five

Clothed in Hope was birthed out of heartbreak right before my 21^st birthday during my junior year of college.

Clothed in Hope followed me to Ghana when I lived there for 2 months in 2011.

Clothed in Hope was there through my last sorority semi formal, and senior year memories with my best friends and roommates.

Through my new love, my last love, when I met my husband in 2012.

Through college graduation and moving to a developing nation by myself.

Through self-discovery, mistakes, successes, independence.

Through engagement, wedding planning, and the start of marriage in 2013.

Through trips to Zambia and back, fundraising, networking, becoming an extroverted introvert out of necessity.

Through a move to Texas, newlywed life, our first Christmas, and moving to Zambia together just 2 months later.

Through job and house changes, hard times, great times, program graduations.

Through deaths in our CiH family, through miraculous births of new CiH babies, through disease and recovery, through personal loss in 2014.

Through living in half a dozen places, struggling to make each a home.

Through putting myself out there to make new friends and form community, while grieving the loss of some friendships in the changes of life. 

Through the transition back to America in 2015, the hardest year.

Through marriage struggles and defeats, and later to redemption and restoration in marriage, entering our honeymoon phase 2.5 years after our wedding day.

Through my mid-twenties, discovering who I am, what I believe, what I value, how I process life. Through realizing that I am sensitive, I am highly empathetic, I am introverted, I am a lover of home yet a chaser of adventure. I am strong yet incredibly weak. I am incapable of many things, yet able to do more than my mind leads me to believe much of the time.

Clothed in Hope has been with me through the last 5 years of life, dare I say the most pivotal years of my life thus far. Through major life moments, memories good and bad.

And while I try to attribute running a nonprofit to the hardships of my life, I step back on this 5^th birthday of this organization to see that CiH has aided in my healing, in my rescue, in my sculpting of my identity, as I see Jesus so alive in the lives of women in Zambia. They don’t know it but they help me. They show me what life is about. They introduce me to beautiful simplicities in the midst of overwhelmingly daunting circumstances. They invite me to true joy, true grace, a life lived in response to what Jesus has done for me, for all of us. In my doubting and deep insecurity, they show me what confidence in Christ looks like- a deep-rooted understanding of value not earned through my accomplishments or successes, but by the words of acceptance spoken over me by my Father.

Five years on the other side, I can’t say that I’m less scared or less overwhelmed or less stressed on some days. But I can say that I get it. The fear doesn’t scare me. The feelings don’t conquer me. I can dig my feet into Truth, and put one foot in front of another to keep walking on this crazy, beautiful, challenging, testing, joyous journey. Five years later and I look back on the hardest years of my life with a deep, rich gratitude.

I praise Jesus that even the greatest defeat to me didn’t shake Him from His throne. That even my greatest failure couldn’t separate me from the love He has for me. That the greatest identity crisis couldn’t take my label as “Daughter” off of my heart. That the darkest night was never dark to Him. That what was meant for evil was ultimately used for His good, His glory, my good.

Grace, mercy, more grace, redemption, progress, grace abundant.

CiH isn’t the story. Though it has been a large part of my story.

Jesus is the story. Jesus is the motivation, the prize, the security, the affirmation, the success, the purpose, the joy, the thrill.

fear

The night was a weekday. I had been in Zambia just a few short weeks since landing at the Kenneth Kaunda International Airport with a one-way ticket stub from America in hand in July 2012.

A dusty sunset spread across the sky, visible through the barred windows in the little cottage I was renting in Lusaka. I settled into my weeknight routine, making dinner from scratch, chopping local vegetables and stewing them over rice. I popped a DVD into my laptop and snuggled into the soft corduroy couch in the furnished accommodation. Not yet quite accustomed to the Zambia way of life, I didn’t have the routine down of charging my computer every time I used it in case power went out at any time. As the movie concluded, so did the battery life on my laptop, a light source and boredom cure. The only electronic device that remained with a few hours of battery life was my phone. As the dusk gave way to pitch black darkness, I flipped the switches on in each room, always having been a bit (very) cautious and nervous in the dark, especially when alone. Not minutes later, the power went out. A local power cut to conserve the country’s energy reserve. Or something like that.

