On the Way!

Hello world!

We’re lounging around at the Backpacker’s Lodge in Lusaka, Zambia, recovering from jetlag and chasing geckos up the walls (okay, actually, I’m the only one chasing geckos…). I thought I would share the journey with you…

After a short week and a half at home, I reloaded everything back into my car and drove south to Nashville again.  A dear friend who studied abroad in Italy this spring had just gotten home, so she and I stayed with another friend in the city to catch up with each other and essentially just enjoy each other’s company for the night. The next day consisted of frantically running from place to place to get passport photos and Spiderman movies (you’re welcome, Troy) and milkshakes (totally necessary…) and every other odd and end that still hadn’t been picked up. David and I traveled on the same itinerary, which means we were basically trying to pack in the same bags while residing in two different states, which—I might add—is actually physically impossible. A week of anxiety and obnoxiously late phone calls and micromanaging on my part culminated into about a two-hour packing experience in the lobby of my old dorm at school.  We laid out everything we hoped to pack in order of importance and then stuffed every suitcase until it was exactly 50lb (or at least reaaaally close). Almost everything made it in, and the things I had to leave were not items I felt bad about leaving behind. So that’s nice.

The next morning, we met at the airport parking garage, stuffed one last suitcase full to bursting with kids clothes (they were just too cute to leave behind), and made our way to the United Airlines counter.  We intended to check an extra suitcase, and the travel agency we work with (Golden Rule; I highly recommend them for any kind of missions travel) had been kind enough to make the phone calls for us and figure out the prices and logistics.  United charged us $200, which is about what we expected. The travel agency warned us that Ethiopian Air would probably try to charge us again when we transferred our bags over, so the lady at the United counter went through the trouble of printing up a receipt for the extra bag stating that it was good from DC to Lusaka.

Then she discovered that we were both booked on two flights from DC to Addis Ababa. Several weeks ago our travel agency notified us that the flight had changed, but apparently it wasn’t canceled appropriately in the system.  The United lady’s initial statement was, “Oh well, that doesn’t really matter for us. It’s an Ethiopian issue.” After a minor amount of sheer panic and pleading with big eyes, she did sort it all out for us.

The flights from Nashville to Chicago and then to DC went flawlessly.  Navigating the DC airport with 312lbs of luggage in tow was quite an experience, to say the least, but we managed to follow the signs and the PA announcements until we found the shuttle pick-up. Two other missions groups were trying to get to the same hotel we were with the same obscenely large amount of luggage, so there was a bit of jostling to get on the shuttle both that night and when we reloaded to go back to the airport Sunday morning.  One of the groups was really nice; the others’ attitudes left me frustrated and irritated, but more on that later…

Checking in with Ethiopian Air in DC was… sketchy. That is the terminology we have settled upon.  I really like Ethiopian Air a lot; Stateside it just seemed to be a bunch of congenial friendly people unaccustomed to bureaucracy who were nonetheless working within the confines of bureaucracy. Things run pretty smoothly, and if something glitches, you just sort of shrug and move on and fix it later. For instance, they didn’t have our second boarding pass “ready” (translation: oops, somehow you’re not actually on this flight… let’s fix that…). When we got to Addis Ababa, we just sauntered up to the nice lady by the gate and asked if she happened to have it. There was a whole stack of them on the counter next to her. She rifled through them, pulled ours out, and sent us on our way.

Finally, we boarded (what we thought was) our final flight into Lusaka.  Fully jetlagged and only slightly coherent, we somehow missed the pre-flight PA announcement notifying us of a flight change. The thick Ethiopian accent of the announcer didn’t exactly help. I kept glancing at my watch in confusion, thinking how much longer the flight seemed than last year. Finally, the plane began to descend, and I eagerly leaned towards the window to see… a completely unfamiliar and foreign landscape.  In retrospect, the nice Chinese-man-across-the-aisle’s repetitious query of “Harari? Harari?” made a lot more since. We were, in fact, in Harari, Zimbabwe.

Luckily, it was only a brief (incredibly confusing) pitstop. A few people got off, and a few more people got on. An hour and a half later we finally stepped onto the tarmac at the Lusaka airport.

