I will miss the beautiful little fatherless souls that love so freely. I’ll miss seeing pink GEMS t-shirts roaming the dirt streets on Saturday mornings. I will miss the Zambian worship…a kind of naked dance before the Lord, bearing everything to Him. I’ll miss the warm embraces and smiling faces that know me as none other than “Chipo.” I’ll miss the constant reminders that there is beauty in the ugliness. In the impoverished villages, the garbage ditches, the graffiti concrete, there lives splendour beyond what the eye can behold.

I will miss Zambia, but there is so much to look forward to. I’m just itching to meet my expected little niece… to welcome her into the world. I’m excited to see friends, to spend time with my boyfriend, to see my family. I’m excited to play guitar in the kitchen while mom makes dinner. I’m excited to blend in when I walk down the street, excited to not be a celebrity in church every Sunday.

I’m excited to share my experiences with the GEMS girls back home, and watch their eyes glimmer with perspective.

I’m excited to take home all I’ve learned, to pack up the new me and figure out how to fit it into my old life. I’m excited to begin a fresh start…Changed to bring change.

And I want to thank you…thank you for listening. You’ve given me a reason to sit down at the end of the day and pour myself into words, to try to understand and work through what I’ve seen, to look for something positive in the hopelessness, and to rant about the grave injustices that rip at my heart.

You’ve been encouragement when the world was wearing me down. You’ve said the prayers that covered me with safety and good health. You’ve given me a mission beyond the Zambian border… a chance to share with you, to bring you with me on each adventure.  I am indebted to you for that.

As a fellow missionary told me the other day, “You go to save the world, and the world saves you.” I certainly have been blessed far more than I could ever repay. I have been taught more than I could ever teach. Zambia has truly been a missionary to me…not the other way around.

I’ve been struck in the face with how little I know…and I’ve been overcome with a hunger to learn. I’ve been humbled by hardworking Godly women, grateful just for my presence.

I’ve fallen in love with the abandoned little people that the world rejected… the children who can relate to that manger baby we celebrate on December 25.

I’ve come to value not how much I have, but how little I need.

I’ve felt the street children’s tears… evidence that violence only begets violence… and guns and wars only serve to flood the world with millions of baby tears. From where I stand, poverty is a bigger threat to peace than terrorism ever will be. If we are serious about “peace on earth” maybe we need to fight for it with the ammunition of food and medicine and love, not bullets and bombs.

I’ve experienced the melting of a culturally-embedded stigma. I’ve held the children who inherited nothing but AIDS from their parents. I’ve experienced the bliss of those same children winning back their stolen childhoods with laughter and dance from their Abba Father.

I’ve gotten a glimpse at the mustard seed kingdom that Jesus spoke of…the idea that maybe bigger is not better, and that maybe Africa’s poor – people who have nothing – understand Jesus better than I ever will.

I’ve witnessed that little acts of love have ripples far beyond what we can see.

In the words of Mother Theresa, “We can do not great things, only small things with great love.”

So this is what I’ll take home.

Because most of all, I’ve learned to love.

There must have been fifty pairs of big, dark eyes staring up at me. They were hanging on my every word. And then something crazy happened.  The Holy Spirit took over, and before I knew it I had them huddled around me, and a story was coming out of my mouth. It was the story of a little baby, born in a barn…the story of the Creator God pulling on our flesh and blood and entering our mess in order to save us from it…the story of the Almighty entering the world as the least of these… Like a refugee baby born into poverty… not unlike the blessed little souls that now surrounded me, wide-eyed with hearts of sponge, receiving and repeating that hallowed gospel, that ancient truth.

“Who is Jesus?” I ask.

“God’s Son,” they shout. And I can almost hear the Christmas bells chiming and an angel chorus in harmony with their reply.

At the day’s beginning, I couldn’t have guessed the beauty that I’d find in it.

After yesterday evening’s rainstorm, we had been left in the dark for much of the night. I wake to a grey morning, and predict a dark and electric-less day ahead.

The power flickers long enough to boil eggs but just short of making toast.

By the time our ride shows up, I’ve scrubbed the kitchen spotless. (What else is there to do with no power.)

We climb in the car with a fellow missionary named Shawn. Shawn has been working with churches in Zambia for almost two years, and she’s been helping many of those churches develop their GEMS Clubs.

Today we’re headed to Chianda, a large, poor compound on the outskirts of the city. The counsellors have had some trouble with the language barrier, so we’ve come to encourage them and see how they’re doing. I’ve visited these clubs before, but that was months ago.

We slowly wind our way through streets muddled by last night’s heavy rains. I’m glad I haven’t grown accustomed to the poverty… The barefoot kids playing next to tables lined with recycled glass bottles of yellowish home-brew…The breast-feeding mothers ringing laundry in the puddles that dot their dirt yards…The thin wisps of fabric posing as doors in two-room mud homes. I’m glad the destitute scenery hasn’t jaded me.

When we reach the small one-room church, children appear out of nowhere, eager to greet us, or at least feast their eyes on the mizungus (that’s the local term for white folk).

Barb and Shawn follow the counsellors inside, but I opt for hanging out on the step. The half-clothed, barefoot, mud-drenched little people with eyes as big as their hearts are just too beautiful to pass by.

