holy

Last night was a holy night.

I was scheduled to speak at a local church’s women’s small group dinner. I didn’t know what to expect, but I’ve done enough of these that I wasn’t nervous about it (tell that to my 19-year-old self struggling in public speaking class).

I entered a gymnasium/auditorium/fellowship hall with 8 round tables adorned with Christmas decorations. A buffet awaited its guests. One-by-one, women trickled in. Most 60+, a few 30ish to 60, but my table was filled with women over 60 who joked about how nice it would be to be 50 again. These women tucked me right into their fellowship, blind to my age. We became fast friends.

Dinner gave way to the speaking part of the evening. I took my place at the podium, microphone in hand, and slideshow ready to go. And, like dozens and dozens of times before, I shared the beginnings of Clothed in Hope.

The only difference was the state of my heart in that building. I was worn. out. Exhausted from pouring over fundraising efforts that weren’t happening. From staring at a progress needle that wasn’t rising to meet the goal.

I knew the words to say in my presentation and I recited them by memory. But somewhere after I showed the video of what we do and before sharing Jessy’s story, words became belief. I was speaking the words, the miracles of Clothed in Hope over my own heart that needed so desperately to hear them.

To hear of God’s faithfulness time and time again.

To hear of abundant provision.

To hear of lives set free, of chains of oppression broken.

To hear of 40-year-old women realizing their worth for the first time ever.

To hear of the road that God has allowed us to walk in, proclaiming freedom for the captives, bringing beauty from ashes, joy from mourning. Creating a place for women who are dejected, rejected, abused and forgotten, to experience belonging, love, fellowship, freedom. To experience a Love like no other. To meet Jesus.

We took a pause to watch Jessy’s story (now circulating on our social media sites), and tears just welled up.

I HAVE BEEN GIVEN THE GIFT TO PROCLAIM FREEDOM OVER WOMEN WHO HAVE BEEN TOLD THAT THEY DO NOT MEAN ANYTHING TO THE WORLD. I GET TO PROCLAIM LOVELINESS OVER WOMEN WHO ARE ABUSED DAILY. I GET TO BE PART OF GOD’S REDEMPTION STORY IN THE LIVES OF VULNERABLE WOMEN IN ZAMBIA.

I GET to do this!!! And that became my song, my invitation to women in the room. WE get to do this. WE get to be part of God’s great plan in the lives of women who are just like us but who are living in the midst of unfathomable hardship.

After the presentation I expected to get a few questions, a few “hello’s” as is typical. But instead I was handed a wad of checks and cash that was collected.

A 92-year-old woman learned of her YES, of her role in this redemption story, and she jumped in with the $10 she was able to give.

A grandmother who had yet to leave NC took the invitation to be part of life-change in Zambia, doing her part right where she is to empower and remind women of their dignity.

Check after check, $10 and $100 and everything in between represented the most beautiful thing. Women coming together for other women. Standing in the gap of injustice and oppression and really, really hard things to advocate and fight for victory.  Everyone doing their part to proclaim to women in one little part of the world that love is greater, that they matter, that Jesus loves them, and that they are not alone.

Holding hands oceans apart, united with a common mission: to see God glorified in the lives of His people.

I get chills now just typing it out and recalling it. The money raised was a miracle, a much-needed provision in this desert. But even more so was the raising up of world-changers in women who still have plenty of heart for missions regardless of age and location. And the miracle in my heart, Jesus giving me His eyes for a second, to see how brilliant this invitation is, and how even if not another cent comes in this season, His work will be accomplished. What He has called forth, He will accomplish.

The miracles go beyond the money. Our little seed of $30,000 that I used to launch Clothed in Hope back in 2012 has multiplied over and over again. We keep inviting normal people like you (and me) to be part of an eternal story, and Jesus keeps multiplying our gifts.

And if you want proof, here it is. With just 5 women starting the program in 2012, we have grown to hire 10 local staff to run the program. Clothed in Hope has impacted over 862 people. Women, children, some husbands.

59 people impacted in the very first class to EIGHT HUNDRED AND SIXTY TWO.

Y’all. WHAT? 862 people have been touched by CiH in some way or another. Some through realized worth and dignity, some through food on the table, some through lessened financial burden, some through getting to attend school for the first time ever. 

All because ordinary people, like you, like me, like the women last night, choose to be a part of an extraordinary story being written in Zambia.

We choose to stand up on behalf of the forgotten, the hurting, the marginalized.

