cage

Ever since I saw Joseph at the grocery store, I’ve been thinking of him. Something inside me has just always felt like his story has been imprinted on my heart for some reason. And I think this might be it…

Rewind to last Thursday night. Bible study with some incredible people, digging into what it means to be a disciple of Jesus. We ended on James 1:27 and prayed that we’d not just be hearers of this Word but doers. Little did I know what that prayer would mean just a few hours later. Little did I know just how God would answer it and show me Himself in a whole new light.

Friday morning comes along and I’m waiting at the shopping center to ride to a market with a dear friend, Vicky, so I’m just standing outside of the grocery store. And I see a little familiar face pop out. That same patchy hair. But this time with boy clothes.

It’s Joseph.

He flashes me a hesitant grin, I ask him how he is, and he replies in English, “fine.” I’m standing by the grocery store entrance as he’s using the bike rack like the best set of monkey bars, exploring and playing. I pray that Jesus would show me what to do for this boy I keep seeing and I keep thinking about. Do I buy him bread? There’s not enough time to get in and out, I thought. Do I give him money? Money doesn’t solve poverty. Do I just smile and go on my way? There has to be more.

Just as this battle is going on in my mind, 2 guards for the shopping center come up and corner Joseph, just feet away from me. They shout at him, grab his arm and drag him across the concrete. He’s resisting but his little body can’t fight back against the strong men. His skinny arms flailing around, his screams terrorizing, I stand in shock. The men look to me, seeing my disapproval and proceed to walk around the side of the building. One man is dragging Joseph while the other kicks him with his work boots. Joseph shrieking and sobbing. Me feeling a million emotions, but most namely, fear. Absolutely overwhelmed.

As I woman, I don’t have a say here, especially to Zambian men. If I were to try to stop them, they’d laugh (and did). If I were to demand something, it would go unnoticed. So I prayed, Jesus what do I do?!  Admittedly, I hesitated. The culture was going to win. There was nothing I could do. But Jesus spoke this scripture into my life at that very second:

“Rescue the weak and the needy; deliver them from the hand of the wicked.” Psalm 82:4 

Heart racing, hands shaking, stomach flipped over, I felt like my feet were moving apart from my body. Jesus alive in me, moving me to act for the voiceless, the orphan, the afflicted, the weak and needy. To deliver Joseph from the hand of the wicked. My feet shuffling across the pavement walking the very path of Joseph’s beating to find where the men were taking him.

I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have the courage. It was all Jesus. The Holy Spirit using me as His tool. His strength to ignite my soul to be a doer of the Word. Just as I realized that I didn’t know what I’d say or do, a wealthy Zambian man drops his groceries, comes along side of me and says, “What do they think they’re doing with that poor boy?” He becomes my voice, my advocate, my partner for rescuing Joseph. Jesus in the flesh. There was no conversation, just words of Truth and Justice, of a pursuit of good.

We round the corner, following the shrieks and cries of Joseph. Painful. Gripping. Terrorizing. And just as I think we’ve found him, I see the two guards standing just feet away, smiling. But the cries are so loud. Joseph is here. I peek around the guards to catch Joseph’s eyes.

In a cage.

My prayers turn into cries. Begging Jesus for his life, his rescue. Jesus was there and Jesus had the rescue planned out perfectly. Through using the 2 most unlikely, a wealthy Zambian man with a heart for orphans, and me, a selfish, sinful woman with no voice, culturally. It all happened so fast.

The wealthy man starts shouting at the guards, calling out the injustice, threatening police reports, giving them a lesson on orphans- children who are just as deserving as their own, children with souls, real people. As the shouting continued, my mind shut all else out and locked eyes with the most handsome boy in the world. The boy in the cage. The boy loved so immensely by the Savior of the world. My feet shuffled and my hands unlocked the cage, opened the door, and ushered Joseph out.

His crying stopped. Tear-stained cheeks. And the weight of the world hit me like a ton of bricks. All I could think to do was rub his back. We both faced the cage as I rubbed his tiny, bony, dirt-stained back and hot tears flowed down my face. Righteous anger. Intense hurt. Painful compassion. Tears turned to sobs and I know that I saw into the very heart of Jesus. His heart shattered. Even in the rescue, He felt the pain expressed by the shrieks of Joseph.