Soon the crowd of four grows to forty. Children are streaming toward us from all directions, drawn in by the sounds of familiar church songs… and possibly the novelty of my glow-in-the-dark skin.

When I run out of songs I know in the local dialect, a few older girls step in to lead the group. I sit on the stoop, surrounded by children squeezing in from all sides, fighting over the chance to sit next to me, to slide their hand against mine, to feel my blond ponytail.

For the next two hours, we sing and dance. I teach them “Father Abraham” and “the Lord’s Army” and they teach me a few of their tunes. And when our voices have cracked and our clapping hands have grown weary, we sit on the stoop in a kind of stare-down trance.

Some of the boys grow restless(some things are the same the world over). They pick fights with the girls, pushing and shoving. It all reminds me that violence begets violence. This kids are just repeating what they see in the streets everyday. And the little girls take turns sobbing on my shoulder, two at a time. I can’t tell if they are really hurt or they just want to be held.

I sing them lullabies while they use my t-shirt to mop up their tears. I’ve got so much little baby snot and tears and sweat and mud all over me. But it feels good…like when we used to dive into giant mounds of soil in the greenhouse only to have mom scold us for tracking dirt through the house. There’s just something childishly wholesome about getting dirty. And I can’t help thinking Jesus would feel right at home in this kind of dirt, among the children labelled “riff raff.”

And when the songs have all been sung and the look and feel of my white skin has become old news, and the tears have stained my shirt, a silence is left. My mind is ticking…how to entertain this mass of children…

And then, out of nowhere, I instruct them to take a seat in the dirt and open their ears. And after that, it was all God.

As clearly, slowly, and simply as I could, I told them the Christmas story. They soak it in, swallowing the goodness of it, and feeling it fill their empty tummies.

And before we go, I bend down to give each child a hug and tell them I love them…and (more importantly) Jesus loves them. I look them in the eye…do they really understand what I’m saying?

And then I swing them around, their dirty, cracked feet bouncing in the air.

There. A language we all can understand.

The language of love.

It feels like I could almost wrap my arms around Idah’s thin frame twice over. I feel her boney ribs poking out and hear her exhale deeply, as if this goodbye was slowly draining the energy out of her. Her unabashed embrace lingers even after she releases me. Her big eyes glare up at me, beaming love.

And as soon as it’s over, I’m wishing I could take the moment back, wishing I could capture it in a little glass jar and take it home. I’d open it up only on special occasions, when I really need to remember what it’s like to be cherished.

I’ve been dreading this day. After bidding farewell to the kids in the village, I’m not sure I can handle this.

We venture down the street to one of the Every Orphan’s Hope orphan homes. My mom and sister helped build the place. And today, after countless visits, I may be seeing the children that call it home, for the last time.

Idah is the first in the string of goodbyes.

They crowd around me, lining up for their last hug. Lisa wraps her arms around my waist like she’ll never let go. Esther hugs me like a friend. David shyly looks up at me, waiting for me to scoop him up.

Now, my mother will tell you the truth: I’m not big on hugs. But when you’re faced with big expectant eyes and arms that throw themselves around your neck and hands that cling to you for dear life, the idea of not hugging back with all your might is just foolish.

And after all the hugs were said and done, and the older boys had quickly skirted away so as to not look too attached, it was time to go.

Lisa’s bare feet proved tough enough to escort us home. We walk through the compound, the low sun at our backs. The boys proudly carry our bags. Lisa’s arms are still locked around my waist as we stroll down the rocky dirt road.

By the time we reach the Service Center I’ve got little Lisa in my arms, her toes in the air.

One more goodbye, and that’s that.

I walk out of their lives and them, out of mine. We’ve crossed paths, brought together by some divine scheme. We’ve learned from each other, we’ve even become friends. And now, like a pair of unlikely adventurers, we are beginning a new chapter… in different books.

I can’t quite put my finger on it, but a peculiar sensation comes over me. It feels more like a beginning than an end. Like a soul that’s just been sent to Heaven.

Because goodbyes don’t mean the memories fade. And I’ll cling to those memories, like Idah clung to me.

But there it was, staring back at me…. in the eyes of the shirtless toddler.. his stomach bulging with hunger.. the face of the young woman covered with soot sitting atop a heap of charcoal… the plodding footsteps of men selling half naked chickens in the crowded market.

It’s my first time driving through Kanyama. We’re on our way to visit a school in the area. It’s clear why they chose this place to build a Christian school and offer a free education. Many people here probably can’t afford school fees.

I feel myself go numb, like my body is putting up defences to shield from the sickening images flashing before me. My instinct is to run, to close my eyes and imagine I’m in another place. And yet I sit in silence, glued to the window, afraid to speak lest my words come out as blubbering and sobs. My eyes stay wide open, taking it all in.

This is poverty. Loud, raging, piercing, poverty.

I think about my neighbour Alice and her wretched living conditions.

She’s probably considered middle class. Because what lies before me is a slum-like community of graffiti-plastered concrete, a swarming shanty town, it looks forsaken and, at the same time, teeming with life. Babies wander in the dirt, children play in pools of what smells like sewage, women stand by their cracked wooden booths, desperately trying to sell small mounds of tomatoes or fly-covered dried fish or an old pair of shoes or some woven baskets.

