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

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.