Completely Pointless Ramblings

The semester is officially half over. Part of me is ecstatic-- I loaded way more on my plate than what I should have tried to carry this fall. Work, classes, and the constant and ongoing battle of assimilating into my own culture have proven to be a bit more taxing than I bargained for, so I'm relieved to know that I'm halfway there. At the same time, I'm way behind in several of my classes, and the midterm mark means that time for redemption is short.  I should probably be studying instead of blogging....

Fall break brought with it an opportunity to share a little about my summer with one of the churches that helped me go. It was a complete and total fiasco. The pews of the tiny country sanctuary were "packed" with about two dozen people. After much cajoling, I finally managed to convince my little brother to let me use his 32" flatscreen to show pictures on-- you can just plug a flashdrive into it and flip through the pictures on the screen. But because I'm Meg, I ran off and left Nashville without Pegasus (my computer), which had all of my pictures on it. Luckily, I had uploaded many of them to Walgreens.com and could just download them from there. Of course, the internet connection at my mom's was too sketchy to allow that, so I ended up dashing to a friend's house Sunday morning before church to pull the pictures off line. Just as I was downloading the last picture, something glitched and my entire flashdrive-- pictures, files, school papers, everything-- was completely wiped.

That's how I ended up standing nervously behind the pulpit in a tiny, beautiful country church, clutching a wrinkled scrap of paper with six hastily scrawled bullet points to talk about, and completely winging the entire presentation.  I had intended to use the pictures as my outline to help pace me, but I was going to have to rearrange my thoughts and sort of make it up as I went along. Two minutes later, I had already sped through my bullet points and was shifting anxiously from foot to foot as I desperately tried to think of a way to explain to these people what I saw and experienced there.  My flying thoughts settled on Jessie, and I told her story. Due to a combination of nerves, sleep deprivation, and my own emotional instability, I ended up crying (and so did most of the people in the pews). Then I opened the floor for questions, and by the time we were done, I had run over a solid 20 minutes. Just another morning in the life of Meg.

It was the first time I had shared anything about my summer experience with a group (and in retrospect, I'm glad it was a small and forgiving group). I really enjoyed it. Those kids deserve to have their story told. And I love any excuse to talk about them and brag on them, because they're pretty amazing little munchkins in my book. At the same time, it makes me really uncomfortable when people tell me how proud of me they are, or how brave I must be, or how great it is that I want to spend my life on the mission field.  It's not about me. I don't want it to be about me. It's not supposed to be about me.  And yet I'm stuck in this interesting and contradictory position where I have to ask for money (which I also hate doing... guess I'm gonna have to get over that, huh?) so I can go back to them.  Straighten me out here, cyberfriends-- I'm confusing myself.

In other news, the Cardinals are headed to the World Series. This means that my week will have a tinge of unquenchable giddiness to it no matter what. Also, despite oversleeping and being 45 minutes late to my 8am test, I'm pretty sure I managed to ace it in the 22 minutes I had left to take it. And my afternoon class got cancelled, so I can do something productive this afternoon, like sleep and paint. Probably not at the same time though.

Sorry for consuming two minutes of your life with my pointless and ineloquent ramblings, but to be fair, I warned you in the title...

For those of you keeping up with the count, I'm down to 6 months and 26ish days.  Assuming nursing school doesn't kill me first.

Much love!

My Reason Why

This is a post I’ve wanted to write since the end of May, but I just haven’t been able to find the words. Luckily, God has gifted other people with a greater gift of communication than I possess, so I’ll use their words. Bear with me, folks. This post is an answer to questions from a plethora of people, but it’s also an answer to my own questions—so if it doesn’t make complete sense, let’s blame it on that.

I love flying.  As an “adult,” that attachment is mostly manifested in my infatuation with airports and a burning desire to go skydiving. But even when I was a kid, I loved the idea of flying. I used to watch Peter Pan right before bedtime in an effort to bring dreams where any merry little thought could life me to the skies.

My first connecting flight on the way to Kazembe this summer was from DC to Addis Ababa.  I settled into my window seat and started making origami birds for the kid in front of me. Literally moments before the plane took off, a young South African man sprinted onto the plane and dove into the seat next to me. I was a little startled. He introduced himself, but the name was not one I was familiar with or could pronounce, and I don’t remember it.  He told me a little bit about himself. He had come straight from college graduation to the airport to fly back home to Cape Town and had majored in international development and something else. After a polite amount of chatter, we both settled into our seats. A few minutes into the flight I pulled out my journal to chronicle my adventure thus far.  It’s a red leatherbound notebook with the names of Jesus engraved on the cover.  Almost immediately, the guy next to me pointed to one of the names.