I thought I had seen it all…I thought I had witnessed the scarcity, I thought I had been a part of it, thought I had experienced it. I thought I’d seen all the crime-ridden alleys and experienced the chaotic markets and met the abandoned children. But I haven’t seen anything like Kanyama.

It’s the largest compound in the city. And it felt like the kind of place that Mother Theresa would have felt at home in. Not me. I felt like turning around, running to where I’m comfortable, to the compound I’ve familiar with, to what I know I can handle. The sights before me were just too draining. And I didn’t want the people to see pity in my eyes. Pity isn’t what they need.

We were supposed to meet up with the principle of a Christian school here in Lusaka. We were supposed to tour the school and make some connections that will hopefully come in handy when the Esther School gets up and running. We did all that, but along the way, we met some thirty abandoned and orphaned babies, we drove through Lusaka’s inner city, through an endless mass of people, and we smelled it, we felt the chicken feathers fly, we saw the kids searching through ditches of garbage. I was there. I was in it. And it still didn’t seem real.

It was all rushing at me at once, like the people we passed were throwing themselves at me… the single mothers, the orphaned babies, the drunkards, the girls with nothing to sell but themselves.

I felt weak, like I hadn’t eaten in days. I was starved for normalcy, hungry for a sliver of hope, craving something I can stomach.

And that was only half of my morning.

Before we even got to Kanyama, we had an altogether different experience. We had been told to meet the Christian school’s headmaster at a very special place on the outskirts of the city called the House of Moses. I’d heard about it last time I was here in Zambia, and I had always wanted to check it out. The House of Moses is a transit home for infants. They take babies who are abandoned at the hospital, in ditches, and even left on their doorstep. It is a beautifully sad place.

When we get to the House of Moses, we’re introduced to Irene. She looks like she eats the fruits of the spirit for breakfast. She just beams love in every direction. For some reason, we have to wait before we go to the school, so Irene shows us around. She takes us to the upstairs nursery and tells us to remove our shoes.

There are more than a dozen tiny wooden cribs that stand as high as my hip. The room is filled with sleeping, blessed souls…premature, discarded little people who weren’t supposed to get a chance at life. I gasp at a couple of babies that look like they should still have a few months in the womb.  Irene tells me they are a couple weeks old.

We move slowly throughout the house, meeting child after child. They smile, and sleep, and grab for our hands. They have small heads and thin little arms and the sight of all of them just makes you want to pick them up and stay with them until they are old enough to understand the words, “you are loved.”

Irene’s voice trails off and my mind wanders.

I think of what I’m going home to. I’m going to visit my sister and welcome her first child into the world… little Olivia Joy. As we Dutch folk say, I’m going to be a tante. Olivia isn’t even born yet and my heart is bursting with love for that kid. She’s got a closet full of clothes and toys. And she’s got two awesome parents who are eagerly awaiting her arrival.

She’s got everything these babies don’t.

I wonder what it’s like to know your only family didn’t even want to give you a shot. What does that do to a person?

When I come back to the conversation, Irene is talking about how much we “Americans” give. She’s saying it’s a gift in itself to be able to give like we give. She says Zambians just aren’t taught to give like that.

I can’t speak. I hope she doesn’t notice my eyes watering or see the lump that’s lodged itself in my throat.

I only wish I could give like she gives. This woman is a mother thirty-nine times over. And she gives each child a reason to bury that contagious seed of hopelessness. She gives them the knowledge of Christ and his infinite love for them.

And as we leave, I bring myself back to the awesome truth that no matter where we come from, no matter who loves or hates us in this world; we have already won the favor of the almighty king.

After all, He is the best dad in the world.

Today I fell to my knees under the weight of my own blissful ignorance.

Let me just come clean. There are days when I have no idea what I’m doing here. There are times when, like Moses (and I’m not about to compare myself to Moses, but bear with me here) I feel like reminding God, “This wasn’t my idea.”

Today was one of those days.

I’ve been in Zambia for almost eleven weeks. I’d like to say I know my way around. I know a few phrases in the local dialect, I can find my way around the compound by myself, and these days I can’t walk down the street without someone yelling, “Stephan!”

But all it took was a visit next door and I’m back on my knees, back to the awesome realization that I know nothing. I have no idea what I’m doing here. I’m totally not cut out for this. There is nothing here that I can claim as mine. It’s all God.

It’s a hot, sunny morning. My once-white skirt is flowing in the breeze. The video camera swings on my shoulder. With my broken tripod in hand, and a tummy full with hot oatmeal, I open the gate and step out into the compound. A little girl in pink t-shirt and shiny black shoes stares up at me.

Angela is ten years old. She’s our neighbour. She lives right next door with her mom, Alice, and her two brothers and sister. And –the best part is- she goes to GEMS.

Today I’m interviewing Angela and following her to GEMS. I’m trying to capture her life, edit it down into a short video, and send it home to the GEMS girls in North America.

Turns out, Angela is the perfect girl for the job. She warms up to me as soon as she hears me making a “swoosh” sound as I unzip the camera case. “Swoosh” she echoes. A girl as goofy as me. I think we’ll make great friends.

Giggling, we make our way across the bumpy dirt road to her tiny, concrete home. Angela’s house has a half-finished wall and no gate. Let me give you some perspective. Our place –not ten feet away- is locked down with no less than six padlocks, a full-time night guard, and bars on every window.

