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.    

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.