We choose to put our little gift on the table for large multiplication.

Because this opportunity, to proclaim LIFE and HOPE over women in Zambia, is absolutely the greatest gift, and absolutely worth every sacrifice.

I left last night carrying the gifts like a most-fragile treasure. That money came forth from a holy place, and will continue its journey into hard and holy places. And I will continue to carry it with reverence, with awe, with gratefulness, because every single bit of this is nothing short of a miracle, of the greatest gift. 

floodwaters

As of yesterday, I’ve taken over a dozen pregnancy tests that have been negative. Over a year of this waiting and hoping and disappointment in a cyclical pattern. The only progress I’ve made is that of an “infertility” label by the medical definition from it having been more than a year of this pattern.

The longing remains. The grief isn’t eliminated from our loss, but rather takes a different shape. I look myself in the mirror and that woman isn’t the same one from 2015. She’s changed.

My story is still being written. I don’t have the “after” or the “why” figured out, and I may never. But I didn’t want this moment to pass me by to share what’s on my heart here- here in the waiting. Here in the not-yet-fulfilled desires planted in my heart by Jesus.

Some days come along that wipe me off my feet. Like a flash flood, unannounced, unpredictable in its strength and damage. The waters rise quickly, the waters of doubt and fear and insecurity.

Within minutes I am flooded with these thoughts in my mind:

“What did I do wrong?”

“Why can’t my body work properly?”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“God must not know what He’s doing.”

“He’s not really looking out for me.”
“Why did He give me these desires to only be wrecked by them?”

“What if I misunderstood the promises He spoke over my life?”

The narrative quickly turns to guilt, shame, fear, sadness. Loneliness. “No one else can relate.” “No one else cares.” Lies. But loud ones, fierce ones sweeping throughout my entire being as the raindrops hit with such intensity as to inflict pain. Raindrops of lies, darkness, evil vying for my soul in its vulnerable state.

And by the grace of God, I end up at a coffee shop near my sleepy little town on a rainy day. I plug in my headphones, turn up music, and dam the floodwaters of shame and fear and bitterness with pillars, stones of Truth. I open my Bible and climb. I find the Rock that is higher than I, and I climb onto it, with the floodwaters still rushing around me. I am safe. I am able to confess, to hear, to receive, to stay.

It’s on the rock, in the middle of the rushing waters all around me, that I hear Him speak to the burning question in my heart. For too long, but especially lately, I labor over the question, “What did I do wrong?”

I’m talking about the miscarriages, about the most recent loss of Matthew Dalitso when I confidently thought he was to be our miracle on earth. What happened? I see the miscarriage as a loss, as it is. I’m reminded of it every single day when I see my stomach flattening rather than growing. I’m reminded of it when I see little baby things tucked deep within the closet of Christmas wrapping paper. I’m reminded of it when my Facebook feed shows me how I would look like right now, what I would have to look forward to in just a few months, as friends shared my due date. I’m reminded of it when I hear the baby cry in Target. You get the picture. No mother of miscarriage will ever not remember. I feel that loss deeply. The grief, though becoming lesser in its severity, still remains. I’m learning to make place for it, as it will always have a place in my heart and my story. In my little world, I see the loss of Matthew Dalitso just that- a loss. Void of joy, other than the little while I was carrying him.  

But when the floodwaters aren’t pulling me under, I am able - for the first time in months - to hear His heart about the loss of our baby. When my heart jumps to claim shame for failing to keep Matthew and Evan in this world, His grace introduces His heart:

“Well done good and faithful servant,” I hear Him speak. “Matthew Dalitso and Evan Shane are with Me. They are with Me forever. They are Mine. They are experiencing everlasting life and the fullness of joy.”

That’s all I could’ve ever wanted for my babies. Yes I wish that they were here on earth with me, one growing big inside me and one playing in the living room this Christmas. But from the moment I knew about them, my prayer was that they would come to know Jesus, to love Him, to accept Him in their hearts as their Savior, and to walk with Him forever. I daydreamed about the first steps, the first holidays, the first day of kindergarten. I hoped they would be kind people. People who want to change the world through the gifts they’re given. But all of the daydream wishes are secondary. My prayer was answered for them – just not in the way I expected. I don’t get to hold them and raise them, but I do get to rejoice that they are forever with their Father, glorifying Him and worshipping Him forever. All that a mother could want for her babies.

Still in that joyous realization, there is pain. They co-exist. The expansion of suffering increases the capacity for joy. Or as a wise friend says, “grief expands the heart.” The suffering is real, and all up in my face.