Getting our visa and getting through customs was a breeze. One of the luggage attendants piled all our luggage on a cart and literally walked us through customs, waving off the officials and getting us through without even having to stop. We grabbed a taxi and made our way to the Backpacker’s Lodge. Two of the other girls who are also traveling to Kazembe this summer, whose whereabouts were ominously unknown upon landing, were already there (much to our relief).  Due to the Zimbabwe mishap, we arrived too late to change currency over, which basically postponed all of our errands and responsibilities until the next day.

The night ended with a long look towards the Southern Cross, a deep breath of African air, and a peace in my soul that has been painfully absent since August 6^th of last year. Tomorrow we board the bus for Kazembe, and I eagerly await that moment Thursday morning when the orphanage appears on the horizon. And when Johnny pipes up with, “Auntie Meghan, you came back!” I’ll cross my arms, turn sideways, and smile mischeviously just like he does and say, “Of course I did monkey. I told you so.”

Me & My Drum

Shhh! Listen! Do you hear that?!

Those drums. Those are Narnian drums. Spring is here. The world is waking up, and I’m almost there.

Time is passing too quickly and yet barely moving all at the same time.  I have so much to do in the next week. We fly out on May 19^th, but since I’ll be leaving Illinois on the morning of the 17^th, I really only have one week left to have everything gathered, packed, and ready to go. 

I spent a few hours last night working out lesson plans for the kids.  Mostly I’m just trying to make sure I don’t forget anything that I might want later on in the way of school supplies or teaching tools.  We have a fold-out world map and a children’s atlas, and I found some kids’ fact books about different countries (Brazil, China, India, Greece, Mexico, Egypt… maybe a couple more?). I’m hoping to talk about a different continent or area of the world each week and use the books as focus lessons. World history and geography are obviously not incredibly high on a 1^st grade Zambian orphan’s academic needs, but I think it’s important to encourage curiosity in their world. Of course there will be math, reading, and science too, and I’m planning to incorporate spelling more heavily as well.

I’ve also been comparing different first grade learning objectives and standards to try and piece together a more comprehensive curriculum.  The workbooks we use have a list of learning objectives, but I found last year that, at least for my teaching style, the list leaves several knowledge gaps. It took me several weeks last year to really get into an efficient rhythm of teaching.

The last few weeks have been positively bursting with hopeful possibilities. I brainstormed with some professors about the possibility of study abroad making its way into the nursing program at Belmont. A pharmacy professor happened to walk in the office of a nursing professor just as she was opening an email I sent her, and a few days later I found myself in that pharmacy professor’s office as she explained how she could arrange and adapt the clinic inventory from the orphanage into a much more user-friendly format, complete with pediatric dosages and recommendations for equipment or medications to obtain.  Then I went to drop something off with my aunt at the hospital where she works only to be introduced to a truly amazing nurse that she works with who had spent two years working in Mozambique.  She was able to provide me with a wealth of advice and several organized treatment protocols that she had used and developed while she was there. Most of all, she left me with the feeling that our souls would understand each other. We have seen the same worlds. There’s always that moment when someone finds out I’m spending another summer in Africa where they comment or ask a generic and awkward question and I’m not sure how to respond. Sometimes they really want to know; sometimes the query is born from dumbfounded obligation. I have just as much trouble sharing Africa with Americans as I do explaining America to Africans. The culture gap there is huge, and I don’t really belong in either one of them. I really could not care less about pop culture. Spending more than ten bucks at a time makes my soul itchy, but I also like long hot showers and have been known to waste weeks of my life watching all the seasons of Lost back-to-back… I’m a bit of a cultural misfit at the moment, and I suspect I always will be. I just got the feeling that somehow, at least a little bit, that nurse would understand my heart. That might be the greatest gift she offered that night; it’s not one I receive very often.

This Sunday I was given the opportunity to share my journey and my future plans (HA! as if my plans ever work out the way I think they will…) with my home church. I can speak in front of almost anyone with no qualms at all.  I spoke to 1200 incoming students and their families at a preview day at Belmont this spring and barely batted an eyelash. I’ve debated at the national level and presented to several groups and organizations. I’m always “ready” to talk about Africa, and I’ve done it (and done it well) on a moment's notice on more than one occasion before.

