impossible

Today was one of the impossible days here in Zam. There are tough days marked by terrible internet, sudden illnesses, feelings of isolation from folks back home, car troubles, and even a “speeding ticket” for going 1 mile over the speed limit. But then there are impossible days.

Now the details of this classification of days I cannot disclose publicly, but just know it has a ton to do with offices, tricky officials, never-ending paperwork, processes, oppression because I’m an outsider (for real, it’s not all giggles and open arms just because I’m an American). These days have the power to stop me in my tracks. Paralyzing, almost.

My typical coping pattern for the impossible days goes as follows: race to a certain café here in Lusaka, order a diet coke with ice and some sort of chocolate dessert and eat/drink without speaking a word. Escape into the online world of social media with their super fast (free) internet to pretend such impossible events didn’t just occur. Race home, change into PJs (yes, even if it’s only 2pm), find the nearest chocolate bar and assume the fetal position for X number of hours. There’s usually a really cheesy movie thrown in there, which gives me an excuse to cry and cry, as if I really needed a cover-up from my emotions.

Crazy? Probably. I run, I hide. I (try to) escape and forget. But it always catches back up to me. I don’t think my ritual is totally off, so long as I return to Truth at the core of it all. Just didn’t want y’all to get the impression that I’m somehow superhuman or that I know how to handle all of the crazy that gets thrown at me on the reg. Or that I don’t couple chocolate with negative emotions like the rest of y’all. ;)

I think it all comes down to this tough notion though- that when the train goes barreling off its tracks after a visit to this office or that to further our organization, it seems as if I/CiH am/is not wanted here. It feels as if the people and the country want us out.

Now I thought all of the paperwork madness would subside within the first 6 months, and that people would just LOVE everything we do to proclaim freedom for the vulnerable, but that’s just not reality. Two years later, and the storm rages on.

But when I really stop to think about it, clear of my emotions and such, why would they want CiH/me here? Why would the deep-rooted oppression want to give way to change? Why would people who instill such injustices want people who will stand up for their own dignity and rights? Why would the presence of evil and darkness want hope here?

It should be no surprise. Rather, it should be a compliment to the Kingdom of God at work through Clothed in Hope. There is an entirely, hugely greater story being written here than I will ever be able to perceive or comprehend.

When change is coming- the hope, redemption, restored dignity, freedom, confidence, healing- I don’t think I should expect anything but a storm. Whether through minor discouragement or a season that seems like it’s never-ending, the evil and the darkness of this world will do ANYTHING to derail us from pursuing the life that Jesus has for us and through us to impact others with the testimony He’s written through such storms.

It’s time to reject the negativity, and it’s time to stand in the middle of this storm, hands raised, praising God that He is victorious. He is sovereign. He is fighting on my behalf, and on behalf of 30+ women in our program. He is at work. He is truly and actively proclaiming freedom for the captives and salvation over all people whom He loves so, so much.

I will not be defeated in Jesus’ name. The battle already has a Victor and I belong to Him. The constant setbacks, discouragements, and failures will not keep me from seeing the beauty and goodness of God. I’ve let it blind me for too long, but no longer will they have such power.

I am thankful that I don’t have to fight continually. I don’t have to be brave always. I don’t have to know every next move. I don’t have to know how to handle every situation. I don’t have to have it all together. Because there is grace to be weak. To curl up in a ball (with PJs and chocolate) and wrestle with the injustices and emotions of the moment. To feel on behalf of the oppressed. To mourn, to be sad, to be frustrated. Because right beside me is a loving Father who cares enough to pick me back up. He heals my wounds. He forgives my doubts and fears. He comforts far beyond words.

I am not alone. I am part of a much bigger story. And in Jesus, in His loving, merciful redemption and defeat of darkness, is where I will stand and choose to find my joy. As tough as it is to choose joy, and as easy as it is to wallow, I will feel, I will cry, I will hurt, but then I will rise. It’s not over, not even close. This is really just the beginning.

kites

Kites are my new love language.

I used to feel most loved, most connected to the bigger picture God has for His children when I saw a brilliant sunset. But now that feeling is most evoked by kites.