“Who is this?”

I completely froze. What did he mean? What did he want me to say? Was he asking as someone who was curious, or combative, or instigatory, or maybe confused? What base of knowledge did he have—I mean, did I need to start with Genesis? What words could I possibly offer in explanation? 

A billion words and phrases rushed through my mind like an unstoppable waterfall. He is Savior, Lord, Redeemer, Friend, Father, Romancer, Advocate, Judge. He’s the reason I get up every morning, the reason I can offer forgiveness rather than demand what is “mine,” the answer to so many questions, and the source of so many more questions. He makes perfect sense but is beyond comprehension; He is the Alpha and Omega of all great mysteries.

How could I possibly explain who He is to me? What He is to me? The religious catchphrases of Christianity fall woefully short and in many cases only serve to confuse or disenchant the asker. How incredibly heartbreaking that the inadequacy of Christian explanation and the inconsistency of Christian action should be the reflection of Christ that a lost and broken world sees.  As the mighty philosophers of DC Talk once said, "The greatest single cause of atheism in the world today is Christians who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door and deny him by their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable."

He is Aslan; He is perfection.  He is Shelter and Refuge, but to follow Him—to truly follow Him, in action instead of lipservice— is not safe at all. It will cost you everything you thought was important.  And the world will look at you like you’re crazy.  But as Jim Elliot wrote, “He is no fool who gives what he can never keep to gain what he can never lose.”

I wanted to pull that kid into my emotions and memories and show him who Jesus is, because words just seemed to be inadequate. Unfortunately, words also seemed to be my only choice.

Scrambling for a verbal cleft to hold onto, I finally offered a brilliant and descriptive answer.

“He…. He… He’s Everything.”

The guy on the plane stared at me patiently, his face impossible to read. No smile or scowl hinted at his intention in asking the question or his perception of my response.  Then, before I had a chance to squeak out a feeble follow-up, he asked another: “Why Africa?”

Now there’s a question that can’t be intelligently answered with words.  I can justify my dedication a bit more now, since I’ve actually been there and loved on those kids, but as of May I was just some crazy American girl with a few screws loose who had dedicated her life and her love to a people she had never met, who had sacrificed relationships and opportunities in a desperate effort to follow the call that had gripped her heart, because she feared that even the slightest distraction would turn her silly flighty gaze away from what she truly believed God had asked of her.  Katie Davis, a young woman from Nashville area Tennessee who dropped everything and went to be a mom to a bunch of Ugandan girls, explains it this way. Emphasis is mine.

"You see, Jesus wrecked my life… My heart had been apprehended by a great love, a love that compelled me to live differently… As I read and learned more and more of what Jesus said, I liked the lifestyle I saw around me less and less. I began to realize that God wanted more from me, and I wanted more of Him… Slowly but surely, I began to realize the truth: I had loved and admired and worshiped Jesus without doing what He said… So I quit my life… But after that year, which I spent in Uganda, returning to “normal” wasn’t possible. I had seen what life was about, and I could not pretend I didn’t know."

Why Africa? Because Jesus said to go into all the world. Because to feed a hungry child is to see the face of Jesus looking back at you. Because I want to spend my life on something that is worth the price. Because my soul thirsts for adventure. Because materialism and consumerism is my Achilles’ heel, and I have never been happier than when I lived in a tiny dusty room with a single suitcase of possessions. Because I highly doubt that I will ever look back on my life and think, “Gee, I just fed too many hungry people and treated too many sick kids and loved far too deeply.” 

But again, how to explain that to some college grad from South Africa that I had just met?

“Because… Jesus said to go.”

And then, he smiled. His eyes were still fixed on the cover of my journal, so I asked him a question in return.

“And who is Jesus to you?”

“He…. well…. He’s Everything.”

Yep. That pretty much covers it.

Love That Demands More

I have a temper. A nasty one. I’m a firm believer in justice and the responsibility of every Christian to protect and love the people around them.  I’m also fiercely protective of my friends and the people under my care.  I do my best to harness these attributes for good, but I admittedly fall short more often than I succeed.

The last couple of weeks have been a lesson in love that I sorely needed but didn’t want to learn. Many of the details I cannot share with you due to privacy laws or common decency, and some details have been changed.  The lesson remains the same.