The moment I stepped in front of that church though, something changed. These people are my family. Many of them have known me since I was born. As I stood trembling in front of that church and scanned the crowd, thoughts like “She probably changed my diaper when I was a baby” kept popping into my head. ‘Twas a wee bit distracting.  I did not even remotely come close to clearly expressing or representing the terrible heartbreaking beauty of Africa and her people. I’ve never been good at asking for help, you see.  When I urge someone to give to missions, my motivation is two-fold: First, obviously, there is desperate need.  Second, we were created to make much of God. So many times in scripture, God lays out what He sees as true worship, pure religion, and righteous living, and those passages paint a picture of selfless service and generosity that places others ahead of ourselves. So yes, I want you to give because I have watched children die from lack of adequate medical care.  But I also want you to give because I really do think it’s the better way of life. We think far too little of eternity and what will matter then.  I don’t mean this in a you-should-be-a-better-Christian-and-give-more-stuff-to-poor-kids way… It’s more of an I-desperately-want-you-to-experience-the-freedom-and-unspeakable-joy-of-finding-Jesus-amongst-the-least-of-these way… That line of belief felt unexpectedly barbed and difficult to articulate to a room full of people who have known me forever.

So I have a confession… I’m staying up until midnight just so I can celebrate the one-week mark. At midnight, I’ll only have one week (and the 23 hours 59 minutes left in the day…) until the day that we leave. Everyone else in the house is already asleep. David already said goodnight, and since Emily and Sarah are nice, normal people, they’re probably already sleeping as well. So I shall celebrate silently, by myself, curled up here in this recliner, and that will be enough.

Now run along, little faun. The Narnians Zambians are just waking up right now, but my night is nearing an end. I venture now to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I’ll dawdle as much as humanly possible until that clock finally strikes midnight. One day closer. Aslan is on the move.

My Life According to Disney

When the woes of college existence threaten to overwhelm and overpower, relief may always be found through Disney’s animated classics.  Mountains of homework tower around me, and gypsies do not do well behind stone walls.  I am exhausted and frustrated. This is my escape.

“He lives in you. He lives in me. He’s watching over everything you see… In your reflection, He lives in you.”

In all things, there is purpose.  We are not alone. We are not abandoned. He lives.

As if that is not glorious enough, He lives in us.  I am reminded of a conversation I had with one of the nannies last summer.  As I was walking with her to the library so she could get another book, I asked her about the one she had been reading—what it was about, whether she had learned anything, etc.  “It was about God. It says that God thinks I am beautiful. Is that true?” My heart broke a little. Yes. Yes, God thinks you are beautiful. And valuable beyond measure.  In fact, God thinks you are worth dying for.

Early in the summer, I snapped at the kids one morning for no other reason besides the fact that I was tired.  Later I reprimanded Johnny for losing his temper when someone broke his tent.  I asked him to apologize to the victim, and he said, “But you did not have to say sorry when you got mad this morning, because you are big.” My actions had failed to reflect Him, and so in my effort to teach a child, I was reminded that a fallen world sometimes judges God by the actions of His imperfect followers.  Johnny looked to my actions as a paradigm for his own, and I had failed him. I apologized to the kids. They hugged me and told me they still loved me, and in that moment of childlike forgiveness, He lived in their reflection more clearly than in mine. And so we must approach the Kingdom like a little child…

“I have often dreamed, of a far off place, where a great warm welcome will be waiting for me… Where a voice keeps saying, ‘This is where I’m meant to be.’”

I found that place. I might have mentioned it once or twice.  That “great warm welcome” will probably come in the form of kindergarten classes and dirty diapers, and honestly, I can’t think of a better one. 

“Why can’t they understand the way we feel? They just don’t trust what they can’t explain. I know we’re different, but deep inside us, we’re not that different at all. You’ll be in my heart.”

I cannot explain my love for those people or that place. I know it’s not my culture. I know it’s not my language, or my customs, or my way of life, or my world.  I also don’t understand why I should have to explain it.   It would be so much easier to love less.  It would be so much more convenient to justify a comfortable life here. It would be so much easier to turn my back on them.

I will not do that.

God has blessed me with a precious few people who have come to understand (or at the very least come to accept) that passion. What would you do for your best friend? Your little sister? Your child?  The people of Kazembe and the children of that orphanage are that to me. Deep inside, we’re not that different at all.

“Hakuna Matata.”

Peace, child.  He will not abandon us. Do not worry about anything—about what you will eat or drink, or about what you will wear. Have faith.

“You think the only people who are people, are the people who look and think like you, but if you walk the footsteps of a stranger, you’ll learn things you never knew you never knew.”