Not the elaborate canvas ones controlled by a billion strings and ties.

No, rather the opposite.

Seasons are changing here, and a changing of seasons brings windy days. Perhaps the winds before a storm, or just the wind that helps move the clouds out of the way for the sunshine to burst through.

As I drive my little green vehicle into the compound during this season of changing seasons, I look around for the magic. Small children, dusty faces and shoeless feet, scrambling around every gutter and trash pile with their fellow artisans. The biggest smiles and belly laughter mark the sign of the ultimate treasure found: a plastic grocery bag fully intact. Celebration is surely needed for this crucial step. Hands raised in the air and audible cheering, kite production is now beginning. Each child helps another find his or her own bag until the pack of children is walking proudly with bags in hands.

Large bags holding the most prized food staple are the next treasure to be found. One bag is ripped apart by dozens of tiny hands until each child has a strand of plastic strings long enough to fly his kite.

The first steps, marked by sheer excitement and a sense of adventure are calmed for the last and final step: assembly. Those packs of children are seen congregating in gutters or on any free patch of dirt with their plastic bags, plastic strings, and the 2 sticks they acquired along the journey. Hands move quickly, with minds racing for the adventure ahead.

And just like that, the kites are ready.

On these most magical, grace-filled days, winds aren’t seen as bad. The changing of seasons isn’t intimidating. The upcoming storm doesn’t incite fear, but rather opportunity.

And on these days, above the concrete houses, the trash-filled gutters, the dusty roads and the (still) shocking qualities of living, rise the most beautiful, most courageous, most awe-inspiring kites. Meters high in the sky, flapping in the wind, being held and controlled by the happiest and proudest children.

Hope rises above the pain. Joy flies high. Love is on display for all to see. Fear is no match.

And God displays His glory by saying, “My banner over you is LOVE.” (Song of Solomon 2:4).

The bravest, craftiest little souls have opened my eyes to the beauty of God’s love, the grace that can be found in any situation. For that I am so grateful.

In this season of changing seasons, accompanied with strong winds and imminent storms, I will gather my few materials, my little bag, my sticks, my strand of strings, the little I can gather up on my own. And I will catch the wind and fly my kite high. With a smile on my face and joy in my soul, I will fly my kite high above the hardship, far beyond the difficulty.

Because I have a Father whose banner over me is love. 

weak

This morning was oddly cool and breezy. The usually suffocating humidity of rainy season was replaced with a crisp, quiet coolness. It was one of those mornings that (admittedly) I was hoping for a day off for a movie marathon in my jammies. This week has been tough. And if I’m being honest, this entire time since we landed has been tough. The blog post Wyatt and I wrote just a few days ago still stands true though. We’ve found great joy in being here, but we’ve also faced great opposition and difficulty.

As a teacher/boss/contractor/mentor/etc. I don’t often get to be weak. Rather, I don’t choose to be weak. I have to have all the answers. I have to anticipate the next move and make plans. I have to stand tall when things are tough, because so many faces look to me for how to react. This emotion-stuffing way of doing things probably isn’t the healthiest, but I do it here. When I get hollered at by random people, or ripped off, or singled out, I can’t just collapse and cry. My vulnerability would put me in danger. So when things are hard, I choke it up, I keep moving forward, and I “stay strong.”

And this rejection of weakness is what has bonded me with the ladies of Clothed in Hope today.

I walked into the Chikondi Community Center with a heavy heart today. Burdened. Distracted. Sad. But I dared not let it show. Until I felt that every other woman felt the exact same way. The ladies usually dress themselves in smiles, pretending the worries of the world don’t affect them. Today, it was different. The mood was heavy. The ladies hungry for the opportunity to be weak, to take off the mask of false strength. To lay down their burdens.

Fridays are encouragement days, so today followed the same schedule. But today things went a bit differently. Just recently, I placed a Prayer Request jar at the entrance to the center with paper and a pen for women to submit requests anonymously for us to pray over as a group (quite an American concept, actually). For days only my 2 requests sat in there. When we opened the jar today, there were a dozen little folded slips of paper, confessions of burdens, requests for help.