The last two patients that were randomly placed under my care in the last two weeks were carbon copies of people in my life, right down to the month and year of birth and unique mannerisms (Okay God, I’m listening…).  One was in really terrible condition, but every medical complication this person had could be directly linked to repeated poor lifestyle choices.  My job is to fix bodies. This person was systematically tearing his apart.

I like to think that I’m a pretty compassionate person. Compassion is a virtue that I value very highly. But for this person, I was struggling to produce a single shred.

I wish I could give you the background and details that would make all of that a bit more coherent, but the truth is that there’s really no justification.  By human standards-- even good moral standards-- I was well within my right as a person and a nurse to be frustrated with this individual. As a Christian, I should have recognized a bit more of my own story in the man who was drowning in his own mistakes and couldn’t save himself.

The second patient was admitted to the mental hospital for attempted suicide.  Again, the person’s history was riddled with poor choices and refusal to follow through with others’ attempts to help.  This person was (understandably) sullen and withdrawn and did not want to talk to me.  The feeling was mutual. It took several minutes to get anything beyond a one-word answer. Slowly, the patient began to open up and speak about the people in his life whom he felt he had let down, as well as those who had given up on him.  When the time came for me to go, I walked away with tears in my eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks that I hadn’t given up on him too. He was 19 years old.

My third difficult interaction was not with a patient but rather an individual I encounter pretty much on a daily basis.  The details are unimportant; suffice it to say we have incompatible personalities.  

If one of you is praying for God to teach me patience, stop it immediately.

There’s an intense amount of irony in all of this.  The first patient couldn’t save himself. Neither can I. The second had messed up and given up. But I almost gave up on him. The third… Well, to be honest, it’s an ongoing battle.  But love that falters in the face of resistance isn’t really love at all.  May I not be the one whose huge debt was forgiven that then turned around and demanded payment of pennies.  True grace doesn’t have a withdrawal limit. Neither does true forgiveness. May heaven help me remember it.

Because every conversation should have a good Africa link, let me wrap this up with a story from Kazembe. Once upon a time, I was fighting my way through brush that was taller than I was, carried along by the stream of hundreds of Zambians as we all headed to the river to see the Mwata perform a traditional Mutomboko ceremony.  The bank to the river was steep. I scrambled halfway up with difficulty, then turned and offered a hand to the kid behind me. He recoiled and sprang back, covering his face with his arms and falling backwards. My heart ached at his reaction.  No child’s experiences should train him to flinch from an open hand.  I waited, and a few seconds later the kid decided I wasn’t going to beat him. He reached up for my hand, and I pulled him up the hill.

May I always extend a hand of forgiveness and compassion.  May I not be the reason that someone fears an open hand. Amen.

Just Another Manic Monday

So here I am, sitting innocently in Pharmacology class, trying desperately to pay attention and frantically filling out notecards from the powerpoint information in an effort to stay conscious, when that wheedling voice in the back of my head suggested that I take a short mental break during an extended discussion on beta 2 agonists and check facebook and email.

The first three status updates on facebook were from three of the missionaries I worked with this summer. After stalking each of their profiles in turn to make sure I wasn’t missing out on anything (as if there is anything I could do about it if I were…), I then found myself following a link off of Amy’s page to a beautifully written note that one of her daughters had posted. Thirty seconds later I got a chat from Belgium, and then one from Zambia, and then another from Zambia. I pulled up email on the side in an effort to multitask. In one of my classes, we all email our essays to each other for peer review. I had read most of them last night since they were due by midnight, but a few came in late.  One was about the apathy and frustration of a kid trapped in college while his heart calls him to the mission field. At this point, the familiar restlessness that I've worked so hard to suppress began to stir.

Then, because it was 8:20 on a Monday morning and I had not yet had my weekly Monday Disaster, I accidentally knocked over my bottle of Coke.  I scrambled out of the room (barefoot, because I had kicked my shoes off and didn’t take the time to put them back on…) and darted out the door to grab some napkins. Some lady was walking down the hallway with a little girl who was maybe two years old, so naturally I forgot all about the coke dripping off of my laptop and stopped to compliment her on her pigtails (the toddler, not the lady…).

Upon skidding back into the classroom, I realized that Coca-Cola is a frustratingly sticky concoction and I should have brought some wet towels as well.  Too late.  I blotted it up as well as I could and stared fixedly at the front wall, hoping my face broadcasted something to the effect of, “Of course I’m paying attention…”

But then I realized that we were now talking about stool softeners, which is tough for anyone to stomach (no pun intended…) before 9 on a Monday morning—even nursing students.

So I decided to blog instead.