I impatiently await the morning when I will open the door of my room to be greeted again by cries of “Auntie Meghan!” I eagerly desire to teach and share.  There is so much I want to give and provide for them.  But I would be an arrogant fool not to recognize that they have much to offer as well, both in regards to who they are and to who I am.  There is so much I hope to change.  There is much in me that needs changed as well. God keep me humble.

“To be safe we lose our chance of ever knowing what’s just around the river bend… Should I choose the smoothest course, steady as the beating drum?... Or do you still wait for me, Dream Giver, just around the river bend?”

Safe choices are… well, safe. Comfortable. That was never promised to us. 

“Aslan is a lion- the Lion, the great Lion." "Ooh" said Susan. "I'd thought he was a man. Is he-quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion"..."Safe?" said Mr Beaver ..."Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you.”

“Raise your head up. Life high the load.  Take strength from those that need you. Build high the walls. Build strong the beams. A new life is waiting, but danger is no stranger here…  Two worlds, one family.”

A hope, a promise, and a warning. An unconventional family. More goodbyes than any person should ever have to say. Laughter and tears, and tiny little hands in mine.  Surrounded by people, but isolated by culture.  Bearing knowledge but decidedly ignorant.  Desperation and joy.  Faith and fear.  Starry nights and blazing sunrises.  Termites and scorpions and snakes.  Beauty beyond comparison. The least of these, and the Son of God.

Most of all, an adventure of divine proportions. 

“The second star to the right, shines in the night for you, to tell you that the dreams you have really can come true.”

I will wish upon the second star to the right tonight. That poor little star is struggling with all it has to shine through the light and haze that cloaks this city’s evening sky.  It’s barely there, but I can see it. It won’t quit. I appreciate that.  Someday soon, the stars that twinkle down on me won’t have any trouble being seen.  Someday soon, I will wish upon the Southern Cross as it graces the sky at night. 

Until then, dreams and wishes and Disney songs will have to get me through.

“I've climbed the mountain, I've crossed the river
And I'm almost there, I'm almost there.”

Caffeine and other stimulants...

Well hello cyberspace! It's been awhile since we last chatted! Let me fill you in on the going-ons of my life at present.

Be warned-- I am both caffeinated and unnaturally happy right now. The two may be related.

I dreamed about the kids this week.  It was.... interesting.  David, Sarah, Zeger, and I all pulled up to the orphanage in the bus that travels from Lusaka to Kazembe.  I jumped out before it came to a complete stop and bee-lined it for Johnny, scooping him up into my arms and hugging him as if I would never let go.  He was moderately happy to see me, but mostly he just wanted to go build a tent, so he kept trying to get away.  I bribed him to stay with me by slipping him tiny pieces of chocolate.  Then suddenly Zeger ran through the room at high speed, closely pursued by Amy, who was brandishing a broomstick at him.  He had started a blog and written something she didn't like, and she apparently intended to let him know...  Then Johnny said, "Look, Auntie Meghan! Uncle David has stolen Theresa!"  I followed his gaze to the window, where David could be seen running up the road with Theresa tucked under his arm like a football.  She was shouting, "Awe! Awe! Awe!" and kicking like crazy. I could hear his shouts as they faded into the distance: "I'm her favorite! She loves me!"  Then I looked up to see Sarah draining all the blood out of her hand into a bowl. In response to my puzzled query, she informed me that she had been bitten by a mosquito and wanted to avoid malaria.

Then I woke up. 

Just a few background notes and points of clarification: Amy's reaction was nothing like the real Amy, who is kind, compassionate, and a wonderful momma to 22 of my favorite African munchkins.  The David/Theresa combination was probably my subconscious's response to an ongoing joke between the two of us; I was showing him pictures of the kids one time and babbling on about their personalities when we turned to a picture of Theresa. He hushed me and put his hand over my mouth, saying, "Shhh.... just look at that face. Look. Nothing else matters." She is his unofficial favorite, and we often joke about how he'll react if she doesn't like him.  I highly doubt that Zeger would post anything broomstick-beating-worthy on the internet, and Sarah doesn't like blood, so there's little danger of the above episode playing out in real life. 