Pitch darkness. I hurried through the main room, collecting my phone to use as a flashlight and gathering up all of the matches and candles I could find. After making sure I was padlocked inside with the metal bar over my front door, and that door locked, I locked myself in the bedroom. I lit the candles whose light was still dim in the darkness. I lay there wide-eyed, yet tired from the day’s activities. Should I go to bed? It’s only 8pm, a time that would be laughable to go to sleep if I was in the States.

An hour passed, and somehow I kept myself busy on my phone thanks to the freshly-purchased internet bundle. Snuggling deeper into bed and ready to call it a night, I startled awake when I hear an unmistakable sound.

Bang. Bang bang bang. Brakes? Too clear. Too sharp.

Gunshots. And they continued.

The bedroom I locked myself into backed up to a tall concrete block wall separating that property from the neighbors. I could hear that the noise was close, either over this wall in front of me, or over one of the properties adjacent to that.

Thieves were coming. They could tell the power was out because every house was dark, thus the electric fences down and people vulnerable to being robbed.

For someone already afraid of the dark, I became terrified. I could hear the shots getting closer and closer. Dogs barking. Bang bang bang. More dogs. Echoes nearing the wall just feet from my window. A window with bars, yes, but in a room with nowhere to hide should the shots want to enter my room. The entire house was like that, full of windows that gave to gorgeous natural light by day, but now gave way to a danger that there was no where to hide to be out of the path of bullets.

Was this really happening?

What should I do?

I lay paralyzed. Realizing there is not one single thing I can do.

Either they will come and they will shoot as I try to hide behind some furniture or something, or they will not come. My panic was not going to prevent their coming.

In that darkness, for what felt like hours but was surely a few minutes, I lay completely still. Heavy, labored breathing. Rapid heartbeat. And tears streaming down my face.

I wish I could say I felt the perfect peace right then, but instead I felt overwhelmed by terrible darkness. The darkness of night, the darkness of fear, the darkness of a spiritual force that was in my room that night. It was like I could tangibly feel darkness and it inhabited my dwelling place.

All I could do was pray “Jesus.” I repeated over and over again “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus” as tears continued streaming and I remained curled up in the fetal position.

Some time in there, the shots ceased before they reached my window and I fell asleep by the grace of the Jesus I was clinging to. Darkness gave way to glorious light in the morning, as the 5am rays permeated my window and gave the most brilliant warmth in the previously cold and dark and terrifying room.

The day was new. The threat over. But not really. There would be a night to every day. This event could happen again and again. With possibly worse outcomes. And by day, I wasn’t exempt from danger. I was in a foreign country all by myself with blond hair and light skin, unable to fit in no matter how badly I wished I could. The shots signified that someone knew I was near, a reality I was warned about as word travels fast about the newcomers.

The naivety quickly faded. Reality set in. Yet I had a task to do and couldn’t lay paralyzed in bed all day. I quickly got ready for the day, grabbed my bag, and unlocked my padlocks to leave the house. I re-locked my padlocks, unlocked the iron gate padlock, and exited through the small door in the iron gate. And I was on my way, walking on the very road that the thief walked just hours before as he went shooting around different houses.

I walked up the road I walked many days previously, yet it felt so different. I felt so… exposed. So vulnerable. I felt like all eyes were on me, the tall white girl who was walking by herself in her long skirt with her giant bag.

A few strides up the road, I stopped completely. I just stood on the side of the road next to the trash-filled gutter and looked around. Looked to my sides, looked behind me, suddenly aware of every single movement and reaction of others’ around me. Were they walking too close? Were they looking at me too long? Was I in danger?

I realized in that moment that I had a choice: I could walk in fear every single day. I could stay paralyzed by the darkness. But that wouldn’t change the situation. Someone could still rob me, and my fear wasn’t protecting me from danger but rather ridding me of joy and life.