The losses aren’t where the suffering begins or ends. I’ve been walking a long road for a little while now. Not as bad as it could get by any means, but still hard if I can be completely honest. The lies come shouting at me again when I think about everything that has happened: What did you do? You’re being punished. It’ll never end. Your life is just going to be hard. There’s no goodness to be found here. Jesus must not care about you.

So I climb again. Clinging to the rock that is higher than I. I read about suffering, God’s purpose in it and His heart toward it. And it starts to make sense in my little finite understanding, though many questions will still go unanswered on this side of heaven. I read passages like this:

The Spirit Himself bears witness with our Spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs – heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with Him in order that we may also be glorified with Him. For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.  Romans 8:16-18

And I read about Job, whose suffering was not due to an absence of God or a fault of Job’s, but a result of Job’s faith. God found Job worthy to suffer, knowing that his unwavering faith (though full of real-ness and doubts and fears) would point to the glory, the goodness, the faithfulness of God to all who witnessed his suffering.

To partake in suffering is to partake in the heart of Jesus, who suffered for all of us that we could be united with God and redeemed and forgiven by Him. Suffering doesn’t equal punishment no matter how loudly the enemy wants to shout it at me. Suffering is not an absence of His love, but rather an opportunity to witness and taste the magnificence, intimacy, complexity, and power of His love.  And I as much as it hurts, as much as I try to fight it, I can rejoice in suffering, because I know and believe what God says about it. If it brings me closer to God, and is necessary to receiving the glory found in Him, then sign me up. Even if, even so, sign me up.

His power is made perfect in my weakness. In my doubts, in my fears, in the days that I let the floodwaters overtake me. In the days of drought when my comfort (and Netflix) wins.

And my current feelings, doubts, fears, sin cannot alter the path of the promises of God spoken over my life. I cannot ever ruin His good and perfect will. Rather, I can cling to the rock confidently that I am always in the center of it. And cling I shall.

For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is in Him. He only is my rock and my salvation, my fortress; I shall not be shaken. On God rests my salvation and my glory; my mighty rock, my refuge is God. Trust in Him at all times, O people; pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us. Psalm 62:5-8

But now thus says the Lord, He who created you, O Jacob, He who formed you, O Israel: "Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you..." Isaiah 43

matthew

It’s been a month and a half since we heard those devastating words, “there is no heartbeat” in the ultrasound room. It’s been a month and a half without our sweet baby, Matthew Dalitso.

That day seems like an eternity ago, yet I can remember every detail like it was yesterday. Though time stopped for us on August 8^th, life kept moving on. We had friends stay with us, family came, we went on a family trip to Paris, I spoke at my alma mater, and life has continued to progress.

I still think of Matthew Dalitso every day. I don’t know if a day will come and go that I don’t think of him, and I’m okay with that. While I struggle to find the balance between grieving fully and taking the next steps of life, I do know one thing for sure: I don’t want another day to go by without people knowing Matthew’s story, which is really God’s story.

Very early on in the pregnancy, while I was so full of excitement and anticipation, I received a call from my doctor’s office. Some lab results came back unusual, and she wanted me to come in. The word “miscarriage” was used, and I was crushed. How could this be happening AGAIN? The wait to go to that appointment was excruciating. We told a couple of people who knew we were pregnant so that they could be praying for this, praying for our baby who seemed to be in trouble.

So many tears were shed, and I vividly remember getting ready that day. I looked down at my belly and prepared myself to say goodbye to our little miracle baby. I admit that I gave up a bit. I gave up on hope in the face of such unfavorable news. One of my best friends texted me that morning reminding me of God’s sovereignty, of His goodness, of His plan higher than mine. And most of all, of His love for our family and me. A little flicker of hope was re-ignited in my soul.

I walked into the office, face swollen from tears, head hung low, nerves shooting through my body. Wyatt held my hand as together we walked into the unknown. “Amy?” the nurse called. She ushered me into the ultrasound room quickly and quietly.

I looked at the ultrasound screen on my right. I didn’t know what I was going to see, but I reasoned that it wouldn’t be good. I peeked over at the ultrasound tech chart, and it read, “Amy, miscarriage” for reason of ultrasound.

I forced my eyes over to the screen. A little blob was visible. “What am I looking at?” I asked. The tech remained silent as she continued scanning. A little white light appeared, flashing rapidly.