I've had an exciting week at school as well.  Several discussions with several different professors somehow collided, and to make a really long story short, I'm meeting with a pharmacy professor next week to review and discuss the orphanage's clinic inventory (how to best use what we have, dosage recommendations, what we shouldn't use, what we need that we don't have, etc.).  One of the other professors connected me with a couple who work for the CDC in Lusaka doing something with malaria, so I'm hoping to meet with them while we're in the capital.  Yet another professor gave me some advice for locating and modifying existing developing world treatment protocols for HIV, malaria, TB, and pneumonia to exactly suit the resources and conditions of Kazembe.  Finally, I'm meeting with some of the aforementioned professors in a week to discuss the possible development of a semester (or semester+summer) study abroad opportunity for future nursing students, which-- God willing-- could result in having some of those students at Kazembe annually!

The weekend before Easter, Amy was in Nashville (WOOOOOO!!!!!!!). It was so nice to catch up and spend some time with her-- I've missed her a lot.  One of my (amazing) residents, who is also a very dear friend, spoke with her church in Knoxville and was able to get Amy the opportunity to set up in the lobby and speak to people as they came in.  The church also took an offering and were wonderfully generous, especially considering that they did this on a week's notice and would be taking up another special offering for other needs the subsequent two Sundays.  It was a blessing and an encouragement to see a congregation step up and take their responsibility as Christians seriously.  As we were leaving, the pastor invited Amy to let the church know the next time she was Stateside fund raising so they could invite her again.

In other news, there are only two (ridiculously packed) weeks of school left! I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...

A friend just sent me a text asking what I was up to. My response: "High on life (or caffeine). Writing. Dreaming. Hoping. Rejoicing. Listening to Disney songs. Marveling at the goodness of our God and the paradox of a divine ultimatum that bids you leave and give what you can never keep to gain what you can never lose."

That pretty much sums it up, ladies and gents. Have some coffee. God bless.

I Need a Magic 8 Ball...

Sometimes I micromanage. 

I always have.  I like to fix things (and people). I like to figure out the answer, as if life is just one big soduku puzzle waiting for me to arrange the numbers in the correct order.  Something in me thrives on the ability to analyze a situation from every angle and consider every possible outcome, and I can often intuitively deduce which is most likely to occur.  Occasionally this comes in handy… in healthcare, for instance.  Other times it’s a pain.  Ordering off of a menu stresses me out. Too many options. I’ll just have what he’s having (unless he’s having something with sausage in it…).

The inability to micromanage effectively, as well as the impossibility of micromanaging an unforeseen and unpredictable future, lead to worry.  Recently I suddenly realized that in one year, one month, and three weeks, I will graduate from Belmont. Holy cow.

I’m not ready.

For starters, this college kid has a modest yet significant chunk of college loans looming overhead.  That bodes ill for following my soul to Africa anytime soon after graduation, and the very thought of working in the American health care system leaves me physically and spiritually nauseous (leave it to me to pick a major whose associated profession has no appeal whatsoever for me anywhere but the third world…).  Well-meaning rationalists across the nation have made it their life mission to track me down and demand to know how I expect to support myself or make enough money to feed the children I intend to collect.  If I am thankful for anything right now (and I most certainly am), then it is for the presence of my best friend, who has resolutely answered, “Manna,” every time I have voiced those concerns myself.  There is wisdom in that humor. God will not abandon us.

I cannot imagine that another year of busywork and red tape and “formative readings” and handouts about machines that do your job for you but will never be around when you really need them will even begin to equip me for the world I have been called to.  I fervently hope I am wrong.

I have no idea where I’m going or how to get there.  I mean, I have a continent in mind… and I my have mentioned a certain wonderful family in a forgotten village in the corner of a beautiful sub-Saharan country that has captured my heart…  but deciphering the difference between God’s leading and one’s own desires can be stickier than a maple syrup explosion (you’re welcome for that visual). 

And sometimes in life you find yourself walking next to someone, and before you know it you’re accidentally holding hands with no desire at all to let go as your heart whispers, "God has been good to us."  Now there’s a whole other vat of syrup to sift through.  Suddenly your life and your future begin to intertwine with another’s.  It’s this odd kind of negotiation where really you’re bargaining for all of the same things, but minor little details (like the timing of a one-way trans-Atlantic plane ticket) begin to whisper doubt and anxiety into your control-freak micromanaging heart—not because of dissonance (quite the opposite), but due to unfamiliarity with the concept of belonging to a two-part harmony and irrational fear of singing the wrong note (there’s a reason I only sing in the shower, folks...).

