Traces of Light

“O Lord You have searched me, and You know me… where can I go from Your Spirit? Where can I flee from Your Presence?” (Psalm 139)

I walk down a worn path, hollow grass moving in undulating waves above me. Inverted towers: these walls bow and bend with an awe-filled holiness church steeples could never comprehend. Inhale, breathe out: sticky sweet nostalgia washes me over again. I’ve come again to meet You here, where memory of You remains unspoiled.

You’ve always known me. Father, do you hear me?

I’ve always been fascinated with the presence of beauty in my life. I’ve walked over silent hills soaked with the silvery dew of the morning, and watched the faces of the people I love stain with the richness of summer every single year. I’ve lived, by all appearances, a charmed life. It was deceptively perfect in so many ways.

But there is a loneliness I have carried throughout my story: heaviness I hold onto for my life. It writhes up and comes alive inside of me; a dizzying fractured sickness that leaves me stumbling weakly. I’ve learned to choke the illness down… because I have loved it, and I lived for it. Because the loneliness always led to the longing, and the longing is what kept me alive.

It was something I never learned to talk about: the heaviness I drug around. How do you define the moment you go from normal to panic? When you don’t know why tears fill your eyes at the table, and the containing isn’t helping the coping? Eventually you stop trying to explain it, and just try to get by and live with it. But after years of shrinking, I began suffocating from the things I never said. And people never had adequate words to explain why it was happening to me.

Where were you, God? Did You know? Do You see?

All I have ever wanted was to know joy, and for it to know me. I wanted to be part of it. And I lived for the moments I saw it in my life. Because it wasn’t something I could possess; a thing I could set apart for myself. It came and it went. It would overwhelm me long enough to undo me, and then it was far from me… And I was terrified of the void I felt in its absence.

There was no way to describe the emptiness of that echoing place. There was no way to define the feeling of losing something you never had. Words didn’t work when people asked me what was wrong, and I used pain to still the hurricane heaving between my lungs when I grew older. I write my ending on my body because I can’t stomach new beginnings, but God etches grace across my skin in little traces I try so hard to follow. I don’t understand. And I couldn’t comprehend. He was always there.

He was there: in the corner of my eye, disappearing in soft swells of stardust at night; I heard His thick breath expand through churning ocean waves. I felt Him warm the afternoon sun sinking across my lap. I saw Him in the subtleties of the gardenias, and in the billowing oak trees and little robins that so consistently sang. His immensity was everywhere, and I knew that everything good that ever was extended somehow from Him.

I began to know that I had come to the end of suffering for that great and terrible beauty. I didn’t have to drag my tired body through ashes, begging to be worthy of glory in my life. I opened my terrified mouth, and I exhaled: breathing, sobbing, but still, I began to release the shame and the humiliation, the disappointments and rage from my body. I was certain in that moment that I was and will be fully known. And even I can become something new.

#thisculture

 

Right now, I’m sipping freshly ground, freshly pressed, Zambian coffee from the Choma market while I watch the sun rise and set fire to my safari of a backyard. I stumble out here every morning after I brew my dark roast and dump some fresh milk in for creamer. There’s a cow chilling in the middle of our front yard, and roosters crowing loudly in the back, but needless to say, these are some of the richest mornings I’ve ever had.

I still can’t believe I’m living in Africa. I have loved my time in Zambia. Life is slow here. The hustle and bustle and everyday chaos of America is like a long-forgotten dream ambling down the dirt paths each day. Life is methodic and relational: most of your time is composed of being rather than doing.

When mission teams from America aren’t here, life is pretty simple. I’ve gotten to spend some wonderful time with the kids here at New Day. Most of them are stinkers with personalities way too big for their tiny little bodies. But they are all incredible children, and some of the cutest you’ll ever meet. They all play soccer like champs and quote scripture off like Google.

I definitely had my own ideas about African life before I came to New Day. I envisioned a strict diet of rice and beans, thick poverty, a fantastic tan, and exotic animals littering my living space. There was a little bit of truth seasoned into some of those dreams, but reality here in Zambia turned out to be pretty different.

First of all, unless you are a random villager that has 10 kids and a bad crop that year, you probably are not starving in Zambia. Food means the world to these people. I thought the South ate heavy until I came here. Eating is a HUGE part of their culture. Most everything is made from scratch and is delicious. If you find people eating on the road, you’re supposed to stop and share with them. You don’t go to someone’s house and let them eat one bite of nshima (white mash) if they’re not offering it to you as well. People admire larger people for being “healthy”, and if you do happen to lose weight, you’re more likely to hear comments of sympathy than congratulations. So if you’re looking to get skinny, plan on hitting up that diet before you come to Africa.

Next off: the tan. Oh glorious tanning. It’s my favorite part about summer. I love laying out by the ocean or pool and literally feeling my skin turn brown. Mmmmm. Well, I had to put that glory to rest this summer. It’s winter here in Zambia in June. And it’s getting colder by the day. But even if it was summer, Zambian dress code prohibits clothing that would allow you to achieve any sort of tan. Sleeveless shirts aren’t a big deal: it’s chilly in the mornings and evenings, but sleeveless works for them in the day. But the legs, oh the legs. Ain’t nobody going to be sporting those thighs around if the older villagers can help it. Women have to wear ankle-length skirts called chitangees. Thanks to those lovely skirts, I have the weirdest tan lines on my feet: it’s like a reverse sock tan line. As in, my ankles are the only things on the lower half of my body that have seen the light of day all summer. Mmm. At least they think pale skin is beautiful here, right?