A few minutes later my one-track focus was broken as the wealthy man said, “Are you alright dear?” I turned to see him alone, no guards, and he shared with me all that he said to them. He gave Joseph $1 to go home to his grandmother and disappeared. I will probably never see this man again, but I know that I will continue to see and know the Jesus that was so evident inside of him. Even if he didn’t realize it.

Just like that it was over. Alone in the parking lot, Joseph heading home, I took myself to my car and just let it out for a good 30 seconds. The rest of the day was filled with so many other emotions, but I knew I would deal with the shock of the event later that night.

Skyping my best friend to spill out all that I had experienced, we both cried out to Jesus in tears for Joseph’s life. Thanking Him for the rescue. And I concluded the day incredibly confused about why I had to keep seeing Joseph hurting so badly but yet have nothing to offer him. And I didn’t feel like Jesus was guiding me to take him in on my own.

But the frustration and confusion melted into what God really wanted me to see. The cage. The rescue. The most visible representation I’ll probably ever encounter of how Jesus took the steps of courage to bring about my rescue. Your rescue. To unlock the cage of sin and despair and rub my back, assuring me that I’m His and that I’m never outside His love.

Jesus rescued Joseph from the physical cage at the shopping center, but continues to rescue him, and all of us, daily from the cage of our shortcomings, our fear, our sin, the sin committed against us. The cage is real. But so is the rescue. And the Rescuer is here. He’s defeated sin and called us into His light forever. He’s fighting for us. And He’ll always win.

My eyes still well up when I think of the cage. The glassy eyes I saw through the bars. The moving of the Holy Spirit completely outside of anything I would ever be capable of doing.

And as incredible as that day was, as surreal to witness the rescue of Jesus for the least of these, God doesn’t stop at our expectations.

The greatest words:

BUT GOD.

But God had bigger plans for involving me in the life of Joseph. For introducing Elina to him, a widow whose heart beats for Jesus and orphans.

I thought Joseph would have to continue on this cycle of a life way too heavy for a 7 year old to bear alone, BUT GOD had the rescue continue.

I went to training class Friday knowing that I’d have to cover up my emotions to teach well. Elina could tell otherwise so I told her all about it. She texted me later asking me if it was okay to speak with his grandmother about a plan to care for Joseph.

So yesterday I show up at Elina’s house to drop off the women who came with me to Muchochoma Village. The gate swings open and instead of just the usual 2 little giggling boy faces, there’s another. There’s a freshly shaved head in familiar clothes. But the face is one I haven’t seen before. A face of pure joy, of love, of friendship, of rescue.

It’s Joseph. Elina’s newest child in her household. Elina chose to make the food stretch a bit further to feed one more mouth, to be the hands and feet of Jesus to one more orphan when she, herself, faces many problems as a widow. But when you grasp the love of Jesus there’s just no shaking it.

So praise Jesus for the rescue. For the cage that will always be opened. For love so painfully beautiful. For choosing us, undeserving, to know His love and share it with others. For immeasurably more. 

come

Check out the CiH blog I just posted, More Than a Statistic, for the background on this post.

I sit down to write this blog entry exhausted. My emotions are spilled out all over this patio. Geckos and mosquitos are gathering around me, bats flying overhead (quite Cinderella-esque). But my night isn’t over yet. My head is still spinning; work left undone, heart shattered.

Why? Why did this news hit me so hard in a nation where that monster of a disease is one all-too-common?

Maybe it’s because I thought my morning/afternoon was frustrating because internet was slow, people were being difficult at the office to book a market stall, the grocery’s AC was broken so cheese was rotten and bread was all sold out. Because I thought about my inconveniences as the end of the world.

Until my heart shattered. And I was faced with the reality and depth of my sin of ungratefulness, of pride, of self-focus. Even in a nation that I’m “serving” in. Surprise, I’m a human. And it rocked me to the core.

Questions still fly around my head. Why won’t he be cured? Why can’t he afford those nifty little pills that at least let him be comfortable and extend life for a few more days? What about her little ones? Why do I have so much, yet all she hesitantly asks for is food for his fading body?