Or I could choose to acknowledge the danger, be wise, and trust in the Jesus who met me in that scary dark room the night before. I could feel Him walking beside me. You can call me crazy if you want, but I did. I could feel His spirit protecting me, guiding me, comforting me as I resumed my steps up the big hill to begin my walk to the Ng’ombe Compound.

The dependence on Jesus was an obvious choice in that situation. I was so desperate that I didn’t have any other choice. I surely didn’t want to live in the fear that gripped me the night before. So I just had to trust that Jesus was with me. That His comfort was enough in any situation, good or bad.

(The story concluded with me moving out of the house just days later to move in with several other expats (foreigners) in a more secure neighborhood. No shame in not being “brave enough” to live alone. Plus, they had a pet tortoise, which was a major selling point.)

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Fast forward to 3 and a half years later. I’m in a coffee shop in suburbia, everyone around me sipping their frappuccinos in their sweatshirts, light wash denim, and sneakers. I’ve lived here almost 6 months now after moving back from Zambia.

And when people ask how life is now, I tell them that the transition has been really hard. Maybe that’s not what they want to know, but that’s the story I want to share so I do. Because it has been hard.

But what I really want to say is that I’ve been “dealing with” anxiety for the past year. And that’s been really hard. My anxiety that I equated to a lack of faith turned out to be a real life chemical imbalance from prolonged stress and exposure to traumatic situations.  I got on some medications that have helped me walk through daily life with less emotional and physical pain. And I’m not ashamed of it.

I have anxiety, and while I hope to reach a place where it is no longer part of my everyday life, I also realize that right now it is part of my everyday life, and it may be for a long time. I have come to the reality that I have anxiety, but that my life isn’t defined by my anxiety. It’s just another twist in the plot of life.

And it’s much like the gunshots that one night.

At first, I lay in bed paralyzed by the darkness I felt. I had to be on tranquilizers daily, sometimes multiple times a day just to deal with the effects of anxiety on my body and mind. I wanted to detach and wanted to run. I could sense the imminent danger of this condition’s presence in my life, yet I had no idea how to cope, how to survive the threat upon me.

So I lay in the fetal position crying out “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” I felt the warm tears soak my cheeks, the feeling of helplessness leaving my body with emotions stronger than I’ve felt before. And while I was not removed from the pain, and still continue to walk in the pain on some days, I am comforted.

Because in this season too, I have a choice. Live in the fear of the condition, thinking terrible what-ifs regarding my future with anxiety. Or choose to walk outside that door of the iron gate, and up the hill, with all eyes on me and unable to blend in, feeling the presence of the danger and darkness at times, but choosing the light instead. Choosing Jesus. Choosing to call on Him to walk beside me. Choosing to find my identity in Him over my medications or my diagnosis or my symptoms or my good days vs. bad days.

Some days the decision feels more blurred. Instead of the black-and-white decision faced on that road in Lusaka, I find other options that shouldn’t really be options at all. Like running to daytime television and HULU binges. Or thinking that working so much that I don’t have to pay attention to the issue at hand is a viable, healthy solution. I don’t see it as plain as it is with other comforts that present themselves to muddy the waters. In reality, there are just 2 options: live in fear or live in freedom. To live in HULU and run to my work is also to live in fear, but is somehow a bit more socially acceptable than to lay in my bed terrified for days on end.

That freedom available to me in the midst of danger a couple years back is still available to me. Jesus is still near, He is still victorious, and His invitation still stands to seek refuge in Him, the only true refuge for my soul. Though there are more deceitful yet tempting offerings of “freedom” in this first-world, He is still the only one, a conclusion I confess that I come to out of trial-and-error sometimes.

Though comforts beckon my heart and seem to shout louder for my attention, I am drawn back to the freedom I’ve clung to all along this journey, especially through a chaotic and sometimes dangerous life in Zambia. The realest danger now is that my heart would become convinced that these comforts bring freedom. The realest danger now is found in a battle not so obvious, a battle to pull me away from the one place my soul finds freedom, acceptance, worth, purpose, rest.