“This is your baby,” she said. “And here is the heartbeat.” The most beautiful sound filled the room, the boom-boom, boom-boom of the little baby inside of me. The strongest heart pumping away. The life fully alive and well.

Time seemed to stand still as those sounds echoed through the room. I let the joy, the relief wash over me. I could’ve stood in that moment forever.

“Everything looks perfect.” What? No miscarriage? No issues? No emergencies?

My doctor soon confirmed the results. The baby was 100% healthy. “Perfect” was used yet again. And she said that she had no explanation for how our baby was so strong and healthy given the test results.

A miracle. Truly a miracle. We spoke those words. We cried. We praised Jesus! Our miracle baby defeated the odds, baffled the doctors, and showed us the power of God.

When we got home, I was struck by a sign hanging in our bedroom over our bed. It read, “It is well with my soul.”

Yes, Jesus. It is so well. I simply couldn’t believe that Jesus would be so good to us as to spare our child from the horrible diagnosis. That He would give us life. And the gift of seeing and hearing our baby doing so well.

A few weeks later we returned for a routine check up. We’d get to take home more cute photos of our baby, see him, and meet some other doctors. Wyatt and I were chatting casually about how the day was going when we strolled into the ultrasound room. And it only took 2 minutes of absolute silence from the ultrasound tech for us to realize something was very, very wrong.

Our baby had passed away. He was born into heaven days before the appointment. The level of heartbreak and shock was far beyond I can ever explain in words.

We returned home and I walked upstairs to tuck myself into bed. Again I saw the sign, “It is well with my soul.”

Jesus, it isn’t well. My heart hurts. My baby is gone. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Our baby was doing so great. He was our miracle.

And then it hit me. My deepest desire in that moment wasn’t for our baby to come back, but it was for my soul’s cry to truly be “it is well,” resting in Jesus, in my identity as His beloved, having everything I’ll ever need even in my loss.

I can’t say I’m always there. But I can say that God has been so gracious. That He is just as good now as He was on the day of our miracle ultrasound. That He loves me just as much. I may not always feel it, but I know it. And I will keep that song on repeat in my heart when all else threatens to muffle it out.

Baby or no baby, I know that it is well with my soul. I know that my God is the keeper of my heart and my life, and I am not overlooked by Him. I know that our babies are safe in heaven. I know that no matter what else comes our way that He is for me, He is with me, and He is crazy about me. That Jesus took on my sin, my fear, my shortcomings, my heartache, and the death and darkness of this world to make me His and unite me with my Father. If He did all of that for ME, won’t He continue His grace towards me? Isn’t that act enough?

It is well with my soul. Not because I’ve “gotten over” the loss of my baby. It is well with my soul in the depths of my grief and pain. Because Jesus is my greatest prize, my greatest reward, my greatest gift.

Below are photos from when I was pregnant with Matthew that I wanted to share to remember him by:

This was before I even knew I was pregnant, but a friend texted me saying she just knew I was from seeing this photo posted.

This one and these next few are from the days and weeks after I found out...

And this last photo was going to be our pregnancy announcement that I was going to share after that last appointment. I still want people to know about and celebrate the gift of Matthew's life in our lives. 

God is so good, and so gracious towards us. 

grief

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.

hungry

She sneaks into the office at the Chikondi Community Center and slips me a handwritten note. It reads, “Please help me Amy. I am suffering. My husband is beating me. I struggle to find money to feed my family. Someone stole all of my inventory for my business. Please help.”

Not 10 minutes later and another woman comes by with her folded up note. Hers reads, “I am really struggling. I cannot send my children to school. The economy is not good.”

An hour later I talk with a woman whose husband just left her and her children for his mistress. He gave our woman $18 to start her new life. She says, “I’m hungry. I have no food at home.”

And then I receive a message from a young man who used to work for us at the center. He says that he’s hungry. Not just the hungry I get before supper, but real, painful hunger. Days without food hunger.

When I came to Zambia a couple weeks back, I knew I was entering into a difficult time for our women and this nation. To say the economy is struggling would be an understatement. The exchange with the USD has gone from K5 to the dollar to K11.5 to the dollar. Prices have sky rocketed for higher import costs. There are power cuts for 12-18 hours each and every day. Throw in fuel shortages and staple food shortages, and it’s really tough over here.

The beast of an economic downfall and its effects on our ladies are quite overwhelming. Daunting. Horrifying. Too much. To read about food shortages for the entire population makes my heart hurt. But when handed the crumpled up notes from women struggling to feed their own children, their babies, absolutely breaks my heart.

