  She told me how the only reason she finally started taking them was her faith in Jesus.  She told me how she gets splitting headaches and sores and rashes.  She told me how she goes to the hospital by herself.  She told me how she takes her medicine twice a day.  She told me how she has to forgive the man who gave her this disease because he’s dead and she’s still alive. 

She told me all this with the most beautiful grace I’d ever seen.  And then we went to church where she danced and sang; a smile never leaving her face.

Charity and her sister Brenda told me about a 14-year-old girl named Memory, from the school where Brenda teaches, who died the other day.  They told me how she was born HIV-positive.  They told me how her parents both died when she was young, and none of her older siblings would take care of her because of her status.  They told me how this girl came to school every day and gave Brenda a hug.  They told me how she worked hard and never complained.  They told me how the school had no idea she was sick or why she suddenly stopped coming to school.  They told me how this girl sat in a hospital room for the last month of her life, and not a single family member visited her.  They told me how the nurses and doctors adopted her as if she was their own.  They told me how, at the funeral, these same nurses and doctors talked of her smile and how she sang worship songs during her final hours.  They told me how her family brought her nothing but a torn school shirt to bury her in.  They told me how the teachers at the school came together and raised money for that little girl’s funeral.

They told me all this as we drove through the dusty, bumpy roads of the compound where most of my Ndola students live.  The pain and frustration of living in this country that they love so much was clear on their faces and in their words.

My precious students come from many different backgrounds, but most of them have known more pain in their short 7, 10, or 14 years than I can possibly fathom.  One student was abandoned by his mother when she remarried a man who didn’t feel like taking care of her children.  Another student stays with his uncles and grandmother because his mother has lost her mind and can no longer take care of him.  One of our older students was removed from school for months at a time so he could instead go to the city to make money for his family.  Most of them wear the same tattered clothing every day.  They have cuts and bruises all over their bodies.  Many of them only eat once a day, at school.  And I’m sure some of them are HIV-positive due to the poor decisions of their parents, who are long gone by now.

And still they come.  They come to school and laugh with their friends.  They learn Bible verses and songs about how much Jesus loves them.  They follow me around like baby chicks, clamoring to be the one to hold my hand.  They giggle when I try to speak in Bemba and every day they ask, “Please, Teacher Amy, come eat nshima with us!”

This has become my norm.  This chasm of difference.  And most days I am able to move past it.  Most days I can focus on being the change; the blessing.  Most days I can distract myself with the tasks of teaching and loving these precious humans.  But some days I am broken.  Some days the injustice catches in my chest and I can barely breathe.  Some days I fall to my knees asking God why.  Why is my story so different from theirs?  Why did I get to grow up in a loving, safe home with both of my parents?  Why was going to school never a question for me?  Why have I been spared so much pain and fear and suffering??

And then I remember Moses.

Moses, the Hebrew child who was spared.  Who miraculously avoided the death that so many others suffered.  Who lived a life of luxury in the palace of Pharaoh instead of the life of slavery he was born into.  Who woke up one day and saw the chasm.  Who could take it no longer and demanded justice.  Who met God face to face and was finally blessed with an answer to his why’s.  Not because he was special or because God loved him more than the other Hebrews.  Not so that he could simply live a life of indulgence and never look back.  But so that he could save them all.  So that he could bring justice and grace and favor to an entire people group.  So that he could perform miracles.  So that he could live a life of purpose, not pleasure. 

I am Moses.  I was spared.  I am privileged in a world of impoverished.  And I pray that I see God’s face every day.  I pray that I never settle into comfort.  I pray that I bring justice and grace and favor to every person I meet in this beautifully broken world.

I pray.

101.