We could all sense the weight that hung in the room today- the discouragement, the effects of oppression, the worries, the fears. And for just one day, we let ourselves be weak. Each little slip of paper was held on tightly by a pair of women who prayed over that request. Whispers turned to loud voices turned to shouts and cries. We chose to stand in the gap and face the throne of God on behalf of our friends, our sisters. We all joined hands, united, with women of the 2 current classes and even women who will enroll in our newest class. We joined hands in a circle, declaring that the space in the middle belonged to Jesus alone. It was there we could empathize, to lay down our burdens and the struggles of our sisters. It was there we could take off our masks of strength that we keep on for so many people in our lives, and expose faces of weakness and fear. It was there we could be completely ourselves without any reservation, knowing we were meeting the very Spirit of God in prayer.

I often share stories of success only, and yes those stories are important and evidence just how God is moving through our program. But what about stories of weakness? Why are we so afraid to be weak? Who do we think we have to impress?

Women shouted out cries for their sisters for financial breakthroughs.

For their children to have college opportunities.

For another house to miraculously become available as their landlord will kick them out tonight.

For God to provide customers to visit their businesses to provide for their families.

For unity with feuding friends.

For physical and spiritual healing from long-term illness.

For financial provision to buy start-up equipment for new business.

For the well being of their children.

For continued funding for our program.

For the compassion of a husband’s bosses in a particular situation.

For health for a mom in a high-risk pregnancy with twins.

For food for the next week.

And the list goes on. Once we all knew that another woman was struggling, we could admit our own struggle. 12 requests turned to 20. Hardness exchanged for beautiful fragility. I then recognized that it is beautiful to be weak. That God celebrated over all of us women holding hands, crying out about what hurts us, what keeps us up at night, what is hard to trust Him with. Because it’s in our weakness that we are completely ourselves before Him, relying on Him alone to meet our needs. Dependency. Brokenness. Surrender. Vulnerability.

I peeked up from our hour of prayer, hand-in-hand with one woman I’ve known for 2 year now, and one I just met today, and I saw something so beautiful.

One dusty face with tears adorning the tops of her cheekbones. The most beautiful of tears. Tears that say, “I am weak, but You are strong.” And tears that respond to hearing Jesus say, “It’s okay, my love. It’s okay. You can be weak.”

-

I just had to rest in that moment. Recognizing that our King was in the room, the Spirit that has the power to rescue, redeem, restore. Our King wasn’t condemning us for our fears or worries. He was meeting us in our weakness to whisper words of grace and incredible love. He was delighting over our brokenness. He was speaking to the hearts of women who are hurting, myself included. 

In that moment, there wasn’t teacher or student, American or Zambian, widow or single mother, employed or unemployed. There was simply the beauty of a community of women seeking our King together. Celebrating our weakness, even if just for a bit.

What’s even better? After we finished our time of prayer and preaching, we danced. We shouted. We laughed. We sang. We danced some more. Because we all knew that something special happened today. We all knew that we just spent some incredible moments before the face of Jesus in a most powerful way. We all saw each others’ weakness, and it didn’t draw comparison or guilt; it empowered. Though things are hard, though the world is tough, though we’re all fighting our own battles, there is a reason to dance and laugh. In our weakness, He is strong. In our doubt, He is steadfast. In our fear, He is faithful. In our running, He pursues.

We all concluded our morning- turned afternoon- with hearts full of joy. Not because everything was solved or the miracles happened on the spot (though God is fully capable). We left joyful because life is difficult YET we have a reason to rejoice. The God of the Universe is on our side. He is inviting us into beautiful weakness. He is pursuing us in our deepest hurts. He is whispering reminders of love and hope when all else seems too difficult.

And that’s surely a reason to rejoice.

Though the fig tree should not blossom,

    nor fruit be on the vines,

the produce of the olive fail

    and the fields yield no food,

the flock be cut off from the fold

    and there be no herd in the stalls,

YET I will rejoice in the Lord;

    I will take joy in the God of my salvation.

God, the Lord, is my strength;

    he makes my feet like the deer's;

    he makes me tread on my high places.