(Disclaimer: I really am a good student, I promise… But we all have our days…)

When I pulled up Blogger to type this up, I first checked my blog stats.  I’m always fascinated by what backed posts people look at throughout the week.  This week’s leader is “Babies Know Best.”  It’s been a few weeks since I posted that one and I couldn’t really remember what it was about, so I pulled it up to reread it.  That didn’t help my restlessness at all.

Now it’s Convo hour (which, for you non-Bruins, is just a one-hour period on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday where we can accumulate Convo credits, which are graduation requirements, by sitting through often-pointless programs and presentations). If I was a good little Bruin, I would scurry off to some program or another. But I’m not. I’m Meg. So I’m going to climb a tree instead.

It’s Monday, folks. Have a beautiful week.

I Remember

There are few things more beautiful than a child's smile.

I've spent the last few hours uploading and editing photos on walgreens.com so I can wallpaper my room with my kids' faces.  My limited vocabulary falls woefully short of describing the joy that pervades my heart when I look at pictures from this summer. Videos are even better, and memories are best of all. So many memories resurface when I flip through these photos...

I remember the first time Jessie cried.  I was beyond ecstatic, because it was the first time she had found enough strength to use on something as nonessential as complaining about a diaper change. It made me so happy that I kept poking her just to see her protest.

I remember playing with the kids on the playground one evening just before sunset. They were all crawling through the metal tunnel, but Jack was too young to really understand. He would crawl through and then just turn around to go back rather than going back around to get in line. Chola stepped up to help and carried little Jack around to the beginning of the tunnel every time he went through.

I remember teaching a Bible story about compassion and service one morning. The kinders couldn't seem to understand why Jesus would ask us to feed and clothe people; after all, their clothes were neatly folded on the shelf, and their food was prepared and served at every meal.  I explained that not every little girl and boy has food to eat, clothes to wear, or a bed to sleep in. Johnny was rather hung up on the lack-of-beds situation.  "Auntie Meghan, I will become a carpenter and build beds for the princesses."

I remember climbing the mango tree in the courtyard one morning while the kids were eating breakfast.  They didn't realize I was perched up there and all came out to play, frolicking around and chattering in Bemba beneath me. Finally, Henry spotted me. "Look! Auntie Meghan flew up the tree!" The next hour consisted of lifting the older kids up to cling to the lower-hanging branches and fervently praying that none of them broke any bones.

I remember playing I-Spy one afternoon. Ernest: "I spy with my little eye something black." Johnny: "Chola?!"

I remember stealing Jack a couple of evenings in a row and bringing him in to work with him on standing and walking. And I remember the very first step he ever took. Towards me. I got so excited that I squealed at a decibel not normally audible to the human ear, grabbed him by the waist, and threw him into the air. The poor little munchkin was so shocked that he refused to even stand up for the rest of the night.

I remember Johnny taking my hand the day after Jessie died. He smiled so big that I thought for sure he had done something wrong and was about to try and weasel his way out of it. "Auntie Meghan, you love Jessie very much. I know." And then he walked away.

I remember the first time I gave a quinine shot to Gladys. She cried, and I hated myself. I hated that I had the ability to stab a child with a needle. I hated more that it was necessary. But I loved how the nannies called her mine. "Your baby, she is crying too much. Maybe you should take her for a while." Well, okay... if I must....

I remember Johnny's first book. I couldn't find the curriculum that Amy had to use with them, so I made a book with only short "a" sounds for him to read. He has a tendency to say "I don't know," or "I can't do it." Those two phrases were quickly outlawed. Every time he would struggle with a word, he would say, "I know! I know!" 


I remember Chola's inability to pay attention for any measurable length of time. He would hear his name and just offer a random answer to whatever question was posed. "Chola, are you listening?" "Nopes." "Chola, what's the first book of the New Testament?" "Small instestines!"

I remember Henry's propensity to run up behind me, leap on my back, and latch his arms around my neck, effectively cutting off all air supply and rendering me powerless to fight back. I generally ended up on the ground under a pile of Zambian children.

I remember Ernest and Queenie's adorable little friendship. Ernest is a tiny weedy little kid with an oversized head and a really high pitched voice. Queenie is exceptionally tall and beautiful. Both are Kinders. During playground time, they would wrestle. The scenario inevitably ended with Ernest on his back, Queenie sitting on him and holding his arms down, and Ernest cackling in laughter and mock terror, screaming "Awe! Awe! Awe!" (No! No! No!) while he futilely struggled to get away.