It’s been over a month and I’m still trying to find the right words to describe this whole experience.  For now, I figured these were some things you should know about life here in Zambia:

1.  I am temporarily staying with the Banda family in Luanshya (a very small town where our 2^nd school is located).  There are 6 of us staying in the house: John and Charity (who run Haven of Hope), their 5 year old son, Daniel, their niece, Womba and their nephew, Adolf.
2. It’s cold here.  Really cold.  From 18:00 when the sun goes down till about 10:00 the next day you can find me bundled up in as many layers as possible.  This is because we are currently in Zambia’s “winter,” although it works more like America’s fall in that some of the trees lose their leaves and it’s quite windy.
3. There are people walking EVERYWHERE at EVERY minute of the day.  Children walking to school, woman carrying giant bundles on their head, men making their way to the mines, or friends just passing time.  Hiking (aka hitch-hiking) is quite common in Zambia, and there are always truck beds filled to capacity with people coming to and from work.
4. When you don’t feel like walking, you hail a taxi for a whopping $0.60.  There are legit taxis and then random people with cars who want to make some extra cash.  They honk at you to let you know they have an open seat and then continue honking during the drive until their car is full.  These cars generally have broken window shields due to the poor road conditions and the passenger’s side is usually covered in stickers supporting the driver’s favorite football team.
5. Nshima is the staple meal in Zambia.  It’s ground up maize that is then made into “cakes” that look like mashed potatoes but are thicker.  You eat this with your hands and dip it into the “relishes” of meat or vegetables.  Most people in Zambia eat nshima twice a day if they can afford it, and consider any other meal without it just a snack.
6. There are over 73 tribes in Zambia, many of which are known for a specific type of strange food that they eat.  For example, the Bembas are known for eating monkeys and the Nsengas for eating rats, although most people don’t actually follow these traditions.  The other day, I was asking our students which tribe their families come from and a large majority said Bemba (the most common tribe in our part of Zambia).  John, a child from the Chirwa tribe, jokingly said we should start buying monkeys to cook at school so that all our Bemba students would be happy.
7. Because of the many different tribes, most Zambians can speak 3-4 different languages, depending on their family’s tribal heritage.  I always cringe when people ask me how many languages I can speak.  Oh America and our “we only need to know English!” mindset.
8. Zambian time is MUCH different than American time.  If you know me at all, you know that I’m pretty much always late; but here, I’m pretty much always early.  Because in Zambia, being on time is being early and being 15 minutes late is being on time.  The pace of life is completely different and most people knock off (end their day) by 16 or 17 hours.  The rest of the night is devoted to resting, working in the garden, playing and eating dinner.
9. Everyone wants to go to America.  Even in the poorest communities, you will see satellite dishes outside mud homes, and these people are mostly watching American television.  Because they admire America so much, EVERYONE wants to get to know me.  I’ve already had multiple taxi drivers ask for my number so that we can be friends and I can tell them all about America.  For an introverted girl, this is a strange phenomenon.
10. An average teacher’s salary at the government schools is 1.5 million kwacha, or about $300 a month.  Before taxes.
11. HIV/AIDS is still extremely high in Zambia, but most people still don’t talk about it.  There are still many myths surrounding the virus, which keeps people from getting the help that they need.  Many people are afraid to admit that they are HIV positive, but I was blessed the other day to have a new friend open up to me about her status.  It was not easy, but knowing that she trusted me enough to be honest was huge.  It’s hard to wrap your mind around a disease that causes so much devastation.
12. A major backlash of HIV/AIDS is the millions of orphans left in its wake.  It is extremely common for children to move from house to house, living with extended family members temporarily until a better situation is found.  The family unit is extremely strong in Zambia, and it often makes asking a child about their family very complicated.  For example, if I ask a student how many brothers and sisters he has, he’ll most likely count all of his cousins and any other children that live in his household.
13. Zambian people are the strongest people I’ve ever met.  Physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally.  If you could see the conditions some of these people live in, or could hear their stories, you would be dumbfounded.  And yet, they are the friendliest people in the world.  They ALWAYS have smiles on their faces.  They sing the most beautiful songs you’ll ever hear.  And they dance with more joy than I’ve ever seen. 

So there you go.  A quick glimpse into my world.  I truly believe I was made for this place; or it was made for me.  I have not once felt uncomfortable or regretted the decision to move here.  I love everything about my new life in Zambia, and I can’t believe I get to call it home.  I am making true, trustworthy friends that I can be myself around, I am learning something new every day, and I am blessed with the ability to come alongside our teachers and students to help them reach the next level in education.  God is good and I’m so excited to continue sharing this journey and this place with all of you!

Clash.