What does Jesus think about all of this? I know He’s here. I know this desperation, this seemingly hopelessness, is here to draw me to real hope, the hope of a life with Him forever.

But sometimes all I know in my head just can’t rush down to my heart fast enough to dull the pain. Sometimes the pain itself is good. The wrestling with life. The choosing to see Jesus and faith and hope for what they are rather than what culture says they are. The revealing of real love. The lament of all of the terrible hurt in this world, most namely HIV/AIDS.

Health related issues have always done a number to my heart here. Whether Given’s malaria, or Elina’s migraines, or the boy in pink’s patchy hair, it all just seems so mysterious. One thing I can’t control. One thing I KNOW could be better if only they lived in the US. But they don’t. And that doesn’t make life any less for them. The faith and joy I see in those people would suggest otherwise, actually. They know Jesus IN the junk, not just as a cure to the junk. The Sovereign One. The Comforter. The Hope. They know that real life doesn't end at death. 

On a night when everything seems all too much, all too confusing, my prayer is simple: Jesus, come. 

open

Living in a nation of immense need, hands outstretched at every roundabout, every intersection, it's easy to become numb. Admittedly, I tend to be so pro-development that I overlook the value of meeting someone's immediate need because it's hard to evaluate if they are really in need, if they're just going to rip you off, if you're the 100th person who's also been moved by their "issue." When I receive no salary  and live off of my graduation money (or what's left of it) it's hard to figure out how to be generous.

I justify my generosity level many times. I consider me moving to Zambia as "enough." I've paid my dues. I've sacrificed enough, right? Can't that count?

When there are millions upon millions of people, friends, starving and struggling to make it to the next paycheck or lack thereof, how do I give? How do I live a generous life when if I gave to every person in need I would've been beyond broke the day I landed here?

There's obviously a tension. A desire to live generously and compassionately. Mixed with a desire to want more than handouts for Zambian people. Both could be of Jesus with the right heart and mindset.

So coupled with a very timely finances series at my church here, my prayer has been for Jesus to open my eyes to a need so that I can be generous with abundant blessings He's given me. He hasn't blessed me with so much to keep it all to myself. He blesses me so that He might be glorified through my giving to others.

I didn't fast and pray about this. I didn't read tons of scripture about generosity. I didn't seek out wise counsel to get other opinions on the matter. But I did say one simple prayer: "Jesus open my eyes to see a way I can be generous."

This was last Sunday. Then Monday morning comes along. I'm sitting outside the grocery store on some wire patio furniture finishing up a breakfast-on-the-go of grapefruit juice, waiting for Elina to arrive so that we can go to town to do more super exciting paperwork at government offices. I'm minding my business when I see this little person walk by, one not older than 7 years, dressed in dirty pink pants and a tattered pink striped shirt. No shoes. Patches of hair missing. Runny nose. Glassy eyes.  Hurting eyes. Curious eyes.

Rather than this little one coming up to be begging, "she" just sits at the table next to mine, with dirty, calloused feet swinging back and forth unable to reach the ground. "She" watches me hesitantly yet intentionally.

That's when the feeling kicked in. "Amy, I opened your eyes. Look. I brought this child here."

What do I give when I can't just give a handout of cash, because I know it'll be abused? I handed over my cup of grapefruit juice. The little one doesn't even stop for a breath, finishing it all. "She" takes out each piece of ice, mesmerized, and eats each one quickly. "She" isn't overly excited. Quiet, shy. Yet this was a little person, a child with real feelings. A child with real thoughts. I wonder what "she" is thinking. I'm convicted of all the times I look past little ones like this. But Jesus has brought this one to me with a purpose.

Even if the story ended there, I would be so thankful for how God worked in my heart to show me the love of the Father for every single soul. But He does immeasurably more, remember? Immeasurably more like urging me to give this little one the equivalent of $20, a week's worth of food for people living in the Ng'ombe compound. Something so beyond me that it can only be the urging of the Holy Spirit.

