I haven’t blogged about my most recent trip to Zambia
because I haven’t been able to find the words. The harshness of life contrasted
so brilliantly by the gloriousness of it. That’s what I think about when I see
this photo, one I haven’t stopped staring at since I returned one month ago.
This looks like just a simple photo of a happy woman sewing
on pretty fabric, like many we’ve posted before. But it’s not.
See that blue scarf draped over her left arm? It’s covering
burn scars that run deeply and painfully all over her upper arm. Burn scars
from the car accident that took the lives of her baby and her firstborn child.
The accident that destroyed her husband with guilt and grief, ultimately
resulting in his death also. Burn scars that left her as a widow and a mother
of only one child are under that scarf. A story, a reality, filled with more
grief and pain and sadness than I can ever imagine.
But see that smile? It’s real. I snuck this photo from my
iPhone while she was laughing and joking with her classmates. Her joy,
authentic. Her light, radiating. Even with the scarf on her arm, the scars on
her arm as a reminder of her plight, she smiles.
On her graduation day, I called her name loudly and
excitedly to come forth to receive her diploma. She passed her exams even in
the midst of insurmountable grief. It was a victory of the greatest
celebration. Her classmates, who knew her story, all rose out of their plastic
chairs, raising their hands to the sky, cheering. Shouts erupted from others
who knew her and all that she faced to get to this very day. A smile burst
across Esther’s face. Not more than 2 seconds later, her smile quivered, turned
downward, and tears spilled from her eyes. Complex tears. Tears of joy, pride,
gladness. Tears of immense loss, of grief, of sadness.
The crowd grew silent. We felt like we were in the midst of
a holy moment. The most raw emotions shared with all of us. The smile wasn’t
stronger than the tears, nor the tears stronger than the smile. They simply
co-existed. Joy and pain interwoven.
Because joy of that magnitude could only be felt knowing the
pain of that magnitude.
Esther received her diploma, and we hugged for what felt
like a moment frozen in time. I haven’t experienced grief on that level, not nearly,
but we are all acquainted with grief in life. We hugged, our grief connecting
us, our joy uniting us, speaking words of understanding over each other’s
lives.
The time came for the ceremony to conclude. Esther’s class
walked forward to retrieve a cardboard box just inside the doorway of the
Chikondi Community Center. Inside were small packages wrapped in shiny purple gift-wrap
printed with shiny silver stars. Taped with masking tape and leftover duct
tape, these were the most precious, most prized presents. The group pooled
their money together to give gifts of appreciation to people they were grateful
for. First to their supervisor, next to our Director, and then me and my mom.
Francis handed me my very own shiny package, and on it was written, “For Our
Beloved Mother Emmy.”
I could feel the grief in the group, the hardships overcome
by each and every person. And just as much as I felt that grief, I felt the joy
that shone forth out of the deepest pits. Another holy moment as I put my palms
toward the sky, outstretched my arms, and received this shiny package with the
reverence and respect it deserved.
I peeled back the cellophane wrap, and caught a glimpse of a
red fabric. A fabric that looked all-so-familiar. I searched my memory to
recollect the moment I first saw this fabric. As if this moment of glory wasn’t
brilliant enough, the beauty burst forth when the memory clicked.
Beauty from the ashes. Beauty from the fiercest fire. Beauty
that courageously made its way through the dirt, through the grime, to bloom.
To rise above. A beauty most beautiful in contrast to its origin. What was intended for evil, God used for good. Redemption. In this red-checked fabric.
See the red fabric in the photo? It’s the skirt wrap that
Esther made for me, with her painful scarred arm draped in the blue scarf,
through the tears of pain, through the shouts of laughter.
A holy skirt. An encounter with God. An understanding of
grief mingling with joy, of a joy discovered in the deepest caverns of grief.
I still don’t fully get why grief gets to hang out with joy,
and why it can’t just disappear. I don’t get how the two can co-exist, and even
foster a greater, deeper joy as a result. I just don’t get it.
But with the red-checked fabric in the palms of my hands, I
took one step closer to getting it. Grateful for the grief. Grateful for the
pain that fuels joy. Not for the bad that cultivated that grief
necessarily, but grateful for the feelings, for the growth. As grief and pain
extend, so does joy. An expansion of self, a blossoming, a richer understanding
of the complexity and raw beauty of Redemption.
All in this red-checked wrap skirt.