The poverty: it’s worse and better than I thought it would be. As I described in an earlier post, it was overwhelming when we went to the villages in the bush area. Most people have more kids than clothing to go around. So, many of the kids just run around naked and unattended. They learn pretty early on in life to fend for themselves because the parents are out breaking their backs harvesting the food they need to survive from the fields. But here’s what I didn’t expect coming here: unless there is an unusual circumstance (like a bad harvest, orphaned kids, etc.), people have food. They grow it and kill it themselves and know what it takes to survive. They don’t have material wealth: they have hardly any clothes, and their houses are simple stick huts. But they’re not starving. They eat sweet potatoes, sweet beer (mashed up corn and milk), pigeons, peanuts, mangos, bananas, tomatoes, lettuce, eggplant, eggs; the list goes on.

Exotic animals: So, I think I expected to see gazelles grazing in the grass along with giraffes casually standing in the distance close by my house each and every afternoon. And with the thick safari grass we have here, it really feels like we should. But we don’t. The nearest animals like that are all on a nature reserve about 3 hours away near Livingstone. There may not be exotic animals here per se, but we do have cows, chickens, goats, donkeys, dogs, cats, oxen, etc., along with an extravagance of exotic bugs. Ew. If you’re ever taking a trip here, you really need to hit me up and let me give you a pep talk about the spiders before you come. I’m terrified of spiders. But I can truly and honestly say that you can have a perfect symbiotic relationship with them here that’s worth not smacking them off the walls every night. Think about it: no one wants Malaria. Let that soak in a little bit.

There are plenty of other enthralling things about life here in Zambia: far too many to list off in this blog post. But I promise to continue filling you in as more surprises come my way. For now, I’m off to the market with Billie Anne and Blu Tidwell to buy the orphans’ groceries for the week. And let me tell you, buying groceries for 16 hungry kids is a massive job. Wish us luck. Until next time.

She has a Name

You know the story in the Bible about the Samaritan woman Jesus met beside the well in John 4? Long story short, Jesus meets a woman by the town well and tells her that He is offering eternal life in the form of living water. She was a little skeptical, considering Jews and Samaritans meshed like Ke$ha and Frank Sinatra. She had been used and abused: promises were typically scams in her world. What was His agenda? But before she even has time to question His motives, Jesus starts listing off her worst secrets one after the other. It didn’t take long before she bolted back to her own town telling everyone that she had just met the Christ they’d been waiting for.

I met a modern-day Samaritan woman this week, and her name is Rosemary: Rosemary Chembee.

Road leading up to Rosemary’s village.

It was a hot afternoon in the Zambian bush when I met Rosemary. The breeze kicked up thick African dust, and I peaked through squinted eyes at yet another enigmatic village rising up before us. No sooner had we entered the edge of the clearing than a peal of excitement and terror rang out from the center of the space. “Maguwas!” (“white people”) half a dozen children screamed as they darted inside the ambiguous huts dotting the village. The wave of children parted, and a perfect triangle of women sat before us. These were the ones we had come for.

They were expecting us. Sure, proud: they sat sturdy as tree trunks in the blazing sun. They looked more like ancient Amazonian women than common Zambian housewives. Their husband, Cornelius, had accepted Christ as his Savior the day before, and had asked that we come share the Gospel with his wives as well.

Rosemary sat at the point of the triangle, and motioned for our group to take a seat on several hand-carved wooden stools they placed for us. We sat down and casually began to introduce ourselves. It was awkward: they knew there was a reason we had come, and we knew why we had come, but the business of actually bringing it up was still in the works.

As everyone got to know each other, I watched the faces of the women. I love people’s faces. If you look closely, they give away more about a person than they could ever say with their words. The miniscule flashes of emotion; the wrinkle in the nose, a tightened lip, the beautiful way the eyes crease in the corners from a true smile… these are the things that give people away. And as I watched the faces of the women, I saw the patterns emerge.

One of Rosemary’s little girls.

These were not the women of stone we made them out to be. Slight slips of weariness fell through their sturdy façade the longer we sat with them. The crease on Rosemary’s brow, and the way she continuously rubbed her arms, the wide eyes, the way she leaned into her hand: she was nervous, and she was tired. And the heaviness she carried was not the kind that came from working the fields.

That was enough to get me talking. I said, “Your husband heard the Good News yesterday. This is news that will change His life for eternity. Your husband met Jesus Christ yesterday; I have come that you might meet Him as well.”

Now, there are two responses to hearing this kind of news. Some people, like the other two wives, might sit, respectfully and politely listening to what you have to say. They’re listening, but as far as any human eye can see, they’re not digesting what is being said. On the other hand, you have Rosemary, who sat hinged forward on the edge of her seat; eager-eyed, hanging on every word I said like it was the lifeline she’d been waiting for.