Habbakuk 3:17-19

Why, my soul, are you downcast?

Why so disturbed within me?

Put your hope in God,

for I will YET praise him,

my Savior and my God.

Psalm 42:11

can't

I realize it's been forever since I've last written and I'm sorry for that! Just to catch everyone up, I got married on November 9, the most beautiful day of my life, and am officially Mrs. Amy Woodell Bardi to my wonderful Mr. It's been an exciting, beautiful, crazy, joyful, chaotic past few months.

Just a week and a half before our wedding day, I was curled up in the fetal position in my bed, lights out, with the most massive migraine I've ever experienced. I used to have frequent headaches but nothing like this. I was out for a couple of days. I was frustrated that I couldn't keep going with my tasks for the wedding due to this inconvenience.

I might be pretty good at hiding it sometimes, but I'm a worrier. I crave control to feel at peace. I over-plan. I like my to-do lists, and they quite honestly could be considered an obsession. I like schedules. And I become anxious when my plan, my list, my schedule doesn't quite work out.

So you can imagine my frustration feeling completely helpless with the world's worst migraine right before my wedding.
What if it comes back on November 9 and I can't be in the daylight to even walk down the aisle?
What if I have a new chronic condition?
What if I caused this on myself and can't ever experience freedom from my stress, worrying, anxiety, etc.?

Yes, those were my real thoughts, no exaggerations whatsoever. I choose fear over faith sometimes. I overanalyze. I think I can control the uncontrollable.

But since that day, I've began to realize that I can't. 

I live in a world that tells me that I can be perfect, I can do it all: I can manage a successful business, I can be the best friend, wife, daughter, etc., I can work 24 hours a day and still get my 8 hours of healthy sleep and I can work out and eat healthy and craft and cook the perfect made-from-scratch dinners. I can save now to be rich later. I can make a 20-year plan to the last detail. I can self-manage, self-motivate, self-improve. I can do anything. Right?

I can't.
I can't be the perfect bride, free of migraines and stress.
I can't create more hours in each day.
I can't cook without a recipe.
I can't do 99% of what's posted on Pinterest.
I can't be the best friend to 50 people, much less 15.
I can't arrange pinecones in a hurricane vase to decorate our first home for Christmas.
I can't create cleaning solutions from scratch.
I can't always do my best with my work.
I can't raise $100,000 to grow Clothed in Hope.
I can't look perfectly pulled together every day.
I can't self-improve, no matter how hard I try.
I can't tell you where we'll be in 6 months, forget about 20 years.
I can't organize as well as I'd like.
I can't curb my obsession with Target.
I can't always love and respect my husband as I should.
I can't sustain my faith in Jesus by my own efforts, or lack thereof somedays.
I can't change the lives of 23 women in Zambia.
I can't always live by faith.
I can't catch up on my reading list, that's supposedly aimed to self-motivate, self-improve, self-etc.
I can't keep dust from collecting on every surface.
I can't support raise enough for my imaginary 20-year plan.
I can't go a day without having a negative thought and/or reaction (usually and).
I can't find time to do every Christmas thing I was hoping to do this season.
I can't overcome sin patterns in my life.

I just can't.

Anyone with me on this one?

I dare to say that I'm not alone. So overwhelmed by can'ts that I often find myself stuck in them. The world tells me that I can do it all, then tricks me into taking a bite of that apple. I then find myself trapped in guilt, shame, insecurity, failure that I couldn't do it. It's like a game that I've played for far too many days of my life.

But since that migraine, tides are changing. Slowly, but surely.

God's grace is in the can't.
God's provision is in the can't.
God's joy is in the can't.
Because only in the "I can't" do I see that He can.
He can. He will. He is. 

It's not up to me. He doesn't demand my perfection. His love for me is based on absolutely nothing I can or will ever do. His love for me is absolute, more unconditional than we can ever comprehend.

God doesn't care that my cooking is B+ at best. God doesn't care if I don't finish my to-do list most days. Because He cares about me. He cares about people. He cares about hearts.
Only when my soul is brought low, humbled, can I look up to see His sovereignty, His strength, His trustworthiness, His love, His compassion, His ability. That He can.
The pressure is off. The weight lifted. There is FREEDOM.