But the invitation to freedom is ever still, and ever will be. His grace so sufficient for me. His power made perfect in my weakness. And He’s still walking up that hill with me.

loss

Last October, I went out to dinner and a fashion show (not typical) with some expat girlfriends in Lusaka. I had been feeling off a few days prior, nauseous at the most random times, lacking an appetite, and big on the naps. When a couple girls asked me to explain my symptoms, squeals erupted. “You’re pregnant!” “I know you are!” “No mojito for you!”

I quickly negated their outlandish assumptions. I giggled along with the giggles, but inwardly got really embarrassed for some reason. I ate my Pad Thai and watched the fashion show, but couldn’t get those few moments out of my mind.

What if I am? We weren’t planning to get pregnant. It would be the worst timing. We can barely afford to feed ourselves. How would we afford a child? We didn’t even know if we were staying in Zambia another year. So many questions, and somehow a wave of shame.

I didn’t discuss it with anyone, not even Wyatt really. It was too soon to be 100% certain, but I could tell that my body was acting in a way I’ve never before experienced, even having experienced every stomach/health issue under the sun. I knew what was happening, but out of fear or something, I didn’t really tell anyone.

So on November 2, 2014, when I lost the baby, there weren’t many people to tell. I hadn’t let family in on it really. I didn’t tell the ladies or our close friends (other than the girlfriends at the Thai restaurant). I told Wyatt rather matter-of-factly and went to work at the Internet Café on a particularly hot day. I remember every single moment of telling Wyatt. Like one of those monumental moments that you don’t realize are happening in those very seconds.

I went on my way and continued life for days, weeks, months. I told a couple more friends, who gave me their spin on the situation. “It’s not a big deal.” “It was so early.” “Good thing the pregnancy didn’t progress. Y’all aren’t ready for a baby.” “You shouldn’t be sad.”

I don’t blame them. They were speaking through their own emotions and thoughts about early miscarriage. We didn’t see our baby on a screen. We didn’t have a gender reveal party (though we later learned that our lost life did already have a gender assigned before his/her death). The whole experience was so foreign, and honestly, so scarily unknown to me, that instead of allowing myself to experience my own emotions, I let others dictate them for me.

If I wasn’t supposed to be sad then I wouldn’t be sad. If it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal then it wouldn’t be. If it was just an early miscarriage that happened in some high percentage of pregnancies, then I would just add to the statistic.

That suppression worked, until I found myself sitting in my therapist’s office 8 months later. She asked me to describe the traumatic events of the past year that landed me on her sofa, and I listed them with as much emotion as I would have when reading the grocery list. I felt these tough events at the time, for the most part. I ate chocolate cake on their behalf. I cried tears and danced to loud music and prayed hard prayers. For most all of them, except one.

When I got to “miscarriage” written matter-of-factly as I assumed it was written in my heart, I broke. Tears flooded my eyes and flowed down my cheeks. When I started to feel my shoulders shutter, I knew there was no stopping the flash flooding ahead. I was shocked at my emotion. I was surprised that I had such strong sadness and grief stuffed down for so long. It was erupting, months later, but not too late thankfully.

My therapist let the floodwaters flow, and simply said, “You lost a life. You are allowed to be sad.”

Wyatt and I lost a child exactly one year ago today. A child who we fully believe we will be reunited with when we reach heaven. We don’t know why we didn’t get to see his/her face or hold him/her in our arms. But we do thank God for allowing us to create a child who finds his/her home in heaven.

I realize that not every tragedy needs to have a lesson. Some things are just hard. Losing a child was hard. Knowing that my body miscarried a child was hard. Feeling ashamed to tell anyone for a long time was also hard. 

But now that 1 year has passed, Wyatt and I have processed this loss together. We’ve cried together. We’ve celebrated this life, and we will continue to celebrate this little life in remembrance every November 2^nd. And we’ve grown in knowing that our emotions matter, that Jesus gives us the space to feel, to be seen in our sadness, and to trust Him with our tears. Big or small, tragic or frustrating, the events that plague my heart matter to Him, and I am so very thankful for that.