Elina arrives and asks this little one, dressed in dusty, dirty, raggedy pink, who "she" is. Turns out the pink is all he could find. His name is Joseph. His mom and dad are dead. He is a double orphan, the type of orphan thought to be quite common, but the "orphan" statistics include social orphans, abandoned children. This double orphan, this Joseph, is the type of child of which I've only met one other since being here. A 7 year old who has lived through the deaths of both his father and mother. He lives with his grandmother. She is a widow. A double orphan and a widow. Poor. The world's most vulnerable people. Joseph and his grandmother have been brought to us for a reason. The $20 is a shock not just to Joseph but to Elina. It becomes a shock to me too, wanting to take it back but Jesus urging me to keep going even though it's uncomfortable.

We take Joseph from the grocery store, inviting him- frail, sickly, dirty- into my car to drive him to his grandmother's house. Elina is eager to meet her and share the love of Jesus with her. This is an appointment created by Jesus in every way. Widow to widow. A widow whose heart bursts for orphans and vulnerable children. I stay back and leave Elina to talk to Joseph's grandmother, as her influence on her community is so healthy, so encouraging, so inspiring.

Guess what? She came to our training class the very next day. She exclaimed with joy over $20, asking if it was really hers to keep. Jesus came to her in the form of a widow, a hesitant giver, $20 and a cup of grapefruit juice. And Jesus came to us in those things, too. Even in my most inadequate, in my most doubting, Jesus proves His love for His people, working in and through us to display His glory.

Joseph isn't just one of the 153 million orphans in the world. He's a little boy who has lost his father and mother. He is living in poverty. He isn't just his socioeconomic status, either. He's a boy with dreams, with fears, with thoughts and with a story.

I haven't had the pleasure of hearing Joseph's story, and maybe I never will. But I did have the pleasure, and still do, of being moved by the generous love of God, displayed by Jesus conquering sin and taking my place so that I could know God and His grace. Jesus answered my prayer in the most beautiful of ways.

There are Joseph's everywhere, but I'm thankful that God has given me this Joseph to pray over. Joseph's grandmother hasn't returned to training class because Joseph has been sick in the clinic. This could mean a cold or it could mean malaria. Pray for Joseph with me? And for the little Joseph's all around the world?

Thank you Jesus for eyes opened to Your heart.

lunch

What do 99% of Sunday morning church goers seem to do after they walk away from the post-service mingle? Go out to lunch, right? A routine. A ritual. A given.

Today's lunch I sat surrounded by 3 beautiful friends. I dove into the bagel sandwich that has been calling my name all week, named appropriately and affectionately after the glorious Zambain football/soccer team, Chipolopolo. We talked fashion, we shared our hardships, we exchanged work/life updates. We laughed. We listened. We shared.

To the other 3 women, it was probably just a lunch. But it was so, so much more than a lunch for me.

Today's bagel sandwich marked the light at the end of the tunnel of an intensely painful season.

One that consisted of dozens, hundreds of meals eaten alone.

And-
Raw, honest, messy prayers crying out for just one friend here in Zambia.
Days of loneliness and frustration resulting from seemingly not-improving isolation.
An exhaustion of my large DVD collection.
Too many awkward introductions and first conversations.
Bold texts, a confidence totally apart from anything inside of me.
Doubting God's ability to provide community, of His goodness even.
Being "that girl" who tags along to anything and everything involving expats/missionaries under 30.
Being a girl completely different than who I was so comfortably used to in the States.
Fear of never finding friends like the amazing ones I shared my life with in college and continue to Skype/email with weekly.
Feeling weird.
Running every errand alone, squeezing them in before sunset to keep myself safe.
Going from minibus riding, to never leaving my house, to getting a car and braving the ZamRoads just to get out and be around people.
Tears.
Met by the joy of Jesus, romancing my heart in reminders that He will never leave me.

Lunch wasn't just lunch. And this weekend, filled with home manicures, cookie dough, Serendipity, a market visit, Thai food, and a blessing of a church, wasn't just another weekend. It was one filled with something beautiful: friends. 

Grace. Grace upon grace.

Thank you Jesus for the incredible gift of friends, of community who is there through the good, the bad, the frustrating of life here in Zambia. For the ones both at home, sacrificing time to spend with me despite their busy lives, and the wonderful new ones here in Zambia who know a bit better what life is like as a formerly-alone 20-something in this big country.