Tonight my church hosted their monthly hour of prayer.  I knelt next to a pew on the terribly cold concrete floor, and I watched while my King laid bare my heart and picked through those things I hold most dear, those prayers I’m afraid to pray because I’m afraid of the answers or the implications and responsibilities associated with acknowledging them.  Most of it had little to do with anything mentioned here, but roughly halfway through the hour a high school girl of about fourteen slipped into the pew next to me.  She was one of fifty kids her age here on a mission trip from Oklahoma; they did an impressive amount of service with the church and in the community over the last few days.  She asked if she could pray for me.

She prayed that I would find joy and peace in service to Christ.

How beautifully simple. 

It really was a deceptively simple prayer—the kind that comes from the mouths of the sheltered innocent or the exceptionally firm in faith.  I am neither and struggle for such words.

And so I’ll be really honest with you tonight.  I’m terrified. I’m worried about some things that are way beyond my control and others that are uncomfortably within my sphere of influence (for I am prone to stupid decisions with painful and long-lasting consequences).  I am trying desperately, with all of my heart and soul, to represent Him well, and more often than not my attempts resemble a little girl clumsily traipsing around in her Father’s overcoat and shoes, attempting to convince the world and herself that she is smarter and stronger than she really is.
 
Yes, I am terrified. 

But perfect Love drives out fear.  The Peace that surpasses understanding is a gift of undeserved Grace and unrelenting Mercy, and Joy radiates from the overflow of a heart redeemed.

“Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine.” Isaiah 43:1

He knows my name.

He will not abandon me.

Double-edged swords are dangerous...

This semester, I’ve been much more deliberate about reading the scriptures than I was last fall.  It’s a dangerous thing, this scripture-reading business.  It shakes the very foundation of your being, of your desires and aspirations, and it demands a response: obedience or rebellion (which may take the form of apathy or attempts to justify the status quo).  Last night I was explaining the story of Josiah to a friend. For anyone needing a summary, Josiah became king when he was only eight years old.  Eighteen years later, he ordered that the money offered at the temple be used to rebuild and restore it to a state befitting its role as the house of the Living God.  During the cleanup process, a book of the law was found. They brought it and read it to Josiah.  Upon hearing the words of God found in that scripture, Josiah broke. He recognized that despite his best and most reverent intentions, he and all of Israel were not living as God had commanded.  And Josiah believed that God meant what He said.

So he fixed it.

And so there’s a part of me that gets a little nervous when I open scripture, when I pray that God grant me the ability to look at life and this world and the people in it through His eyes, to love them as He loves them—for I too suspect that He meant what He said.

Christ’s love cost Him everything. Christ’s love is exemplified by the cross. Think for a moment what that means. Think about what that life looked like.  He commands—this is not optional—us to pick up our crosses daily and follow Him.  What does that look like? I don’t know for sure.  I do know that there’s no possible way that I personally can carry a cross if I’m clutching other things in my hands.

I’m going to ride on some Bonhoeffer theology for a moment, so bear with me.

The gospel demands a blank check.  Anything less is potentially more dangerous than offering nothing at all, for if you have offered nothing, then Christ’s call to give at least has a sounding board in your heart.  If you’ve given a little bit, then you just flip to a different song, because you reason that you’re covered.  We’ve partitioned Christianity into two nice little layers.  There are Christians, and then there are radical Christians.  There is a minimum level of service that we find acceptable. Sure, some people go beyond that to a state of reckless abandon and radical faith, and we venerate that as good, but not as necessary.  Bonhoeffer suggested that maybe the latter is the minimum after all, and the former is an inadequate and dangerous label.

And if Jesus meant what He said, then I think maybe Bonhoeffer was onto something.

Because the disciples were told to drop their nets and follow.  Some left their father standing there, net in hand.  They were sent out without savings accounts or bullet-proof vests or even an extra cloak. Paul was called to step out of an influential authority position, out of comfort and prestige into obscurity and derision.  Moses, the prince of the greatest empire of his time, had to fall to nothing and become a nomadic refugee to fulfill the role God had for him.

What if lukewarm Christianity isn’t really Christianity at all? If our inaction (or half-action) is just as wrong as deliberately sinful action? If like the rich young ruler, we have kept all the commandments since childhood, but when we were asked to give back, we refuse.  Or we just give enough to make us feel good about giving, because let’s face it: that’s a big motivator for why we give.  We like the nice warm fuzzy feeling we get afterwards. But there’s the difference between giving because it makes us feel good, makes us feel like we’re doing the right thing… and giving until it hurts.