We share this tender story, because we believe little Bardi’s life mattered and still matters. We believe it’s worth celebration, it’s worth tears, it’s worth laughter, it’s worth all the chocolate cake in the world. And we hope you’ll join us in this bittersweet celebration today.

celebrate

Guest post for Called for Such a Time, originally posted as "Celebrate Good Times (Like a Zambian) here: https://calledforsuchatime.com/celebrate-good-times-like-a-zambian/

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On September 12 of this year, we held our fourth graduation ceremony in Lusaka, Zambia for eight brave women who successfully completed our Clothed in Hope skills-training course.

In the middle of a dusty compound in the urban capital of Zambia sits our Chikondi Community Center, our Home of HOPE for vulnerable women in the area. We offer free skills-training classes in sewing and entrepreneurship to empower and alleviate poverty in a dignifying, sustainable way. Women in our program have suffered the death of their husbands at 40 years old due to highly preventable diseases. Their babies have been murdered in the hospital due to corruption. They have been poisoned because they have AIDS and are “taking up bed space” at the clinic. They endure daily domestic abuse. They face hunger, uncertainty, harassment from landlords, and the list could go on and on. These are women IN our program, currently working through what will be and what is a life-changing path for them and their families (more info: clothedinhope.org).

I won’t even go into the situation of women who aren’t in our program, because the need is overwhelmingly devastating. Just imagine a mom selling her body nightly because her 6 babies are very hungry and she can’t pay rent from month to month. Not because she wants to, but because to her it seems there is absolutely no other option (…until she finds out about Clothed in Hope, praise Jesus).

This reality can seem a world away to those of us not in Zambia, even to me at times, especially now that I’m based back in the US to provide administrative and financial support to our amazing (diva-status) in-country staff.

But that Graduation Day in September struck a chord within me and started a burning in my heart, and not just one for the Zambian women facing seemingly impossible situations (since that fire’s been burnin’ for quite some time now).

As I sat at the front of our Chikondi Community Center yard under our Ceremony Tent (don’t ask, just roll with the Zambian cultural differences), I peered out over the 60+ women who have graduated from, are gradating from, or are currently enrolled in our skills training program that began as a dream in my college apartment in 2010.

The dance breaks were so fun. The skits presented were powerful yet hilarious (I love how much they love acting like “Mama Amy” with her accent and over-usage of “awesome”). But the real magic started happening toward the end of the ceremony.

In the middle of our dusty compound sat 8 women who have achieved much, and were dressed to the nines full of confidence and beauty. Nothing outside the walls mattered except the accomplishments of these women. Women recognized for the first time in their entire lives.

I called each woman to the Ceremony Tent to receive her diploma, a giant hug (a big deal since I’m not a hugger, but I couldn’t miss out on these hugs y’all), and a few goodies from our In-Country Staff. The reaction was contagious.

One woman, Stella, rockin’ a custom made African print dress that fit her impeccably, rose from her chair when she was called. Her hands lifted high in the air in praise to Jesus. She just froze in a moment of intimate adoration, and we were all so honored to experience that moment with her. Then as quickly as hands were raised, Stella busted a move all the way up to the tent (also cultural, but also awesome). She danced, she cheered, she laughed, she rejoiced. And when she arrived at the tent, she fell to her knees before Jesus thanking Him for what He’s done in and through her life over the past 12 months of this program, and her entire life leading up to this moment. When she rose, she threw her arms around my entire body for what could be up there for one of the best hugs of my entire life (sorry hubs).

All that, so magical. So beautiful. But the true, awe-inspiring, challenging-to-my-soul beauty began when Stella turned away from the tent to return to her seat. The entire crowd of 60+ people cheered! They shouted! They danced! They raised their hands in praise! They ran up to her and hugged her so tightly. They celebrated her with the most selfless love.