I’m become friends with Alice, Angela’s mom. She used to help with GEMS at her church until she found more work, doing odd jobs – laundry and house-cleaning. Most evenings Alice can be found sitting under the shanty outside her house, frying up some vutumbuwa (we Dutch folk call them ‘olly bollen’ but they are really deep-fried balls of dough) for five hundred kwatcha a piece… that’s about ten cents.

Alice was one of the ladies who so graciously helped us out when we were really in a bind with the potholders. We had thousands to make in just a few days and Alice came over with her daughter and helped us finish the order in time.

She’s become more than just a friendly face… she’s become a neighbour to me. About a month ago, she pleaded with me to let her clean the service center. She had lost her part-time work and was in need of anything I could give. So we hired her to do our laundry a couple times, and I try to keep her in business, buying a few vutumbuwa when I can stomach the grease.

But even though I feel like I know Alice, I can’t help feeling a bit awkward entering her home for the first time. I follow Angela to the back of the house.

After a short interview and a few shots of Angela’s grassless, dirt yard and the black garbage bags tied to sticks that section off what I can only guess is the outhouse; I follow Angela inside the dark house. I’m surprised when I find myself in a crowded room, about the size of a bathroom. Two older boys sit on a wearing couch. Alice isn’t home. I follow their gaze to a pot of water simmering on a hot charcoal brazier. A couple plastic bowls and a few tin pots are piled in a corner. I get the feeling that the family’s entire collection of worldly possessions is in view.

Angela pulls back a divider curtain to reveal a dark bedroom, also the size of a bathroom. A tiny bit of light seeps in through a few cracks in the roof.  I look around and notice that the one-room house doesn’t have electricity. In the darkness, I can make out piles of laundry hanging from the ceiling. I can’t see any furniture, just piles of clothes and a small bedside table with a few old toothbrushes on it. I feel invasive with the camera rolling, but this is part of her life – it’s important.

Standing there, in the consuming blackness, I can only make out the outline of Angela’s head. The wiry little girl proudly announces, “this is where I sleep.” She’s pointing to a corner of the concrete room, about the size of a door mat. From what I can make out in the darkness, there’s a thin blanket folded on the floor. No bed, no pillow.

It’s rushing at me all at once, like an ocean of awareness. I know nothing. I’ve been living next to this family for more than two months. I’ve talked with Alice almost every day. And I’ve been completely oblivious to the poverty that’s strangling her family. And I’m supposed to be here to help people.

In the dim light I can see my reflection in Angela’s dark eyes. It’s like my ugly, pious, selfish, sin is staring back at me.  How in the world did I get picked for this job? I’m obviously not qualified.

I suddenly flush with embarrassment at the thought of all the times I’ve talked to Alice about the power going out, or the water shutting off. I’m  living in a palace when my friend is living in the slum next door.

I spend the morning with Angela, getting to know her and her little group of friends from the neighbourhood. I walk with her to GEMS and she tells me about her brothers who pick on her and how she’s afraid of ghosts. She tells me sometimes she imagines she’s white and living in America and she’s just in Zambia to visit her mom. She tells me she can’t remember her dad… he died a long time ago.

We end the morning walking home from GEMS together, singing at the top of our lungs into one of the broken legs of my tripod (at least it’s good for something…a microphone!) Kids will be kids.

Back at the service center, I have little time to recover from my humbling tour through Angela’s home. At noon, Barb, Catherine, Siwale and I pile into his little Toyota and head off to Kabwe. Kabwe was once a busy mining town, about an hour and a half from Lusaka. Now it’s just another stop on the highway.

We’re headed there to meet with a couple GEMS clubs and see how they’re doing. Barb sits down with the counsellors while I scurry the large group of GEMS girls outside and pull something out of my sleeve to entertain them. I tell them about myself and ask the same of them. They all let out a gasp when I say I’m a journalist. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

I notice quite a few of the girls are older, so I suggest they start thinking about becoming a CIT (Counsellor In Training). These girls have leadership built-in, and their eyes light up at the opportunity.

Forty-five minutes whiz by and soon we’re in a circle, laughing and dancing and singing like ol’ pals. They tell me how their GEMS counsellors are teaching them to bake and garden. They show me the tomato patch they’ve planted at the edge of the church property. And, not for the first time in Zambia, my experience as a tomato-grower’s daughter comes in handy. I teach them how to prune the plants and smile at how grateful they are for the tips.

They pull me into a circle and show me a traditional dance (more like a hip-shake session that would make Shakira look like a fool) and prod me to try it. I sigh even though I know there’s no use putting up a stink. I feel hands wrapping a scarf-length of material around my waist. I do my best imitation of the traditional hip-shake… and I laugh to myself thinking how provocative this would look back home. Here, though, it’s about glorifying God – not a woman’s body. The girls think I’m a riot. They burst out in a mixture of cheers and uninhibited laughter.

I leave Kabwe feeling as though my soul’s been baptized in bliss.

This morning, I was brought to my knees with the numb realization that I’m a broken sinner…I’m bound by sinful nature – selfish piety is my default. And this afternoon I was blessed by the revelation that God chose me – with all my flaws, all my ugly transgressions… he chose to use me.

Somehow God likes broken vessels. After all, the gospel is for the sick, not the righteous. It’s the sick who need a doctor. And boy, am I in need of grace.