I told them the story of the Samaritan woman and explained that Jesus had come to offer water from the well that would never run dry. This “water” was the same eternal life Jesus had come to offer the woman from Samaria.

At the end of my story, I paused, and I tried to embrace the thick silence filling the area. My arms fell in front of me, and I spread my hands towards the women. Though I know my words tumbled out like awkward toddlers’ steps, I could feel something inside of me glowing and alive: something like atmosphere was spilling out of my mouth. These words were alive, and I was not their source. “Jesus Christ came into this world to offer you and me that same living water that He offered that Samaritan woman so many years ago. Because of our sin, we have been separated from God. But we were created to love God and to be with Him, so He sent His perfect Son into the world to live a sinless life for us. He died a horrible death, was buried, and was brought back to life. And He is sitting beside His Father in Heaven, even now. God loves you, and He wants you. He has always wanted you. He is offering you a free gift: this living water. But you must reach out and take it. Your husband, Cornelius, drank of that water yesterday. And God offers you the same gift. But you cannot do this because of your husband. You must make your own choice: you must choose.” And with that, a heavy sigh from Rosemary came barreling out through the silence.

I saw it in her eyes. I saw the release. The weariness and frustration, the anxiety and the fear: finally. She knew it in the depths of her soul. The Redeemer had come for her: and she had waited a lifetime for His arrival. “I want this water,” she said. And so she prayed.

It was a strange feeling, when we stood to leave her. She had no discipleship, no Bible. How was her faith going to survive? I heard God whisper to me, “I will not leave you orphans. I will come for you.” And I knew it was true. I turned and said to her, “You have to understand. Because of what you have done, Jesus Christ is living inside of your heart now. He has said that He will send you a Counselor that will guide you, and speak to you, and teach you how to live as Jesus lived. This is His Holy Spirit that lives inside of you. You have a responsibility. You must share what has been done for you. The people around you; they have to know what Jesus did. They have to know that He lives in you now.” And with that, our time was up.

We began walking down the same dusty path towards the next village, and away from an emotion-filled Rosemary. Tears spilled over my eyes as I prayed for her: “God, you promised you would come for her. Be with her always.”

We pushed on through the day, praying with several other villagers, eventually making our way back to the truck, exhausted. We loaded up as the sun slowly began to sink down over the endless plains. The same prayer had been rolling around my head all day, and I prayed it again as the Zambian bush faded away in that thick wave of dust, “God, You said you’d come for them…”

Rosemary’s children worshiping with us.

Several of Cornellius’ 15 children.

We had driven through the Bush for several miles, weaving our way through the narrow footpaths-turned-roads when a woman came tearing out of the grass towards our car. Low and behold, ROSEMARY came sprinting out from behind—wait for it— the local WELL. She was breathless and sweaty, sucking in air and pointing frantically as she tried to speak. “I have been everywhere!” she said. “I have been telling my neighbors, anyone I could find, all day, what Jesus did for me. I have told them what has happened in me. I have told them that He lives here now.” She took off back into the bush, probably trying to reach another village before the sun set. And our group just sat there: open-mouthed in shock. This woman… was on FIRE and was consuming everything in her path.

Since that day, we have returned to that village multiple times to find the Holy Spirit alive and active in that area. What God did in Rosemary’s heart has spread to many of the local villagers through she and her husband Cornelius’ witnessing. Each time we returned to her village, she would beckon to us, telling us, “Come! There are more villages that need to hear.” She was desperate to share the life she found in her Savior.

Rosemary and me

What would you do if you met a man that offered you water that would never run dry? What would it be like to taste its sweetness? It’s something you don’t recover from. And honestly, you were never meant to.

This is not just another sweet story to make you tear up and then move on with the next thing in your life. When Rosemary went through this, her world turned upside down, and she is never going to recover from what happened that day. The Holy Spirit is alive and present and moving across the globe, and there isn’t time for our fear of awkwardness or discomfort in sharing Him. God has done so much more than save me from Hell after I die. You have to understand, before Jesus came into my life, the darkness, the endless cycle of fear and anxiety, the hopelessness: my life WAS Hell before I knew Him. He literally reached into my heart and took me out of that place through His grace. And Rosemary’s testimony put me on my knees in shame over my silence in America. I can blame it on the culture: most people are hard-hearted and aren’t open to hearing about a man that could name off their sins one by one. But this same man moved in my life, and lives in me, and loves me, and saved me from my myself; and there is an entire world in front of me that needs to know.

I am praying for boldness and humility in myself, and especially the Christians back in America today. I often pray that God will break my heart for what breaks His, but what does it matter if I never tell anyone what happened when He did? Yes, faith without action is dead, but the reason we were created with a voice is to speak. So go! And as you go, tell about what has been done for you. Tell the hairdresser, the man at the office, your children, your father, that friend: there is rest. There is grace. There is hope. You don’t have to drag around the sins of your past, crawling through desert to punish yourself for what has been done. Jesus drug Himself through that misery. All you have to do is accept what He did for you. And believe Him when He says it is finished.