That story is such a hard one to wrap my head around. The man was, overall, “doing the right thing.”  The problem wasn’t that he wasn’t doing enough (for could we ever really do enough?); the problem was the underlying spiritual condition that caused him to “not do enough.” 

This is all so convoluted.  The popular Western line of reasoning is “safe evangelism.” You give within your means, because after all, you want to feed the homeless, but you don’t want to be homeless. You reach out as much as you can without putting yourself in any danger.  Moving into a community where the light of Christ is missing isn’t really feasible, because no one wants to hear gunshots on their street at night, and how could you justify sending your kid to that school?  The safety of a steady income allows us to “give generously” whenever the need slaps us in the face, or even to deliberately go find a hungry person once in a while, and we feel good because we had the money to do it.  We go to college and spend years paying off the debt because society says you need those letters behind your name in order to have the influence to make a difference, and we bought into that.  We justify our climb on the social ladder as a necessary means to an end, and as long as we make sure that end is something admirable—“Christian,” even—then we’re golden.

Further convolution: I don’t know what this looks like in everyone’s life. I know that it won’t look exactly the same, because we are all different parts of one body; we have different purposes and different skills.  That being said, if anyone reads that statement and sees it as a disclaimer, as justification to avoid some component of the call of costly discipleship because “that’s not what it looks like for them,” then may God forgive me for perpetuating such an excuse.

Forgive me also, dear reader, if this sounds at all condemning.  If I am condemning anyone, it is only myself.

That’s the danger of scripture:  once you’ve heard it, you can’t pretend you don’t know. 

This is what I do know (courtesy due partly to Katie Davis).  If you compare the number of self-professing Christians in the world to the number of orphans, it becomes apparent that if only 7% of all Christians… SEVEN out of every ONE HUNDRED… would care for just one more child, then there wouldn’t be any more orphan statistics.  And I know that God tells us in (that dangerous) scripture that the purest form of religion is to care for orphans and widows in their distress.  Something is just not computing there…

I know that I am to love my neighbor as myself.  Myself doesn’t want to be hungry, or cold, or homeless.  Myself doesn’t want to be sick or ignored because it happened to be born in a poor country instead of a privileged one, because coming to me is too inconvenient, too costly.

And so it would be nice to be a nurse at Vanderbilt or St. Jude’s.  There is nothing wrong with that.  Some parts of His body are called to that.  I am not.  It would be so easy to justify. It would still be “good.” The selfish and proud part of me would like it because it seems the best use of my intelligence and skill.  I could work alongside the best and the brightest.  And I could do it in relative comfort, in proximity to my family and friends, and I could build a little house on a big hill with a big east-facing bay window and a big backyard with four little boys playing football and two dogs trying to eat said football. That’s what is expected of me. That’s what success looks like. Safe evangelism allows for that.

So what’s the difference, then, if I take those skills and use them in the poorest corners of the planet?  I’m still using the same skills.  I’m reaching an even more desperate humanity.  I’m still a nurse.

The difference is the prestige, the honor, the self-glory, and the opportunity to be “heard” and listened to, to be respected because I’ve “earned it.”  The difference is the possibility that I’ll never have safety or that little house, that I’ll have to put down those dreams in order that my hands might be free to pick up my cross. I can put whatever label I want to on it, but at the end of the day, that’s what it is.

Oh…. that’s the difference?

Good riddance.

Because safe evangelism allows for that. But costly grace does not. Not for me.

The stories that light our hearts on fire are those of people like Moses, Paul, King David, the apostles…  And those stories are still told.  They are stories of life, love, and triumph that God placed into the Grand Narrative, and so even thousands of years after these men walked the earth, their stories are still heard.

But they are heard because GOD’S power made them heard, because HIS glory and ability was proclaimed.  Scripture (that most dangerous of things…) tells us that His power is made perfect in weakness.  Sometimes I read that as a means of comfort, that when I am weakest and the most incapable, He will be strong.  I think that’s true.  I think it’s more than an insurance policy though.  It is also an admonition and a reminder that any grasp towards power on our part is essentially us placing a limit on how much we will let God do through us—not how much will be done overall, but how much will be done by the power and might of God.  We say, “No worries, God.  Your servant has got your back. I can take care of this. It’s under control. I don’t need your power just yet; my own is quite sufficient. I’m a prince of Egypt/king of Israel/teacher of the law. I have the authority and ability to do this.” 