As St. John of the Cross put it, “The cracks let the light come in.”

So I don’t mind being cracked and broken… because the Lord redeems the ugly, he brings the dead to life, and makes new what is beyond repair. He can use even cracks like me.

I awake too early. I roll over. 5:58 a.m. My stomach lets out a loud growl. I’m back to normal health again and, like any healthy person, I’ve already forgotten how awesome being healthy feels.

It’s a cool, drizzly morning. With one glance at the cloudy skies, I opt for jeans – a choice I would later regret. It’s only the second time I’ve worn pants on my trip. Skirts are the usual attire for women here, but they are also a lot more comfortable in the heat. I slide into my red rubber boots and I’m ready to go.

My early morning catches up with me. I fall asleep on the long drive out of the city and as I awake, we’re turning down the bumpy dirt path that leads to the Esther School property.

It’s amazing how the rains have transformed the area. What used to be a dirt road is now overgrown with lush grass. Everything is alive, blooming, and green.

We find the beginnings of the Esther School’s teacher residences, a brick building almost completely finished on the outside. I can’t resist prodding Siwale and Barb to join me for a jumping picture.

We wind our way through the little village. A group of mothers with their babies’ crowd around a concrete clinic, waiting to get their kids vaccinated. A couple kids play in the dirt, they look up and stare as we pass by.

We pull into the group of orphan homes just after another vehicle. Margaret Harawa, the director of Every Orphan’s Hope is unloading supplies for the homes. A crowd of children gather to greet her.

We step out into what is now a sunny and humid day. The children see us and the looks on their faces would melt your heart. I’ve been away for three weeks, but they haven’t forgotten me. I bend down, not settling for handshakes this time, and dive into a score of hugs for each of their little frames. Instantly, the excitement grows and kids crowd in closer, as though I was giving away toys or treats… not simple hugs.

I string off their names, beaconing them into my arms. After countless trips to the village, I can name almost ever face.

Little five year-old Bianca is just about the only frown in a sea of smiling children. Not even a warm embrace will shake the sulking sadness from her face.

I’m reminded of the incredible burdens these kids carry every day. They lug their past around like unwanted garbage, unable to find a place to unload. Some days, my only objective is to help them forget about that heap of smouldering garbage, even if it’s just for an hour.

I announce that we’re heading to the half-finished chicken barn that Every Orphan’s Hope is building nearby. I need to get some pictures of a chicken run for one of the videos I’m working on.

Like a dozen shadows, the kids are right behind me. They all reach for my hand and stare up at me, eager for me to reward their gaze with a smile.

I gleefully oblige, and wonder if I could ever bring to them the kind of inexplicable joy that they bring me. I doubt it.

I browse the building site, gathering the shots I need while a myriad of children crowd in to see what I’m doing. They fight to get closer, to squeeze in and feast their eyes on my cameras and gadgets, as if just looking through the lens is a treat. Their eyes dance as I flip open the video camera’s view screen amid a chorus of squeals and giggles.

We spend the rest of the morning sitting on one of the orphan home’s front stoops, talking. A group of girls squeeze in close to me. I ask them what they’re afraid of, what makes them happy, what their favourite color is. I want to get a better idea of who they are, and share a bit of myself. But the language barrier is too great and my inquiries receive little more than shy glances and one-word answers. Still, I feel as though they know I’ve tried… Like they want to let me in, but we’ll have to continue with fewer words and more hugs.

The sun is getting high and the air is thick with humidity. I round up the troops for a few games and songs.

These kids don’t even blink as I belt out a popular children’s song in Nyanga. They just clap their hands and join in. Most of the time I get looks of surprise or small bouts of cheer when folks realize I know a few songs in the local dialect. Not here. Here, I’m not some white stranger; I’m not a journalist, or a Canadian. Here, I’m just a big kid.

I can’t wipe the grin off my face. This is like Christmas morning, like a waterfall of goodness, cascading down in a beautifully satisfying rain. I sing and dance and play in utter, innocent, happiness. I soak in the moment, hoping it will cement it in my mind.

Before I know it, it’s past lunchtime.

Time to go.

Another bout of warm, clinging hugs… hugs that tell you something. A few kids hang around to walk us to the car. I lift little Bianca on my back and challenge the boys to a race. We take off and little Sam beats everyone to the car. Finally, Bianca is wearing a smile from ear to ear. Perhaps she’s forgotten, even for a moment, the days she spent working in the fields, the scars her mother left her, and her father’s death.

For one last time, I swing the kids in circles, hugging them back just as tightly as they cling to me. I give Kauya’s thin frame an extra squeeze. Kauya’s HIV positive. I tell them I’ll see them again someday, but they might be a bit taller. I silently wonder if it’s true.

We drive for the last time down that mud road, now overgrown with greenery.. I glance out the window and indulge in one last look in the rear view mirror.

I want it all to stop, to just have the world come to a halt right then… I feel the air being sucked out of me and an emptiness rushes into its place. A gaping sadness floods over me, a lump forms in my throat.

I fell in love with those kids. And now I’ve said goodbye and I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again.  But, worse than that, I don’t know what life has in store for them.

I breathe deep and exhale. The Lord had his hand on these kids long before he brought me into the picture. He loves them so much more than I ever could. His love is deep, wide, and unconditional.

