Merry Christmas!

Heaven knows I dance to the beat of my own drum.

I hear a different drum today—one that would be out of place this time of year if it could actually be confined to a time of year. Thankfully, blessedly, mercifully, this drum is timeless. It beats just as clearly in the dead of July as it does during wicked Illinois Decembers.

Can you hear it?

It’s a little drummer boy’s drum, and he is playing for a newborn King.

A few weeks ago, David and I were rehashing a familiar conversation about all the movies I haven’t seen that he wants me to watch someday. Among them was “A Christmas Story.” That turned to conversation to Christmas movies in general, one of the best of which is “White Christmas.” We had intended to watch it right before Christmas break last December, but that was just another plan that got lost in the chaos of exams and end-of-semester work.  Jasmine piped in and said that we have that movie here.

It was as though the air itself got excited. The room seemed a little bit lighter. We had no choice. Christmas in July had to be celebrated.

July 25^th would have made the most sense, but we knew that the orphanage would be in full swing preparation for Mutomboko by then.  And since the whole point of Christmas in July is that Christmas can be celebrated at any time, we decided to bump it up to this weekend. Which means that today is Christmas, figuratively speaking…

There shall be hotdogs roasting on an open fire and termites nipping on your nose. There shall be chocolate cake and chocolate fondue and Belgian chocolate and hopefully some chocolate. There shall be singing and rejoicing, and there shall be a reminder that Hope has come, and we have Something to celebrate.

We tried to keep it amongst the volunteers, but the Christmas spirit just cannot be stifled. Johnny caught a whiff of it and has been leading his little compatriots in their favorite Christmas song all morning. Choruses of “Ding dong ding, everybody sing, to the newborn King!” are ringing across the courtyard at this very moment.
 
Last night we decorated the Christmas tree, and someone (I think Jasmine and Mary) moved it into the living room. This morning there were several small presents beneath it, to each of us from "Santa." All silly festivities and light-hearted white elephant gifts aside, at its heart this has been an opportunity to celebrate the coming of Christ, and in that the essence of Christianity. Wake up, little town of Bethlehem! Hope has arrived, Redemption is here, and Joy has come to dwell among us, and that is something to celebrate.

I do love Christmas.  In many ways, I love the time leading up to Christmas the most of all. I cherish the promise of the Advent. A pastor from a Nashville church family I dearly love describes the whisper of Advent as, “The Not-Yet will be worth it.” Such words have given me great strength and comfort many times in the past. They carry an element of mystery with them, for in so many ways, none of us really knows what the Not-Yet holds any more than the residents of Bethlehem understood or felt the weight of glory that was born among them that night. God painted a literary picture through the Old Testament prophets, and then He was silent. For centuries. Not a whisper; not a sign. And all they had was the promise of Advent:

“The Not-Yet will be worth it.”

They didn’t know what the Not-Yet was. They didn’t recognize Him when He came.  They were mostly confused for the duration of His ministry, and even when the stone rolled away, the remaining mystery of how wide, how long, how high, and how deep deep is His love keeps the believer in awe.  I can only echo the words of the blind man in John 9, whose response to the many questions and accusations from the religious leaders concerning Christ was a sure and simple, “One thing I know: I once was blind, but now I see.”

I bounce between those two mantras. Sometimes I’m waiting for the Not-Yet to show up, and I wonder what the arrival will look like, and He’s been silent for so long...

Sometimes my eyes are opened as if for the very first time, and I struggle for words at all, and all I know is that I once was blind, but now I see. That’s all. And it’s enough.

Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled.

Glory to the newborn King.

Merry Christmas, my friends—and God bless us, every one.

In Your Reflection

Some children are parrots.

Take Henry, for example. Whatever I say, he is absolutely sure to repeat it. His new favorite pastime is running up to me and reminding me of what I like to say. For the reader’s personal amusement, I’ll spell the words how he says them.