Zambia is a strange dichotomy of the most hideous and most beautiful things on this earth. 

There are places like the special needs house at a local orphanage where children who can’t walk lie in the same pee-soaked bed day after day with flies crawling over them because there simply aren’t enough volunteers to take care of them all.  Where the healthy children run towards any vehicle that shows up on site because they are so desperate for any kind of love or attention.

And then there are days when you take 10 teenagers to visit this orphanage.  They clearly don’t know what to expect, but they get off the bus and immediately pick up whatever child is coming towards them with arms wide open.  And they not only push the children on the merry-go-round, they hop on themselves.  And they slow down their game of football when they realize the smallest of the small boys wants to play.  And they walk into that special needs house and see children with physical problems they’ve NEVER seen before, and they walk from bed to bed smiling at the children and tickling them to get a laugh.  And they tell you later that this experience made them realize how truly blessed they are to have even the small amount of things they have in this life.

There are people who see a Mzungu (white person) and immediately up the cost of something by 100%.  They come to your car door when you’re parked out on the street, assuming you are some kind of millionaire.  Little boys sit by your table through an entire meal at a restaurant angrily telling you to give him money.  Zambia, like everywhere else in the world, is full of liars and cheats and thieves.

And then there are mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and grandmothers who have taken in 3, 4, 5, 6 extra children because all the other adults in their family are gone.  They sell tomatoes or beans or cabbage or whatever else they can in front of their house to make enough money to feed these extra mouths.  They graciously invite you in when you come to visit, give you the best seat and simply ask for God’s protection when you ask what you can pray for.  They don’t go on and on about what they need or how much money they want you to give them; they simply thank you for being here in Zambia to help the children.

There are children EVERYWHERE at all times of the day.  Children who are forced to become grown-ups at a very young age.  Six year old girls who carry their baby brothers on their backs.  Grade 1 students who come home to an empty house because the adult of the family has left for harvest season.  Children who sit at home for a month because they burned their leg with boiling water and haven't been to a doctor to get it checked out.  Children whose older brothers die of "TB," which means the most likely died of HIV/AIDS.  Children who get malaria as often as American kids get the flu.  Children playing with broken glass; chewing whatever piece of plastic they find on the ground; running through trash-infested streets in their bare feet.  Children who have nothing to do and nowhere to go because they can’t afford the small fees to pay for school uniforms and supplies.

 And then there are 120 children who DID get to go to school today.  They chew on anything they can get their hands on and don’t always listen when their teachers say “Nchongo!” (Stop making noise!), and their playground fights could put American kids’ fights to shame, but they are the future of Zambia.  They walk up to 40 minutes one-way to get to school; they don’t take a bite of their nshima before praying; the sound of their giggles is what the soundtrack in heaven must be; they spend HOURS writing letters to their sponsors back in America whom they love like their own family; they clean every dish and every inch of the school before leaving each day; they carry the little ones all the way home when they’re sick; they love without question.

Yes, living in Africa is hard.  It can be frustrating and overwhelming.  You can work tirelessly and still not feel like you’re accomplishing much.  But there is so much good.  And I choose to see the good.  I choose to focus on the breath-taking moments of beauty that I inevitably come in contact with every single day.  I choose to thank God that I get to see the generosity and the joy and the love; and I beg Him to help me be a catalyst for change in the dark and heartbreaking places.  I have no idea what is in store for me this year, but I do know I will experience both the horrible and the wonderful; and in the end, it is the good I will carry with me.

Help.

Asking for help has never been easy for me.  It's not that I'm a perfectionist.  It's not that I simply enjoy doing things my way.  It's not really a pride thing either.  It's more that I am such an extreme people-pleaser that I hate the thought of putting someone out.  This past summer while I was the program manager of a camp, I spent countless nights working wee hours into the morning on projects that could have been done by 10:00 if I had simply asked for help.  I don't know what it is.  Some might say stubbornness.  Some might say it's just plain silly.  But for whatever reason, I would rather work myself to the bone than ask someone to do something not-so-pleasant.

Thankfully, we in America tend to value independence, so my avoidance of asking for help seemed normal.  We tell ourselves we can do anything we put our minds to and admire those who do it all on their own.  I could have fit right into this mold and gone through life never having to ask for help.  Maybe I would have struggled along the way, but I would've eventually figured out a way to make it work.