Maybe someday we’ll be together again, singing and dancing heavenly praises unto our king and our songs will echo in eternity.

I sit in front of the computer and edit video of Zambian GEMS counselors diligently making potholders. The rain is falling from the sky like a rushing waterfall. The dark billowing clouds move in, and blacken the skies. And with them, the sound that a transport truck would make if it drove over you. Flashes of light disrupt the darkness. It’s the kind of stormy rain that makes you want to curl up with a pair of oma’s home-made slippers and a good book and a steaming cup of tea.

It’s hard to believe it’s December. But the date stares back at me from the computer screen, a constant reminder that my days in Zambia are numbered. And I have to say, I’m not quite ready to leave…like cake still doughy in the center…I’m not finished here and I don’t want to be.

It’s strange, because it’s not at all comfortable or easy. Every day is an adventure, a gift from the Lord. But every day is also another day without family, friends, and my boyfriend, Brian.

And those are really the hardest things to go without.

But the Lord brought me here. And, at the time, I had no idea why. And it’s hard to say yes to things we don’t understand.  But he had something to change in me, some major reairs he had to work in my heart. And now I see things through a new lense, and  I’m kind of scared of the damage that will be done to it when I re-enter the world of materialism…the world who twisted Jesus’ birthday into a selling point…the world who took Jesus and made him popular with the socialites, the prestigious, the rich.

But here I’ve met another Jesus. I’ve met a Jesus who came for the HIV positive, orphaned babies, the prositutes, the blind beggars, the lousey tax collectors.

Jesus could have come in a flashy parade, sitting atop a limo with dazzling lights and flashy music. He could have came, the belle of the ball, the host of the biggest party with all the best stuff. He could have impressed everyone.

But last year’s Christmas gifts are quickly outdated, and Jesus and his flashy party would have become stale. 

No, Jesus chose to come as a naked, helpless infant, born to a couple of poor, everyday  ’joes’ in a dirty, smelly barn. That’s meek. That’s humility. And that will never go out of style.

So, even though I can’t wait to go home.. to see my friends… to hug my family.. to welcome my little niece into the world..and to spend time with Brian… despite all that, I will treasure these last couple weeks.

I’m in a place, a country, that recognizes and relates to that poor little baby Jesus. They don’t need to dress him up with lights and gadgets and sweet-smelling treats from the oven. (I’m not saying I won’t enjoy some home-cooked meals when I get home)… But all that stuff can cloud our vision. And here, people seem to take Jesus just as he came.

After all, isn’t that what Christmas is all about?

I haven’t eaten anything since lunch, and still, the pain continues into the night.

Of course, today of all days, we run out of toilet paper.

I finally cave and reluctantly doctor myself with an Imodium.

I’ve got traveller’s diarrhea.

Somehow I must have picked up a nasty bug somewhere. It could have been the communal cup of kool-aid they passed around at the Lord’s Supper on Sunday. It could have been something I ate that went bad. It could have been a bit of water I swallowed during a bath.

Who knows.

Good health is a funny thing. When you have it, you completely ignore it. And when you don’t have it, it’s all you can think about, the most important thing in the world. Being sick colors everything.

I avoid food until the next morning. Feeling slightly better, I nibble on a piece of toast, and pray that it won’t slide right through me. Slowly, I recover. I drink lots of water, and eat very little.

I think the worst is over, but whatever it was, has left me weak. Today I’ll stay in and edit video, I think.

Siwale shows up and can’t wait to tell me about a ripe mango he’s found on the tree in the back yard. I noticed it yesterday, but I was too sick to care.

I’ve been talking about eating a mango off that tree since I arrived. Siwale assured me that by December, they’ll be ripe. And sure enough, today – a day when more food is the last thing I should have – they are ripe.

I ignore my rolling tummy, grab the broom, and head outside to claim my prize.

One mango sits atop the shady tree, its yellow skin shines in the sunlight like a golden jewel.

With one whack of the broom I’ve got it.

I peel it with anticipation, and make a complete mess of myself, sucking and biting and chewing on the sweet fleshy fruit.

Mmmm. That was good.

Let’s hope it stays that way.

Today is one of those days.

It’s about 8:45 a.m. on this bright Sunday morning. I throw on my African attire: a bright blue skirt made from local chitanga fabric. I love the way it moves when I walk, as if I’m not walking at all, but floating.

There’s a knock at the gate. Barb and I gather our things and lock up the service center before meeting Joyce at the gate. Joyce is the club coordinator for the GEMS girls club at Pentecostal Holiness church in M’tendare. She’s been asking me for weeks now, to come to her church for a Sunday. But it never seemed to work, until now.

I climb into the front seat of a little Toyota car that looks about as old as me. When it runs, it sounds like it has cinderblocks for tires, forcibly turning them with loud clunks and deep jerks. A myriad of wires hang out hazardously from the glove compartment. I feel as though every bump will mean the end of our little escapade. But to my surprise, we wind our way through the M’tendare market without incident. We pass men repairing shoes in little roadside shacks and women adorned in colourful headpieces on their way to Sunday worship. Men make smooching noises as we drive by. I wave at a couple of groups of orphan kids I know walking on the road. After the second group, our driver, a deacon at the church, comments that I’m pretty popular around here.