You know what though? And I'm not just saying this. But I am thankful for the season I'm stepping out of. Because God reminded me that He is all I will ever need. That He doesn't ever withhold His good. That His timing is perfect. He's given me these great friends at just the right time for each of us. I needed time alone, removed from my comfort of always-available friends who know every single thing about me, to see what they are. They're grace. And Jesus is the Giver, the Provider, Love.

If you would've told me about this day back in August, I would've probably laughed in your face (and cried out of frustration later) but Jesus gives immeasurably more than all we can ask for or imagine. Not just one friend. But four, and others. Friends who I can walk beside in the crazy, chaotic, beautiful life that is life here in Zambia.

Jesus thank you for bagel sandwich lunches.

valentines

I spent my day today with 11 of the most beautiful Valentines.

As with any good Clothed in Hope celebration, there were sugary drinks (Coke & Fanta this time) and beautiful sugary treats ("cupcakes" aka scones with frosting) on the menu. Rather than taking the lead, I just let it be. Let Joshua join us and sit patiently for his Fanta. Let the ladies do things as they do, not as I had planned.

And I really learned a lot. It was humbling to be in the middle of such a seemingly lighthearted gathering to find that the ladies wanted to treat it with the utmost respect filled with deep rooted cultural traditions. I thought it was interesting so I figured I'd share.

The two youngest (minus myself, who somehow was deemed guest of honor and therefore rules are flipped around) are expected to serve the rest. Margret and Tresa retreat to the kitchen to place all the cupcakes on a serving tray to carry out to the group. Drinks are poured in front of everyone and everyone must wait to drink until all have received their portion. All handing out, receiving, and eating is done with the right hand. The "clean hand" culturally. When it comes to serving the cupcakes, the skinniest ones receive food first then the fattest one last. In this case, unashamed and completely understanding of the custom, Pauline proceeded to exclaim her title proudly. I'm not making this up, folks. The comments that followed are not to be published, though I can say it's shocking to witness women and weight in another culture. Refreshing, actually.

Surrounded by women enjoying the "sweeties" (myself included, obviously), my heart filled with joy. Sure we can make bracelets. We can make top secret super awesome samples of future products. We can start our class with a mini lesson in microeconomics. But all of this "programming" seems to fade away when CiH is at it's original design: a way of encouragement, love, hope, joy to vulnerable and oppressed women. It's pretty amazing. I sat thankful to get to witness their culture in the little things.

Finishing up our treats I noticed that Margret (the second youngest of the group, widow at 25 and mother of a 3 year old) hasn't touched her cupcake. In a culture where not eating all of your food, regardless of preference, is a shameful thing, I was curious. Margret shares with the group that she'll enjoy the Fanta, but she will save the cupcake for Rabbecca, her little girl. She probably didn't think much of this. Though I did, and obviously still do. In the height of joy, Margret chose to sacrifice and found joy in it. Not pain, not a burden, but she is even happier because she gets to give the cupcake to the love of her life. Beauty.

Before we dismissed for the day I encouraged the ladies to use this Valentine's Day (except that they just say Happy Valentine's here) to tell the people they love just how much they mean to them. To not let the opportunity pass them by to tell someone that they love him/her. To celebrate love.

With which Margret lights up, looks at me, and says, "I love YOU, Amy."

Thank you, Jesus, for giving me the most beautiful best friends in Zambia. Thank you for pouring out Your grace on me and letting me see Your heart in the middle of an insane time back here. Thank you for love that has been given abundantly to us through You so that we can share it with each other. Thank you for the best Valentine's Day I've ever had.

sake

Yesterday's post isn't one I regret. I want to share the difficulties to portray what real life is, not just my fun photos and weird tweets about the quirks of life here. But waking up today I realized that I have to tell the full story. As much as I wrestle with injustices and struggle to see the silver lining in the suffering of humanity in Zambia, I know Jesus is here. I know because He romances me daily. He gives me strength to endure, mercy to start a new day, joy in the junk. And I know because He says so. His Word never falters. His promises never broken. He is saving His people. He has defeated this darkness. This life on earth isn't all there is to the story. Rather, it's just the beginning.