They didn’t celebrate because they knew their celebration was coming later. Some have already graduated with much smaller graduation ceremonies. Some may never graduate due to life situations calling them elsewhere. They celebrated Stella simply because they love her. When she wins, we all win. When her life is changed, we all rejoice in that.

I’m not a huge (public) crier, but tears of joy welled up multiple times that afternoon. The sheer joy these women had in the ability to celebrate each other was just breathtaking and heart-bursting.

Maybe we can write it off as another cultural thing. Everyone knows Africans (Zambians) take care of their own and are huge on community, right? Maybe it’s just how they are. But what if we look past culture to see our commonality of humanity?

That perhaps this response is Jesus-rooted instead of culturally-rooted.

I left that ceremony almost a month ago, but it hasn’t left my mind ever since.

What would it look like for me to celebrate Jesus working in and through my friends’ lives like my friends in Zambia do for each other? What would it look like for me to truly celebrate others without a tinge of jealousy or expectation or comparison?

When my best friend launches a College Women’s Connect as the women’s ministry pioneer at her church and witnesses over 40 women attend on Thursday nights, my heart cheers, but can’t my body and my voice too?! YES! PRAISE JESUS! YOU GO GIRL! I AM SO PROUD OF YOU! YOU ARE SO BRAVE FOR STEPPING OUT AND I LOVE WITNESSING JESUS WORK THROUGH YOU!

When my friend returns home from a third-world country after a really rough time adopting her two beautiful girls, I can send her a nice Facebook message, showing that I care but keeping my true celebration at a distance. Or I can scour the aisles of Target for an hour in search of the perfect presents for her and her two girls to send across the country to let her know that they’re not forgotten. That they’re loved. That though the transition is hard, I am cheering for her. Jesus is cheering for her.

How did community/friendship become such that we dial down our celebrations and over-the-top reactions for each other? Maybe we’re getting older and balloons aren’t age appropriate anymore (but they totally are). Maybe social media tricks us into believing we’re connecting with someone. Or maybe social media introduces us to these nasty things called comparison and jealousy, and we don’t celebrate each other because we haven’t received that celebration ourselves. She didn’t celebrate me, so why would I celebrate her?

We could go through every scenario and probably come up with a reason as to why we don’t celebrate each other like we could. But what Jesus has been revealing to my soul over and over since that Graduation Ceremony, is that there’s simply no good reason to not celebrate accomplishments and traits in my friends and strangers. Because He celebrates over me daily. He sings and dances over my identity, apart from any progress I do or don’t make with my personal struggles. He cheers me on as His daughter, no strings attached, simply because I am His daughter and He is so proud of me as a person, apart from CiH or anything I do. His price for me invites the most glorious celebration.

Because He celebrates over me, I will celebrate over others. Maybe even in the Zambian way because that seems to be more fun.

I will hug when I don’t feel inclined to because I know the story that a stranger just told me took a lot of bravery for her to share. I will send my friend excessive emojis and too many words in all caps when she beasts a job interview. I will tell the barista that I really love her ring, because I do, and because she deserves to be celebrated.

When I open my eyes and start looking around this world, sure there’s a lot of pain. I absolutely get that. My past year and a half has been filled with more pain that I ever thought I could endure.

But I also see so much celebration and potential for celebration. So many parties, so many hugs, so many dances, so many affirming words. We, as daughters of the King, have the opportunity to be Jesus to each other with the Holy Spirit alive within us. Why not let the celebration we feel within just explode, raining glitter on all who we come in contact with? We all know that glitter is pretty dang hard to get out of much of anything. And I would be totally fine knowing that each person carries the glitter of Jesus’ celebration with them every day, no matter the challenges ahead. No matter if it’s hunger and abuse they face, or a broken relationship, or a tough financial situation, or just a bad hair day.

Let’s learn a thing or two from our dear sisters in Zambia. Enough is enough for these subtle gestures of support. Let’s go big, go bright, go loud, and go glittery in celebration of people of the world.