The church building is in the midst of a poor compound on a dirty, trash-filled street, so I’m surprised by what we find inside. There’s flooring and stained glass on the windows and a podium and speakers and a microphone. I haven’t been in a church with backs on the wooden benches in a while.

We enter in the middle of the pre-service Bible study. Today they are talking about respect.

I’m learning that respect is of the utmost importance in this culture. And what I think is respectful, isn’t necessarily received as respectful. Status comes with age, which puts me pretty low on the totem pole. So I need to be extra careful that I treat everyone, especially my elders, with the utmost respect. That means holding my left hand under my elbow and dipping slightly when I shake someone’s hand and offering my seat to someone older than me. It means keeping my mouth shut when I’m grouped with the children and introduced as a “little girl.”

For someone who, just months ago was considered a young professional working at a news network in Toronto, it’s been a humbling learning experience.

So I wasn’t surprised when Joyce approaches me in the middle of the worship service to ask me to join her GEMS girls as they present a few songs for the congregation. I tell her I don’t know the songs, But I know I’m not going to win this one.

“Just me? Not Barb too?” I ask.

“No, not Mother Barb. Just you, Stephan,” She says.

And that’s that.

I follow her to the back of the church and join the end of the line of little GEMS girls in uniform dancing their way up the aisle.

And pretty soon there I am, dancing in front of the huge, seated congregation, like a disjointed fish jumping upstream in a river of smooth, flowing dance. I catch the rhythm and give it my best shot, trying to blend in as best I can, but these aren’t just two-step moves. It’s a “step-swish your foot-step-swish your hips” move.

I think about my conversation with Brian, my boyfriend, that morning on Skype. He asked me if I ever had to sing in church. I had laughed and said no. Little did I know I would be singing and dancing.

By the second number I’m regretting my choice of dress. Sweat is beading down my face and my black t-shirt is getting damp.

When it’s over, the congregation cheers and applauds loudly, and a few women stand up and do a kind of “hiya hiya hiya!!!” at the top of their lungs. The woman with the microphone thanks me and tells me I’m a real African now.

If only I could move my hips like a real African.

After church, Barb and I go for a walk, get caught in a rain-turned hail storm, and return to the service center soaked to the bone.

Me and Barb take cover under a couple umbrellas

It wasn’t a bad day at all. And, until just a few moments ago, I couldn’t feel the sandpaper one little bit.

I’m lounging on the couch, about to drift off into a Sunday afternoon nap, when I hear a knock at the gate. We don’t usually have too many visitors on Sundays. I jump into my red rubber boots and find a round-faced woman at the door. It’s Margie, a GEMS counsellor from Jesus Army church, just down the road from the service center.

Margie’s got a special spot in my heart because Jesus Army was my sister club when I was a counsellor in New Brunswick. And on top of that, she is just a bubbly, spirit-filled woman you can’t help but like the instant you meet her.

Margie lost her house in a fire recently. Her family had no place to go, so they moved into a roofless cinderblock room in a nearby compound. One of her children is staying with her pastor because they simply can’t fit them all in the tiny space.

And on those cold, rainy nights, she’s all I can think of.

Today, Margie has come to pick up some thread and a few labels for making potholders. And on her way out the door, she mentions that she’s in need of prayer.

The sandpaper begins.

Barb and I stand silently while Margie explains that her sister passed away a few months ago and left her nine year old daughter in her care. The girl’s name is Beauty. Beauty has been coughing a lot lately. So yesterday they took her to the clinic.

“She tested positive,” Margie says. And that’s all she needs to say.

I walk Margie to the street, and naively ask her what Beauty tested positive for.

She replies, “HIV.”

“I just need her to grow,” Margie says, “She’s only nine years old.”

I promise Margie my prayers and close the gate before she can see the tears welling in my eyes.

Beauty is nine years old, an orphan, and HIV positive. And her story is just one of many here in Zambia.

It’s just so not fair.

And I can’t help but ask why.

Serving here in Zambia truly is a pleasure. It’s humbling, and exciting and incredibly rewarding. But stories like Margie’s weigh heavy on my heart. They just keep piling up until I feel like I’m going to crumble under the weight of them, or else let them slip through my fingers like water. I simply can’t hold them all.

And once again, I’m brought to my knees in prayer. Once again, I lift up the hopeless to the almighty giver of hope and entrust their precious stories into his care.

Amen.

It’s amazing how something can be captured with your eyes but is too limitless for words.  

Awestruck. Captivating. Inspiring. I’m having a hard time putting into words the profound tingling; breathless feeling that came over me today. And I apologize in advance if the following falls flat on the page. I simply can’t do it justice with mere letters and paragraphs.  

It was 7:00 a.m. Siwale and Barb and I start off on what would prove to be one of the most exciting adventures of my stay in Africa. The sun is still low in the cloudless sky. The rains have cleared, at least for a few days, and we figure we should take advantage of the sun. We wind our way through morning traffic and out into the fresh open country air. We turn off the main road onto a dirt path and follow it for about twenty minutes.

I start seeing open plains, and begin to feel myself take long, deep breaths. There’s something about being out in the open that’s incredibly liberating. Dust kicks up in our wake. The sun is beaming down in all its glory. If you had have been there, after living in the cramped hollowness of the inner city compounds for two months, you’d have thought it smelled like freedom. And it did.

We pass through the gates of the game reserve and begin our day at Chaminuka.

