A Different Kind of Soccer Mom

I think I was made for this.

Baby Michael (or Maike, as his under-5 card calls him) has joined the long list of children who have captured my heart.  I can tell what he wants just by how he cries. He smiled at me for the first time yesterday morning. We were sitting in the living room, and he was joyfully refusing to even consider eating his bottle. Morning is his favorite time. The earliest rays of sun blasted through the fluttering curtains to dance across his face as he cooed and babbled on, and then he smiled at me.

Elias is my new star student, and if you’ve read any of last year’s blogs then you know how out of character that is for my former delinquent. He’s excelling and learning at a remarkable speed, and he really enjoys helping the others learn. Surprisingly enough, he is a pretty decent little teacher. He helps them through there workbook pages the same way that I help them—explaining the instructions and providing an example without giving them the answers. I’m impressed.

A few days ago, David and I ventured out the front door just as the sun was setting. Some of the neighbor kids were walking home in a group. One of them was carrying a large, flat, round tupperware lid. I asked if I could see it for a moment, then tossed it to him like a frisbee. That was all it took.

It was an outreach opportunity I have longed for, and I rejoice over the chance to love on the children whose faces are usually on the other side of the fence from me.  It’s a strange dynamic; the only difference between “our” kids at the orphanage and “those” kids on the street is location. Our kids’ parent(s) died, and that tragedy thrust them into fortune’s way. They have plentiful food, clothing, shelter, education, and anything else they need. That is quite often not the case for their village counterparts.

Now, once our daily work is done and if circumstances allow it, we meet those village kids of an evening on the tired dusty roads that winds around the orphanage. It puts us in a beautiful position for teaching and interacting with them. They quickly picked up on the rules—if you can’t play nice, then you can’t play. No pushing, shoving, name-calling, picking-on-the-younger-kids, or otherwise acting out. When someone falls down, the game stops as someone helps them up. Our names are David and Meghan, not “musungu.”

It’s quite a different experience to walk down the main road into the Boma now, because when children greet us, we actually know their names. Juliet, Mabel, James, and Kabuta live in the white house on the left. Albert, the kind-hearted ringleader and all-around big brother figure of the group, lives in the house on the corner. Several of the littlest children are grandchildren or grandnieces to one of the kitchen ladies from last year, Mercy. Maikeke was initially the bully of the group, but after a couple of days he simmered down. He always wears the same blue shirt. Matete looks like he was placed on a taffy stretcher—he has that lanky, growing-too-fast look that some teenage boys get, but his is back-shadowed by a likely history of protein deficiency and general malnutrition. Joseph has an impressively large ringworm across the back of his head. Rosa’s skirt was ripped across the front, but she sat in my lap and let me mend it for her. Marita is my favorite, though the JuJu (witchcraft) necklace nestled between her collar bones is a constant reminder of the very dark world these children live in. The list goes on and on. They are dirty and hungry and probably contagious, but I love them.

There are a million other stories I would love to share with you, but if I tried to write them all down then cyberspace would probably overload and just spontaneously combust, and we can’t have that. Just take a moment, close your eyes, breathe in deep, and imagine that you are exactly where you are supposed to be.

I get to do that every day.

And when I open my eyes, I’m still there.

Here at Last

Home.

Or something like it.

I don’t think home is a place, really. It can be, but it isn’t always. Sometimes home is a person, or several little persons, or a promise.

We’ve been here at the orphanage for a week and two days. In some ways it seems like we’ve been here forever, or like I never left.  In other ways time is fleeting, and the days fly past at the speed of light. 

The bus ride was much, much worse than I remember. Buh. The first half of the trip was blessedly devoid of the awful Zambian pop music that normally blares from the bus speakers, but when the drivers switched halfway through, it came on full blast.  We didn’t run over any goats or bikers or kids this time, so that was nice. David, Emily, and I had seats next to each other. The bus seats are Zambian-man sized, and David is not a Zambian man. His knees were right up against the seat in front of him, and that was before the nice lady sitting in it reclined it. Then we discovered that his seat was broken and wouldn’t recline, so he basically spent 12+ hours hunched over with his knees halfway to his chest… Eventually I switched seats with him so he could at least stretch his legs into the aisle, so I can vouch for the incredibly uncomfortable ride provided by the non-reclining window seat.

When we (FINALLY) arrived at Kazembe, I made sure the rest of our party made it off the bus first. Then I battled my way out. Peter, a man who works at the orphanage whom I consider a very dear friend, pushed his way through the crowd and greeted me with a smile, half handshake, and hug that warmed my very soul.  He loaded the baggage into a taxi while all of us began the walk up the long hill to the orphanage. It was all I could do to keep from going at an all-out sprint.  About thirty yards from the front door, a nanny, Lizzy, came leaping out. She screamed my name and we embraced, and the joy grew a little bit more. Then I stepped through the entryway.  The littlest ones were sitting around the courtyard. There were a few new baby faces—Naomi, Joseph, and Michael—that I knew only from pictures and stories. Most of the nannies were unfamiliar as well.

Then a voice. Johnny’s.

“AUNTIE MEGHAN! YOU’RE HERE!”

The kinders (they’re actually first graders now) all rushed out behind him. I held my arms open wide, and they leapt down the steps. The next thing I remember, I was staring up at the leaves of the mango tree, smothered in hugs and kisses and maybe a few tears, though I think those were all mine.

I finally reluctantly extricated myself from the pile, and Jasmine showed us to our rooms. I dumped my stuff off and made my way to the nursery. I picked up baby Michael and instantly became concerned. Though fully awake, he was listless and a little limp. Something just wasn’t right. While not severely malnourished by any stretch of the term, he was certainly underweight and on the brink of dehydration. He had trouble closing his eyelids all the way.  I increased his feeding amount and personally made sure he was getting it all down (if you don’t burp him really well every 50 ml, he scowls a little and then projectile vomits all over you…) After about three days of TLC, his whole demeanor changed. He is quickly gaining weight and is an exceptionally cuddly and happy little baby.

I’ll end with a highly amusing story. Henry, one of the kindergarteners, is my new little shadow.  He repeats EVERYTHING I say in his thick little Bemba accent (I imagine it’s what Arnold Schwarzenneger would sound like if he had grown up in Zambia), which is probably why when I read them a bedtime story last night, he sent me off with, “Okay, baby. Goodnight sweetheart. I love you so much.”

Goodnight sweetheart. I love you too.

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.