But then I did a stupid thing: I fell in love with this dream of being a teacher in Zambia.

Moving to a third world country for a year to be an unpaid teacher is a definite way to put yourself in the "needs help" category.  Believe me, I tried to do even this on my own.  I currently have 4 part-time jobs in State College to attempt this huge feat of raising $20,000.  I figured that if I worked my tail off for 6 months here, maybe I wouldn't have to ask anyone else for help.  Maybe I could just joyfully share my pictures and stories, but not the burden of actually paying for this experience.

But God blessed me with an unfilled bank-account because I was being selfish.  I tend to get this way with Zambia.  Sometimes it's hard to explain to people who haven't been there.  Sometimes it's easy to become jaded and think the world doesn't care about my friends in Africa who are hungry and cold tonight.  Sometimes it's easier to think I'm alone in this journey and that I have to do it by myself.  But I am seeing every day how very wrong I am.

I am seeing through friends and family that I haven't seen in years who are joyfully giving what little extra money they don't have so that I can follow my dreams.  I am seeing through church members whom I have only known for a short time who come up to me eagerly wanting to know how they can help as I prepare for my ministry.  I am seeing through the local school that I sub at whose staff members constantly ask me what the countdown now is because they're just as excited for my departure as I am.  I am seeing through facebook and this blog as people graciously read my story and respond with heart-felt encouragement and support.

I am overwhelmed by how wrong I've been.  I am humbled.  My eyes have been opened.  Forgive me.

I am learning little by little that this Zambia story is not my own.  Yes, I may be the one going in 15 days, but I am taking you all with me.  I am blessed to live in this age of facebook and Skype and blogging and worldwide travel.  I am blessed to get to share Zambia and Haven of Hope with all of you.  You may never step foot on Africa's rich soil; but you will impact the people who walk upon it.

So here I am, asking you for help.  It's taken long enough and I'm sure many of you have been sitting back wondering exactly how you can help.  I'm sorry I let my stubborn, selfish self get in the way.  I'm sorry I've kept you out of the blessing; out of the journey.  But I'm human, and I'm learning.

What exactly do I need help with?  Well, currently I have raised only $5,000 of the $20,000 I need to support myself for a year over in Zambia.  Most people would see that number and freak out.  But there are two things that I know.  One, God would not plant this dream in my heart, nurture it for seven years, only to let it partially bloom; He will see it to fruition.  He will supply the support I need. Secondly, I do not need all $20,000 in hand when I step on that plane in 2 weeks.  I would love to have half of it, but thankfully I can continue to raise the funds while I'm over in Zambia.

If I didn't believe to my core that my sacrifice of time and comfort, plus your sacrifice of prayers and money would result in lives changed, I would not be asking.  I would tell you to send your money to one of the countless other good causes in this world.  But I do believe that my year in Zambia has the potential to change lives; mine, yours, and hundreds (maybe even thousands) of children and adults in Africa.

To those of you who already received my letter and have sent in donations, THANK YOU.  Truly.  I understand what a sacrifice it is to give any amount of money in today's economy, and I pray that God blesses you for your generosity.

To those of you who would love to give but who are too stretched to even spare a dime, THANK YOU for your desire.  I know that you can (and will) support me in other ways, and I am blessed with that knowledge.

To those of you who have read all this and want in, here are two options.

1) You can give a one-time gift.  You can simply send a check to Haven of Hope at 403 S Allen Street, Suite 112-A, State College, PA 16801.  The checks can be made to Haven of Hope with my name in the memo line.

2) You can become a monthly sponsor for my year in Zambia.  If you would rather spread out your giving over the next 12 months (June 2012-May 2013), you can fill out the two papers I have attached below.  If you click on the links, they will take you to two separate websites with documents for automatic withdrawal.  The first form is for your bank account info and the second is where you would list how much you'd like to give every month.  You can list as little as $5 a month!  You can fill out and send both of these forms (with a voided check) to Haven of Hope at the address above.  