"But He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.' Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong."

face

There are only a few people who touch your life at its deepest, who inspire you at your core, and who teach you so much about life just by being a part of theirs. I’m lucky enough to have found one of these people in the newest Clothed in Hope training class. To respect her privacy and her story, we’ll call her Mary.

I’ve only known Mary for 2 short months. Yet these short months with Mary have changed me.

Mary’s life has been difficult. Harder than I could ever imagine. Oppression at every turn. But if you were to come to our center, I’d be willing to bet that you couldn’t pick out which one Mary is. I surely wouldn’t have pegged her for being quite possibly the most oppressed woman I’ve ever met on the day I met her.

I met Mary the first time I went to our new center to meet our newest class back in late June. Mary looked a little different from the other women, she was timid, but she was intriguing. There was something special about her. Before she left, I asked her how she ended up in this new class. Mary responded not with a typical closed-off answer of a victim, but she poured out her heart to me as a woman desperate for a friend, crying out to be heard.

Mary is HIV positive. Mary is a mother of 6. Mary is a widow. Mary is beautiful.

And the only place that people talk to Mary at any time during the week is at the center. She says that it’s at the Chikondi Community Center where she has made the only friends in her life.

Because Mary’s neighbors know she’s HIV positive. Her family knows. And culturally, she’s to be rejected and left alone. She has had curses placed on her life. Her own relatives have disowned her. And the rare occasion that she gets enough courage to visit them to say hello and extend immense forgiveness, they break the plate, fork and cup she ate off of in front of her, yelling at her that they don’t want her “disease.” They shame her. They embarrass her. The very people who are supposed to love her. All over a horrifyingly-misunderstood disease.

Yet she smiles. Yet her eyes sparkle.

Mary’s health has taken many scary paths. A few years back when Mary was very sick with her symptoms, she was taken into a hospital. She couldn’t move her arms or legs. She couldn’t speak. Her legs were swollen and her body so weak. Mary was vulnerable and trusted the doctors she believed would heal her. But these doctors didn’t care for her. They tried to poison her by crushing up 20 pain pills into her food. They told her she was better off dead so she wouldn’t be on their bill. They spoke hatred into her life. They killed other patients in front of her eyes as she was unable to speak or move to do anything about it. But Jesus saved her from that. He healed her body from the poisoning and weakness and she was able to walk again. Her life was threated by the very people who were supposed to save her.

Yet she laughs. Yet she gives the best hugs.

Last month Mary told me that her children came home from school and hugged her and laughed. They told her, “you used to cry every day and now you are happy, mommy!” Mary rejoiced with me in that moment. At our center, she’s loved. She’s told that what she does is valuable. That who she is, is a treasure. She’s free to laugh. She’s free to open up about the tough stuff in life. She’s free to create, to design, to learn, to be Mary. She experiences the hope, the joy, the love of Jesus, and she is happy. Happy so much that her children notice and their lives are blessed as a result.

But these past two weeks I noticed that Mary had been absent for every class. During a season change like we’re having now from winter to summer in a week, it wasn’t strange but I got that gut feeling that something wasn’t right. I called Mary and only heard exasperated whispers on the other end. “I’m not okay,” she said.  My stomach flipped over. What does this mean? She told me of a failed attempt to go to the hospital. After being poisoned the last time, she decided to return to receive care she desperately needed. The doctors turned her away yet again saying that she isn’t worthy of their blood, that hers is already infected. And that since she was poor, the best thing would be to go home. When Mary asked, “what will happen if I die?” they replied, “plenty of people have died before, and you won’t be the first.”

I was angry. I was hurt. I was confused. I only wanted to escape the pain I felt inside.

I called Elina asking her to figure out a solution and once I hung up I couldn’t hold back the tears. The frustration. The hurt I felt for Mary. Yet again she was betrayed by the very people who are supposed to be there for her. Yet again her health took a turn for the worse. Yet again she was oppressed for circumstances outside her control.