“You like to say, ‘Hey beh-bee!’”
“You like to say, ‘Yis beh-bee!”
“You like to say, ‘Oh-kee beh-bee!”
“You like to say, ‘Gootnight suhweet-hot!”

All butcherings of the phrases “hey baby,” “yes baby,” “okay baby” and “goodnight sweetheart” aside, it’s basically the cutest thing ever.

 

 Some children are little mimics.

The first week that we arrived, David kissed Moriah’s hand and told her goodnight. Johnny and Elias asked me why. I told them that’s how you greet a princess.  News must have spread, because yesterday as I was walking to my room I stopped to observe Ernest interacting with baby Ana. He smoothed her hair back, took her hand to help her down the steps, then kissed her hand.

 

 Some children are sticky.

David and Zeger went to the Catholic church this morning. David was sitting at the table eating breakfast before they left. Theresa, Janet, and Moriah surrounded him.

“What is dis?” they queried, gesturing at the dirty plates still on the table.

“Oh. That’s someone’s leftover cake from last night,” David replied.

Moments later, the girls had graciously cleaned the plate off for him.

Then they all climbed into his lap. Fortunately, they were all covered in peanut butter (and now vestiges of chocolate cake), which decorated his church clothes nicely. 

 

Some children are Johnny.

A couple of days ago, one of the other volunteers brought him to me. “I caught Johnny playing with a marker and the whiteboard eraser liquid at the school table, and now he says his ear hurts,” she said. I looked at his ear briefly then dismissed the complaint as an escape attempt. He knows he’s not allowed to play at the table.

Later he came to me again on his own. I took his temperature, and he was running a pretty decent fever. Feeling mildly guilty for ignoring him earlier, I gave him a glass of water and a dose of Tylenol and settled him down on the couch to watch Lion King 2. In the opening scenes, Mufasa looks down from the heavens upon the presentation of his granddaughter, Princess Kiara, to the subjects of the kingdom.

“Simba’s dad is still watching?” asked Johnny, ever the investigator.

“Yes sweetheart. Just listen to the song.”

Johnny tilted his head to the side and stared at the ceiling, listening intently to the words of the song. He lives in you. He lives in me. He watches over everything we see.

“Oh, I see,” said Johnny. “He lives in Simba’s heart. Like Jesus.”

Yes sweetheart. Like Jesus. Just like that.

The plot thickened as Simba must confront his own pride and extend mercy at the risk of his kingdom. His actions are motivated by his love and desire to protect his family, but in doing so he oppressed and alienated some outsiders of society. Mufasa guides him along the way, ever so gently prodding him towards reconciliation, redemption, and forgiveness.

“Simba was wrong, but he listened to his daddy in the end,” Johnny noted.

I smiled at his words and hummed that song to myself. And a voice with the fear of a child answers, “Listen.” Hear the words and have faith. He lives in you.”








He Lives in You

Night
And the spirit of life
Calling

Oh, oh, iyo
Mamela [Listen]
Oh, oh, iyo

And a voice
With the fear of a child
Answers

Oh, oh, iyo
Oh, mamela [Listen]
Oh, oh, iyo

Wait
There's no mountain too great
Hear the words and have faith
Have faith

Hela hey mamela [Hey, listen]

He lives in you
He lives in me
He watches over
Everything we see
Into the water
Into the truth
In your reflection
He lives in you

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sBX-nTBoV78

Daddy

My last blog entry-- "The Smoke That Thunders"-- and this one were never meant to be blog entries at all. They were simply Memories that began as quickly scrawled notes in my prayer journal. I wrote them as something to cling to a few months from now, when I know I will need them most. After much contemplation, I decided maybe I should share them. The following heading starts that section of my journal...Memories
Tiny little moments of hope and promise—moments when I am reminded that this is a journey worth taking, that missions is an invitation to perpetual heartbreak, that to love is to be vulnerable, and that no other option is left to us.