First on the agenda: the game drive. Barb and I climb into the safari truck. We have the whole thing to ourselves. I’ve got the video camera strapped around one arm, my Nikon around the other. We spend the next hour and a half winding around the 10,000 acre park, around lakes and through the bush and over great open plains.  A constant, warm breeze wafts through our open safari vehicle. My hair blows wildly in the wind.

Our guide, Powell, spits out information a mile a minute. He’s chuck full of interesting facts about everything we see. The huge, tree-covered mounds are really inactive termite hills. The seisibes are a type of antelope that can dispel a stinky odour to distract their predators. The lioness hunts and provides the food for her family. The kafue lechway and impala and kudu sometimes work together to help each other distract an approaching enemy. The hyenas, if there are enough of them, can kill a lion. There are pythons in the lake water. The elephants never forget a face. And the giraffes are curious.

I can’t tell you about all of the animals. I simply saw – or should I say experienced – too many of them.

But what I had been looking forward to the most, what had kept me awake with anticipation the night before, was the giraffes. It wasn’t long before we found them.

We pull up, stop the safari truck and stare. Strange sounds…. ouus and ahhs, and squeals of delight and excited giggles escape from my mouth before I can stop them. Goosebumps race up and down my arms. It reminds me of the first time I laid eyes on a VanGogh, or the first time I felt the mist from Victoria Falls, the first time I held a newborn baby. I’m overwhelmed by the knowledge that I’m in the presence of something distinctly beautiful. Something God handcrafted for such a time as this.

The giraffes are indeed curious. We sit in a symbiotic dance, completely still, silently staring at each other. They are so tall, so elegant, and richly dressed in light and dark brown spots.  One giraffe quietly munches on a tree top. They’re so close, the width of a soccer field away from where I stand. They stand so erect, so stately. Move over lion, these guys are the new kings of the jungle.  Just looking at them makes me feel insignificant and dull in comparison. It’s totally humbling to see these utterly beautiful creatures.

All in a week’s work I guess. God crafted, stencilled, and imagined all of these animals and all of their habitats. He created them, each with their own distinct forms and personalities, with all their beauty and all their unique abilities, to fit in right where he put them. Talk about powerful.

Eventually I pull myself away and let our guide move on, but I’m left with the impression that nothing can top these giraffes.

We see lounging lions, mean-looking hyenas, a tonne of antelope and impala, herds of stately zebras, speedy warthogs, a family of slow-moving elephants, and a myriad of birds.

After the game drive, it’s time to go horseback riding. I never would have guessed that I’d be tromping through the African plains on horseback, and the experience is wonderful and totally memorable. In fact, I think my butt will never forget it. My horse is called Edward, and he’s definitely got a mind of his own. Our guide is in front, Barb is in the middle, and I take up the rear. Sometimes Edward goes way too fast, and sometimes he stops to munch on the grass. But I don’t mind. The wilderness is so simplistic, so beautiful, so bare. And being on horseback, I feel like a character in one of the Chronicles of Narnia, like I’m on a daring adventure out on the plains of Africa’s south. We don’t see a lot of wildlife, but what we do see – a few antelope and some chicken-like birds – don’t seem to mind us at all. It’s like they’ve got an unwritten code with the horses. If we are with them, we can’t be that bad.

When we get back to the lodge, the sun is high overhead and I realize I should have taken sunscreen along on this adventure. I need to re-apply.

We eat lunch in the shade. It is certainly a feast, the likes of which I haven’t seen in two months. A table displays dishes of pasta and zucchini and eggplant, rice and chicken, and – my new favourite – grilled impala.

It feels kind of neat – and not at all creepy – to taste the tender meat of a wild animal I just moments ago saw jumping through the fields.

After lunch we climb back into the safari vehicle and head to the lake for our last activity – a boat cruise. We haven’t yet seen the elephants up close and our guide tells us we are lucky… it’s a hot day so they will likely be near the water’s edge.

We get to the lake. “You`re in luck,“ our guide says.

We board the little fibreglass outboard motorboat and speed across the water to where the elephants are playing in the water. We get pretty close, and the enormous animals don`t seem to notice. We whiz across the water, white spotless birds take flight when we pass, and the elephants march on, gradually circling the lake.

After our boat ride, we return to find Siwale asleep in the car under the shade of a mango tree. Leaving the game park, I feel weightless, exhausted, and completely happy. It was like the Lord poured out a big bucket of blessing on me today.

And as if the entire day`s experience wasn`t enough, he tops it off with a cherry – another elephant sighting. Just as we are leaving the park, the elephants and their keepers are hanging out near the road. We stop and get out. The keepers motion for us to come over. We get close enough to touch the huge beasts.

We get back into the car and drive only a few minutes before we come to something lying in the road. It’s a dead snake. A huge Black Mamba, and it’s thick, and black, and longer than my arm. It lies totally still, dead. Flies are all over it. Gross. But incredibly cool, too. I’ve never seen a Black Mamba before. They are apparently really poisonous. I’m just glad this one was dead.

I`ve not only said the word `wow` million times today, but I`ve felt it… right down to my toes. My soul has been blanketed with awe, like a light snowfall covers a field.

Today I experienced God the Creator in so many ways. I`ve stood, with my jaw gaping, witnessing the majesty of His creation.

All I can I say is “Wow“.