As the tears came, I wanted to run. To hide. To erase the problem.

But Jesus urged me to come closer. To go deeper. Enter in.

The next day I went to visit her at her home with a few other ladies. I was scared. I felt inadequate. I couldn’t fix this one with my bag of beets, liver, and juice. I couldn’t heal her body or reassure her. But I did want to love her as Jesus does.

I parked my car in a narrow alley way filled with trash and waste water. I walked around the grass fence to enter her home. Children were quietly playing on the doorstep. The compound eerily quiet. Heart racing. We knocked on the door and let ourselves in and found Mary there on the couch.

I don’t think I could’ve prepared myself for what I experienced in that moment. Mary was sitting on the couch, hair a mess, face completely sunken in, sweat covering her entire body. Body shaking with fever. Her ankles the size of a child’s wrist. Her face twisted in pain. Her eyes barely opened. Color gone from her face. Hands curled up. Unable to walk.

This wasn’t the Mary I knew. This wasn’t supposed to be happening.

We tried to joke with her to cover the pain and the tension in the room of her condition. We tried to smile. We tried to encourage her but our words failed. Our efforts couldn’t fix it. So I was asked to pray and already-way-too-emotional, I knew it could only be the words of the Holy Spirit that would come from my broken heart. I prayed that Jesus would comfort her, that He would show her how special she is to Him. That the lies she has been told about her identity from family and doctors would be rebuked in the name of Jesus. That her health would be restored by the God of miracles. And on and on. Sobbing. Crying out to Jesus in this little room with my dear friends agreeing with me in the name of Jesus. Flies buzzing around, heat warming up the concrete block room, we brought Mary to the feet of Jesus.

And in that moment a miracle happened. The faces that I’ve only seen be strong and brave broke down into tears with me. Us four women, crying at the feet of Jesus for Him to rescue His daughter from the pain she’s suffered her entire life. Tears of release and freedom streamed down the faces of my friends. All because they knew they were safe in the presence of Jesus to feel what they felt, to be themselves and to be completely loved even in the pain.

At the conclusion of the prayer I looked at Mary. There was no sign of movement other than the shallow breaths she took and the tears that clung to the ends of her eyelashes. I can’t explain the feeling I felt, but I knew I was looking into the very face of God. Tender yet strong. Honest.

When Jesus took my hand to go deeper on behalf of His beloved Mary, He was taking me deeper into pain. Holy pain. The pain of humanity that can only be contrasted with the hope of Jesus and love of God. Entering that pain is painful, it’s scary, it’s difficult, but I believe when Jesus calls us to risk it’s because He wants to show us more of Himself even in the faces of pain.  

And when we feel that holy pain, God feels it too. He assured me that He was in that room crying and praying with us. That the tears on Mary’s eyelashes were His. And that after we had to leave, He would still be there holding her hand, changing her wet washcloth to calm her seizures from her fever, wiping away her tears, and holding her fragile body with strength and security. When the rest of the world rejects her, Mary belongs to Jesus. She is His.

We will keep praying. We will keep approaching the throne of Jesus on behalf of Mary’s life. I don’t understand why she’s had to endure more in her life than anyone I know. I don’t understand why she has felt pain and shame and oppression deeper than I can ever imagine. But I do understand and trust the Word of God when He says He will heal her and restore her. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, maybe in Heaven some day, but He won’t go back on His promises. And His love can’t ever run out for dear Mary. Jesus will heal Mary.

As I left her house, I leaned down and gently hugged the bones that formed the only outline of her body. I told her that I love her and that I won’t stop praying for her. 

God filled my heart with gratitude for getting to be a part of Mary’s life today, tomorrow and forever, and for how she’s forever shaped mine in those smiles, those hugs, those sparkling eyes, and especially in the tears that clung to the ends of her eyelashes. How beautiful is the body of Jesus that we can know our present hope and future hope is in Jesus alone. How comforting to know that no matter what evil is spoken into our lives, even by the ones that we love, that Jesus’ voice of love is louder. And with every tear we cry and moment of desperation we encounter, we need only to open our eyes to the face of God before us.