Automatic Withdrawal Form
Monthly Sponsorship Form

I am blessed to have people in my life who want to help, whether I ask for it or not.  Thank you all for following my journey and for giving me grace as I learn what it means to love and be loved.  Thank you for getting excited with me, for praying for me (and Haven of Hope!), for reading my blog, for calling, for texting, for caring.  I am SO excited for this next phase of my life, and I can't wait to share it with you all.

The Wrong Sister.

18 days.  The countdown has now reached 18 days until I leave for Zambia.  And my "to do" list is longer than I can possibly imagine.

If you know me at all, this does not surprise you one bit.

I'm Amy, after all.  The girl who pulled more all-nighters at Taylor than I can even count.  The girl who literally rewrote her salutatorian speech an hour before she had to stand and give it.  The girl who pretty much always wait until her gas light comes on before she finally rolls into a Sheetz to fill up.  I'm messy.  I'm forgetful.  I lose everything.  I break everything.  I'm lazy.  My dad even has a song he lovingly sings to me when I do something characteristically "Amy."  The lyrics are simply I-R-R-E-S-P-O-N-S-I-B-L-E.  I've known all of this about myself for some time now.

But today when I was driving back to State College, thinking about everything I have to do before getting on that plane in 18 days, I broke down in tears and yelled at the top of my lungs, "God...you are CRAZY."  The conversation proceeded in my head as I listed reason after reason why He clearly picked the wrong girl for this job.  I looked back at the past 6 years of my life and saw all the ways I could have spent my time better.

I could have been fluent in Bemba by now.  I could have paid off all my Taylor debt (or at least a much bigger chunk...).  I could have saved all the money I am now desperately trying to raise to support myself for this next year.  I could have done a lot of things.

Martha would have all those things done.

You know...Martha.  As in, Mary and Martha.  The Bible story tends to paint a bad picture of Martha, but I've secretly always wished I could be like her.  Every day I wake up hoping that TODAY will be the day that I get everything crossed off my list.  TODAY will be the day I am suddenly responsible and reliable.  There are lots of beautiful women in my life who are Martha's.  They plan.  They are diligent.  They are loyal.  They are hardworking.  They are reliable.  Just once I would love to be a Martha.

I sat in my car today and I told Jesus that He doesn't want me to go to Zambia; he wants a Martha.  If He's gonna send a single, white, 24-year old girl to Zambia all on her own, AT LEAST make sure she's a Martha.  That seems like a no-brainer to me.

But then God painted a clear picture of me sitting at His feet.  He reminded me that while I'm certainly not perfect, I am Mary.  No, I definitely did not spend the past 6 years of my life preparing for Zambia in a Martha-way.  In fact, I haven't spent the past 6 MONTHS preparing for Zambia in a Martha-way.  But that's okay.  Because I am not Martha; I am Mary.  And while I still have a to-do list a mile long, I am READY to step onto that plane.  Because for the past 6 years, I have been sitting at Jesus' feet.

I have sat at Jesus' feet while He took me from Ireland, to Taylor, to Camp Adventure...three places that taught me what it means to be a family in Christ.

I have sat at Jesus' feet while He gave me glimpses of heaven as I worshipped with my brothers and sisters in the Czech Republic, Zambia, Ireland and the United States.

I have sat at Jesus' feet while He taught me how to still sing those same worship songs after experiencing the worst kind of pain this world has to offer.

I have sat at Jesus' feet, holding my bitterness with clenched fists, while He showed me His scarred hands, feet & back, teaching me again what "seventy times seven" really looks like.

I have sat at Jesus' feet, letting Him remove my heavy burdens of perfectionism and guilt.

I have sat at Jesus' feet, begging for wisdom and guidance as I led a team of 17 young adults through the hardest summer of our lives.

I have sat at Jesus' feet, sometimes in numb silence, barely hearing His voice; holding on to the hope that I would see Him clearly some day soon.

I have sat at Jesus' feet in agony as He slowly began to break my heart for the things that break His.

I have sat.  And I have learned.  And I have come to know my Jesus.

And THAT is why I'm ready to get on that plane.  Because no matter how many times Satan tries to tell me that God is better off sending a Martha, I can go sit down at my Jesus' feet and He will tell me AGAIN why it is that's He's sending me; His precious Mary who knows His heart.