Yes my suffering produces fruit in faith. I get to see more of Jesus. He shows me dependence through grace. He lavishes His love when I fear. I do benefit. But what if I said that it's not for my sake? Because it's not. His blessings are for His glory. His grace for His sake. The more Jesus empties me of myself, the more He can live through me. Jesus doesn't just give grace so that I can have great stories, adventure and even hardship that turns around, but so that I can worship Him with my life, with my voice, with my soul. Jesus, receive the glory, the little fragments that I have to offer. Pour me out and fill me up with You, for Your sake.

Today is just another day. Still janky. I still feel beat up from yesterday but Jesus shows me Truth. Grace. Life bigger than me. Peace. Love. For His sake.

"Father, into Your hands I commit My Spirit." Luke 23:46, spoken by Jesus enduring the cross on my behalf for His glory
"Into Your hands I commit my spirit; You have redeemed me, O Lord, faithful God." Psalm 31:5
"Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses His life for My sake will find it." Matthew 10:39

Today I'm thankful that this world doesn't have the final voice. Jesus is coming to make all things new. He's calling everyone to live for His sake, and it's there that pure joy is found. His hope is alive and it will never be defeated.

monday

Today is Monday. In every sense of the word.

From 8-14Hours, I was out at various government offices getting yet another batch of paperwork done with Elina. What was accomplished and checked off of the to-do list? Nada. And I feel like I met every mean person who lives in Zambia today. Elina said that it’s because it’s Monday. I think she’s right. Jesus, teach me grace.

First on the list this morning dealt with our nonprofit registration number. Turns out they use the same numbering system for charities, businesses, and private companies, all starting from #1 yet separate in categories. The reason I even bother to explain this oddity is this: we went to file some tax paperwork and pay fees on our building Friday only to find out that the downtown office thinks we’re Chrismar Hotel. This could be fun and all, except that they refused to continue with paperwork until we sorted this out. So that’s how we found out about this unique numbering system this morning.

The sad reality of the situation hits even deeper than the frustration of inefficiency systems. Our number, generated for us in the charity sector in August, turned up to be the same number that a business (hotel) received decades ago. Charities are just now approaching the number of businesses from decades ago. Who do you hear of that wants to work for a charity in Zambia (besides me, obviously)? Jesus, send your laborers with endurance and love.

For some reason, it seems near impossible to get things functioning here. From bank accounts to personal visa issues, it seems like sometimes everything is done to make sure we don’t accomplish anything. A shocking reality in a nation in need.

After we decided on the last errand, certain that it would be a success so that we could end on a high note, we went in only to be rejected again. Frustration. Confusion. Why does it have to be so difficult?! I suppose Jesus doesn’t always send us to the easy places. I don’t know if I have any major takeaway from today or any beautiful silver lining. It’s just one of the days I’m wrestling with the reality of life and the vast injustices there are here and around the world.

It’s not fair that I have to watch a street boy struggle to carry his collection of plastic containers weaving through busy traffic in route to his destination, where he’ll likely sell them for a few cents or where he’ll owe them to some sort of street master.

It’s not fair that every step we try to take as a charity gets a wall thrown in front of it. That our honesty and passion are overlooked for more money and more papers.

It’s not fair that over lunch I find out that all of the orphans Elina is housing are without money to pay for school fees. Some even face having to drop out before completing a pivotal testing year of grade 7 because the money isn’t there.

It’s not fair that our women have to face the difficulties of life on behalf of their children, fearing for their future and feeling like what they do won’t be enough sometimes.

It’s not fair that my friends come to me with stories of a sweet 4 year old girl being dumped in a landfill by her own mother, enduring the pain from larvae who have burrowed in her skin.

It’s not fair that Mercedes Benz SUVs and $50,000 NGO cars drive through slum compounds without the blink of an eye.

It’s not fair that this isn’t fixable. That no matter what I or anyone else does, it’ll never amount to even be a drop in the bucket.

Today, things are heavy. Things are frustrating. Things are hard. My heart shatters for this place, so overlooked and so difficult. Jesus, come soon. Jesus, give us strength. Jesus, let your love shine through the darkness.