Daddy

When Jesus taught his disciples to pray, I wonder if his heart rejoiced in his foreknowledge of a first grader named Elias—an unlikely disciple from the Zambian bush.

As often as scheduling allows, I escape down to the kindergartener’s bedroom to read a bedtime story at night.  Amy just brought back a new children’s Bible called the Jesus Storybook Bible—I highly recommend it. We’ve been reading a story or two every day during Circle Time, and sometimes the kids ask to hear another one at night. That evening, we read the story of the Lord’s prayer and Jesus teaching his disciples to pray. Then, like always, we all folded our hands and bowed our heads for bedtime prayer. Elias was first.

“Dear Daddy, thank you for being our Daddy and for saving us, and for taking the chains off of our hearts so we don’t have to be afraid. I love you so much, Daddy.” Has any prayer ever rung more beautifully in the heart of my King? Certainly none that I have uttered possibly could.

And in that moment, as Elias whispered “daddy,” and Queenie prayed for the health of Grace and Naomi and Ana, and Henry prayed for help to obey his Aunties (because believe me, that kid needs all the help he can get), heaven reached down and breathed into the room.

Some of those prayers were echoes of questions asked weeks ago during Bible story time. We read the story of the Fall and talked about how sinful man can never free himself from sin, the “wages of sin is death,” and nothing sinful can ever enter heaven.  Johnny’s eyes seemed to fill with all the sorrow of world. “But Auntie Meghan, how will God save us? How will He take the chains off our hearts?” I closed my eyes and listened for the sound of Aslan’s paws treading down the corridor. Elias patted Johnny’s shoulder sympathetically. “Johnny,” he said, “just wait. The story isn’t over yet.” Then we kept reading—from that first Passover where Punishment turned away from the doors painted with blood because a lamb had been slain in their stead; to an unlikely Savior King who touched lepers, welcomed village kids, loved the least of these, and gave himself as the final Sacrificial Lamb.  Six little faces whose eyes generally wander this way and that and under the table and onto other people’s papers during school time were suddenly trained motionlessly in my direction. And as I read the story of hope to those six precious souls, I knew in my heart of hearts that Aslan was on the move.

Smoke That Thunders

Mosi is a Zambian beer. It’s named after Victoria Falls, one of Africa’s greatest wonders. The locals call the massive falls "Mosi-oa-tunya," which means "the smoke that thunders." It’s odd to be here in Kazembe, where I spend most of my day hanging out with a couple dozen orphans and an hour here or there whacking a “foot-bolla” around with the village kids—including Nicholas, a 10 year old who has had a deep wet cough and vomiting spells for four weeks now; Calvin, the “diver” (goalie) with a ringworm infection covering most of his head and face;  and Albert, the 12-year-old neighbor kid who keeps one eye on the ball and the other on his two-year-old orphaned niece Wyness who moved here from Lusaka last week (more on that story later)—and such a paradise seems only to epitomize the harsh contradictions of life in Africa. Every rose has it’s thorns. Sometimes I’m just not sure which part of the rose I’m holding onto.

Mbita, the medical officer from the village, was at the orphanage taking care of under-5 requirements for the kids. Some needed vaccinations, de-worming, etc. As I was running back and forth bringing him whichever kid he wanted to poke next, Peter—one of the guys who works here—rattled off something to me.  I had a screaming baby in my arms and only caught part of what he said, but I caught that he was asking for a Mosi. I told him to find David and ask him.

It wasn’t until two or three screaming kids later that I actually stopped to listen to what Peter wanted.  His 17-month-old son had gotten his hands on some “methylated spirits” (methylated alcohol) and drank an unknown but significant amount. Methylated spirits is highly nephrotoxic and hepatotoxic. It also causes blindness. In short, this little boy drank a poison capable of frying his liver, his kidneys, and his eyes. Two of those three things are necessary for survival, and the third is pretty vital in this environment. Mbita told Peter to give the child a few sips of Mosi, saying that the “good” alcohol would neutralize the “bad” alcohol.