I put on a brave face. I stand tall. I hug. I encourage. I strategize immediate solutions to get our people fed. I stay hopeful. But there’s a part of me that is so overwhelmed by everything. I’m called Mama Amy over here which is the most flattering thing anyone could ever call me (other than Wyatt’s wife ;)). But with the flattery also brings responsibility. I have over 100 women depending on our program, which equals to around 800 people when you throw in children and some husbands. Eight. Hundred. People. The ladies joke that I have 100 kids and 700 grand children. I love that I do, but I’m also so scared that I do.

I’m 26 years old. I’ve been a wife for two and a half years. I’ve been out of college for 4. I have barely figured out what a 401k is, or how to coupon at Harris Teeter, and yet I’m responsible for 800 women and children in Zambia, Africa.

Woah.

Sometimes I try to dig to the source of my anxiety, and I’m pretty sure this has a lot to do with it. I am thankful that Jesus gave me a big yet sensitive heart. I love that I get to connect with women deeply and richly and empathetically. But the love also hurts a lot. When I get so close as to see the difficulties of their everyday lives, I put myself in a place of feeling their pain. I never wish to distance myself or turn away from their pain, but I also wrestle with it a lot.

Who am I to deal with this? Who am I to try to tackle running a development organization while caring for the needs of vulnerable women while creating a product line while raising funds and selling products and so much more? How was I chosen to ride this crazy train?

I made good grades in college and worked hard in extracurricular activities. But nothing in the world could have prepared me for even a day of this.

Maybe this is all starting to sound like a pity party. Maybe you’re thinking “how ungrateful.” I don’t mean to come off that way. I wouldn’t trade this for the world, for the highest paying career, for a life without worry. I really wouldn’t. I love what I do. I love this organization, and most of all I love these people. Which brings me back to the hard place.

Over these past couple weeks I’ve been trying to grasp some perspective. What am I supposed to make of all of this? As I hear words of inadequacy and doubt on repeat in my mind, I acknowledge some of it. Yes I am inadequate. Yes this is a lot. But this isn’t all on me either (THANK GOODNESS).

It’s on the 70+ HOPE Club Members who keep this train rolling. It’s on our incredible staff, both here and in America. But it’s also on Jesus.

In Matthew 14, after a really hard day grieving the loss of His friend, Jesus chooses compassion and goes down to meet a huge group of people to heal them. When the sun is setting, His disciples look around at the 5,000+ people there and logically decide to send them home for each of them to find supper on their own, since there was literally no food there. Except for 5 little loaves of bread and 2 fish.

Jesus commands one person to just come and bring Him the loaves and the fish. Rather than that person saying “Jesus, you’re crazy. You know this can’t feed everyone. You know this is a huge problem,” he hands them over to Jesus.

And you know what Jesus does? He feeds everyone with that tiny little amount of food. 5,000 people. Enough to be satisfied. Enough to have leftovers. Not just a little crumb for each person, but abundance.

I read that and my heart rests. My worry subsides. My soul glad. I may only have 5 loaves and 2 little fish worth of talent, experience, qualifications, ability. Clothed in Hope may only have 5 loaves and 2 fish worth of finances some seasons. And there are 5,000 people (well 800 for now) who need their fill, who need to be provided for.

And all Jesus wants from me is for me to hand it over. For me to give Him my little loaves and tiny little fish and trust that He is able to do abundantly more than I can ask for or imagine in the lives of 800 women and children in Zambia, and through Clothed in Hope. I hand it over reluctantly sometimes. I hand it over surveying the gravity of the situation, wondering if He will really come through. But I hand it over regardless. Because deep down past the doubt and fear is the Trust in my Jesus who has always come through. Maybe not in the way I imagined or the way I thought logical, but in the best way ever.

When the situation looks so desperate, so many people needing food and justice and protection, I walk over to Jesus with the little I have knowing that He is the Son of God. He is love. He is redemption. He is gracious and merciful to us. He is Jehovah-Jireh, our Provider. And as much as I love these women and want life for them, it’s just a single drop of water in the immense sea of love our Father has for His people.

And that is good. That is enough. Even when it doesn’t feel good or enough in such desperate times. I won’t be able to feed the 800 or make life better for them. But I know who can. And I’ll keep handing Him my 5 loaves and 2 fish so very expectantly.


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If you want to jump on the train and join us in what's happening in Zambia, join the HOPE Club here: clothedinhope.org/give