I could write for hours about the little moments that stole my heart one by one this summer, but unfortunately, I have to go memorize the mechanisms and side effects of a dozen different drug classes instead. Doesn't that just sound like so much fun?!

Until next time,
Mwende ubushiku bwapalwa.

10 Reasons Why I Know I Was Made for Africa

1.) I’m never on time. To anything. Ever. Neither are Zambians.

2.) I absolutely despise cold weather.  70 degrees in the winter? I’ll have to put on a jacket, but I think I can make it…

3.) In the bush, nearly everything is outside your control. It’s the only place in the world I’ve ever been able to set aside my control-freak personality, because really, what was the point? You do what you can to prepare and prevent, but most of the game centers around reaction.

4.) I frequently find myself referring to “going home” when talking about Zambia. This leaves newcomers to the conversation with the curious misconception that I grew up in a mud hut in southern Illinois surrounded by half naked children and village goats.

5.) I hate wearing shoes. It makes my toes feel like they’re in prison. They don’t like it. They were made for Africa too.

6.) I really don’t mind being unreasonably close to people, which is good, since Zambian buses are packed like sardine cans and people in the market have no concept of personal space.

7.) I love kids. All of them.  As long as there is breath in my body, there is no such thing as an unwanted child. The street kids in Kazembe are very friendly little companions for morning walks. 

Photo courtesy of Zeger Van den Broele

8.) I don’t mind dirt. I actually kind of like it. You should get truly dirty at least once every day.

9.) I’m a complete adrenaline junky and thrive on adventure.  Believe me, there’s nothing more adventurous than health care in the bush.

10.) This little girl fit perfectly in my arms, and she was African. Therefore, it only stands to reason that my arms were meant to hold African babies. Logical? I think so.

Those of you who know me well.... Anything to add? 

Tale as Old as Time

Directly across from my bed is a tall wooden wardrobe, the lyrics of a Regina Spektor song whose promise plays on repeat in my heart affixed to the side. Framing those lyrics are several 4"x6" photos. They are the first thing I see every morning, which is nice-- it guarantees I'll start the day with a smile.

Photos are a precious reminder of the 22 little souls who are, for now, growing up without me.  They come in handy when I begin to wonder if it was all a dream, but they are a poor substitution for reality.

A slightly better supplement is video.  I didn't take any myself, but a couple of other volunteers have steadily begun posting their videos on cyberspace. With Sarah's permission, I would love to share one of hers and the story behind it.

The kids watched "Beauty and the Beast" for the first time this summer, and it blew their little minds.  They only had time to watch half of it on the first day, and we stopped the movie at the part where the Beast is trying to save Belle from the wolves.  The kids' reaction was pretty unanimous: the Beast was bad, the movie was scary, and the wolves were winning.  None of them mentioned Gaston at all; he was neither threatening nor important.  They immediately dichotomized the characters, labeling them as either good or evil.  Chola kept saying, "Auntie Meghan, it is not over yet?" as though to assure himself that the story wouldn't end with wolves.

Scheduling prevented me from watching the second half of the film with the kids, but they had no reservations about watching it again.  This video is a combination of clips from the second time through.  If you watch their faces closely, you can see the journey of misunderstanding, judgement, and redemption that this movie took them on. 

My favorite part is Jennifer's sheer delight at the end. You can almost see her eyes shining out the message, "Yes! This is how it's supposed to be." Later, Johnny told me that Belle was right to be Beast's friend even though he was mean.  

"Auntie Meghan, Beauty's love saved the Beast. Beauty knew what he could be."

Truer words were never spoken. Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me..."

When Gaston attacked the Beast, there was a general outcry of fear and confusion from the kids. "Why is the Beast not eating the man?!" Again, Johnny in his infinite wisdom answered the question. "He knows Love now.  When you forgive then you don't fight back." (I'm so proud... He's been listening!) Those are big word from a little boy whose daily challenge in self control is trying not to physically pounce on whichever kid intentionally broke his tent on the playground this time.

The movie left when the volunteers did, but I fully intend to bring a copy for the kids next year.  In so many ways that are so far beyond the understanding of those kindergarteners (and this college kid), this story truly is a Tale as Old as Time.  I really enjoyed talking through it with them in the next few days.  They learned that sometimes first impressions are wrong: Beast had a heart, and Gaston was more of a threat than they initially thought. They saw that different and scary are not equivalent to irredeemable or unlovable (an important message to remember as they learn more about life outside the chainlink fence of their playground). And maybe, just maybe, they found a little bit of Beauty and a little bit of Beast hiding within themselves.

I know I did.