I thought that sounded a little sketchy.

We tried to make an international call to Poison Control, but David’s phone wouldn’t dial out. We borrowed Jasmine’s phone and called her mom, who was in Mansa getting groceries. Amy didn’t know what to do for the kid either but said she would try to get Poison Control on the phone. The nice man who answered the phone was exceptionally unhelpful. He refused to give her any information and kept saying that she had to take the boy to an emergency room.

“But we’re in the African bush! There is no emergency room!”

He refused to answer any of her questions about what might help—Should we give him milk? Make him vomit?

“NO! You have to take him to an emergency room!”

Well isn’t that helpful.

David was able to get a text through to his father, who called Poison Control to try again. By this time, David and I had filled a sippy cup full of milk and sugar (milk because it neutralizes some poisons, and sugar because methanol can cause severe hypoglycemia) and sprinted down the hill to the clinic.  David made a short detour to the chapel; we figured we needed all the Help we could get.  Peter was sitting on a rickety wooden bench, his tiny son sprawled limp across his lap. The child’s eyes were glazed over. He was listless and moaning slightly, and his abdomen was rigid. Peter said he had just vomited. All of the “medical personnel” at the clinic were off on lunch break (you don’t even want to know how I responded to that little gem of information…), so Peter was just sitting there helplessly with that sick baby boy in his arms…

David’s phone rang. By the grace of merciful heaven, his father was able to conference call us in with Poison Control. He had already explained the situation to the Poison Control lady, Sheri, and she had put him on hold to try and find some information.  A few seconds later she came back on the line.
“I just looked up the methylated spirits, and it is incredibly toxic. You need to take the child to an emergency care center immediately.”

Resisting the urge to simply implode out of frustration, I explained that Lusaka was 16 hours away by bus and South Africa was three countries away. I didn’t mention that the Mbereshi Mission Hospital is just a few kilometers down the road, because they would probably just give the kid a nice dose of Tylenol and send him on his way.  I told her there were simply no doctors or decent medical care available; whatever I had to offer was all the care this child was going to get. (Later I realized that David’s poor dad had to hear my rant about the dangerous unavailability of healthcare here; while everything I said was true, the sad and simple truth of the matter is that emergency healthcare would be significantly more available to us than it was to that child because we would be more able to get to Ndola, or Lusaka, or Cape Town, or wherever we needed to, but it is financially impossible and impractical to do that for every sick village kid… All that to say that I felt a little guilty later for causing David’s father any worry.)

There was a long pause on the other side of the line as Sheri wrapped her head around everything. Then she launched into action. She quickly explained the mechanism of methanol metabolism in the body. She said that Stateside, a child who consumed a significant amount of methanol would be ICU hospitalized on dialysis for several days and kept on a constant ethanol drip. The ethanol (or “good” alcohol) basically distracts the body. The enzyme that breaks down alcohol in the body targets ethanol first before methanol, and so if the amount of ethanol in the blood is greater than the amount of methanol, then the body won’t process the poison.

But we didn’t have an ICU.

Or a dialysis machine.

Or the capability to run an IV ethanol drip.

Or blood tests to track the serum levels of ethanol and methanol.

So we did the next best thing: we got the baby drunk.

I was a bit humbled at this point. Mbita had been right—the kid did need “good” alcohol—but now I understood why. It was going to take more than a little though. A few sips of beer certainly wasn’t enough to keep the methanol from destroying this little boy’s system. In retrospect, I am so deeply thankful that Mbita was there at all, and that his knowledge surpassed my own even if my pride would not allow me to see that at the time.

Sheri said to keep him drunk for the next several days until the poison had time to clear his system.  We climbed back up the hill with him. Just the day before, David and I had bought a bottle of cheap white wine in Mansa. After whispering a prayer of thanks for that impulse buy, I asked Peter what the child’s name was. Peter smiled.

“His name is Miracle.”