We are fools and children.

So…

What if God meant what He said?

Just for Today

Today, I miss them. I miss them terribly. Of course I always miss them, but today the ache is more particular.  Just for today, I wish I could hop on a plane and be with them.  There's no special reason why, really-- no inciting incident that released a floodgate of memories.  And there's really no reason why it should be those kids. Heaven knows I have been blessed with a myriad of Stateside angels as well-- lots of little cousins and a niece. And I miss them too. I suppose one difference is that if I really wanted or needed to get to the kids here, I could. They're less than a tank of gas away.  But Kazembe...

I want to open the door of my room and be met with a half dozen cries of "Auntie Meghan! Play with me!" It is the sweetest sound I have ever heard.  I want to feel that familiar dull ache in between my shoulders that never really goes away because Henry keeps launching himself up and fastening his skinny arms around my neck.  I want Jennifer to ask permission to do something that she knows she really shouldn't do, and then I want to give it to her because she smiled at me, and there's really no resisting that smile.  And then I want to run after her screaming, "Wait! No, Jennifer, that's not a good idea!" 

Some of the things I want are long past, taken by time or eternity.  I want to race across the courtyard towards Jack and get to him before he crawls from the nursery to the steps, because once he has seen me, he'll crawl towards me with reckless abandon. His eyes fix to mine and he will crawl right off the edge of the steps without a moment's hesitation.   I want to see Denny making his way towards the kitchen with his furrowed little brow and unsteady Frankenstein waddle. Then I want to step into his line of vision and hold my arms out, and when those little eyes light up and the corner of his mouth starts to curl, I want to rush out to meet him and throw him into the air as his peals of laughter ring out into the fading day.  I want to sort through laundry in search of clothing small enough to fit a tiny 4lb 12oz doll of an angel.  Then I want to pick through the trunk full of shoes in an effort to find a pair to fit Lizzie's comically short but ridiculously wide feet. The kid basically has flippers.

But Jack is walking now, and Denny is probably outgrowing his waddle.  Angels don't need clothes made by man, and Lizzie's feet are surely growing along with the rest of her.

I want to play tag in the playground, a game that inevitably ends up with me flat on my face buried under the six kindergarteners, five preschoolers, and odd assortment of toddlers that tackled me to the ground.  I want to watch Johnny's eyes grow impossibly wide and almost pop out of his smart little head when he realizes that ice, steam, and water are all different forms of the same matter.  I want to watch Sandra and Janet play with each other, because even though both of them took such great care to hide and protect their hearts from me last summer, they seem to have found hope, trust, and genuine friendship in each other. And so I just watch, and I thank God that each of them was rescued, if only so they could be there for one another. 

And while I would never wish sickness upon any of these dear ones, if they do fall ill, I want to be there. I rather enjoy tracking vital signs, and I will do my best to cure them with the magical powers of hugs, kisses, cuddles, and bedtime stories.  I don't mind the long nights or frequent dosage schedules.  There's nothing to it, really... I walk from crib to crib, shaking each burning body gently awake. "Ima," I whisper. Get up. Moriah downs the medicine, licks the cup, and flashes me a tired smile.  "Laala. Nalikutemwa." Sleep. I love you.  I want to step into the nursery during naptime and scoop a screaming Ephraim up into my arms.  Then I'll stand there and rock him back and forth and whisper to him that he is loved.  And after just a few seconds, the shrieking  and flailing stops. Within a minute or two, he is fast asleep.  I lay him down and imagine the words that Ana's knowing look conveys: "Thanks for knocking him out. That kid is so obnoxiously loud while the rest of us are trying to sleep.  Brothers are a pain."  I smile back at her. She is such a joy-- my beautiful hosAna.

Basically, I just want to be with them. It's so strange to realize that so much of what I "want" are memories-- they were, and they always are in my heart, but they never will be again.  This year will be inevitably different. Different is neither good nor bad; it is simply different.  This year, two very dear friends will accompany me. They will live this story beside me.  They'll know the faces that go with these stories, and I fervently hope that they fall every bit as much in love with them as I have.  Nathan, Denny, and Theresa have pretty much been claimed.  I suppose I can share.

Oddly enough, I kind of want to.

Huh.