Zambia felt like a marathon I chose to sprint.
Malawi feels like a song deep in my blood, every note caressing my soul and begging to be savored, lulling me into rest.
Debrief is the breath between the two, the time I got to gather with my squad as a family, reflect on our first half of the Race, and be equipped by mentors and coaches to better run the second half of this wild World Race.
I’m tempted to write a laundry list of the people, churches, and ministry we connected with in Zambia during our Holy Spirit driven month, but I won’t. The highlights are recorded in previous blogs and really a month walking with complete dependence on the Holy Spirit almost doesn’t have words to properly describe it.
Like I said, I sprinted Zambia, and the finish line was a beautiful bus at 3 AM and the promise of the sandy shores of Lake Malawi.
We’ve had two debriefs so far, and I fell into this one willingly and exhaustedly… especially after our beautiful bus backed out on the agreed arrangement of taking us all the way to our debrief location and I found myself crammed shoulder to shoulder with my squad in a school bus for five and a half hours after being, basically, stranded at a bus station all afternoon.
But, as we’ve learned to do when situations don’t go as planned, we played some American pop songs, sung at the top of our lungs until the speaker’s battery died, and fell into an uncomfortable sleep until we reached the lake.
I breathe
And then it’s debrief.
Lake Malawi. Clear blue waters, whispering waves, sandy beaches, eagles circling low, and sun for days.
And I’m sitting on a porch overlooking the waters with my whole squad for our morning devotional. The marathon is catching up with me and I feel exhausted from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. I sit and smile and hug, but mostly I watch and I listen.
Some of the girls are teasing the boys who all shaved their facial hair into mustaches last month since they were all together for ministry—or as our squad mentor calls is “manisty”. Coffee cups litter every surface, a testament to M-Squad’s greatest love after Jesus. And I can hear laughing—so much laughing.
I shut my eyes and listen, knowing exactly who is who based upon their laugh. We carry joy; it is our sword and shield.
With my eyes still closed, I marvel that I am traveling the world with some of the kindest, most loving, courageous humans on this planet.
I breathe
And then I’m talking to our squad coaches, Keith and Karen. Karen asks all the right questions about my journey and gifts me with a book—fulfilling my ultimate love language. Keith talks theology and helps me struggle through the mire. When I say goodbye, he taps my forehead and says, “Keep thinking, sweetheart. You’ll get there.”
I answer with a “yes sir” feeling overwhelmed with his speech and mannerism that remind me so poignantly of my own father.
I breathe
And then I’m in a kayak, in the middle of a vast and deep lake, seeking adventure with a sister rowing in time behind me. Out here, there are no boats and there is no shore. It’s us, the water, the sun, and the beautiful misty mountains in the distance.
We talk, we laugh, we pray. We breathe life into one another’s dreams and talents. And when we do return to the shore, we jump. The cold water greets my sweaty body and I laugh and gasp as we drag the kayak behind us the last few meters to shore.
My sister smiles from ear to ear, as we flop messily onto the sand. I laugh until my sides hurt and later that night, the good laugh makes up for the lobster red sunburn of my back.
I breathe
And then I’m sitting at the water’s edge staring up at the stars. I’ve never seen so many stars in my entire life, and the fact that I’m in the southern hemisphere and have never seen these stars before makes me even hungrier to watch.
A different sister sits with me, her head leaning against my shoulder. The stars wink down at us and we both gasp and point as a few shooting stars streak past.
“In this moment, aren’t you glad neither of us decided to take our lives in the past?” she asks, gently poking her finger into the raw depths of both our souls. Moments like this make vulnerability so worth it—a moment when someone who knows you reminds you how far you’ve come. It’s even more beautiful coming from a sister who understands. Vulnerability makes you less alone.
“Yeah. I am. I really, really am,” I answer, a few tears leaking, hugging this precious soul even tighter to me, hoping that she feels less alone in this moment, too.
I breathe
And then, it’s over.
And I’m in another bus, and I’m in Lilongwe.
And I’m home, because home is my team, my Jesus, and whoever the kind Christians are who will be hosting us.
This month, home is a small youth home housing nineteen students aged ten to nineteen. They greeted us with excellence and some of the warmest hospitality I’ve ever encountered in my life. Malawi is called the heart of Africa and certainly, love rests here.
I can hear love’s song as I walk the farm owned by the youth home—part of their sustainability project. I am called to dance among the corn stalks and invited to play by the clucking chickens and the sweet mooing of the milk cow.
I think about my grandfathers who both grew up on farms. I think about blood and memory and how living the way I’ve lived the last week is how, in some ways, my family lived for generations. I don’t have answers, only an indescribable song and the wooing of my heart by quiet fields, laughing teenagers, and a lifestyle exactly as the Lord knew I needed now.
It is those laughing teenagers above all else that ties my heart here. They carry love in the way the repeat my name, “Kayrwa,” over and over trying to overcome that tricky “L” sound. They love me when they tease me for doing the dishes and beg me to come play instead. They love when the sit with me by the fire as I’m cooking for the team, peppering me with questions about America and asking me to help them read books in English. They love, insistently, in the determination to teach me Chichewa, a language I have neither memory nor ear for, yet they repeat basic phrases for me over and over and over. They love, and I am overwhelmed with it, knowing it to be a gift directly from The Lord.
I say this nearly every day, but I think I might be the most blessed person on this planet. The realization has been an unfolding, a beautiful blooming. I’m walking in thankfulness and in fullness and right now—on a farm with “troubled” teenagers, barely any electricity and water, and not a scrap of wifi to be found— I am perfectly, blessedly, content.
Here, I can breathe, and it’s His breathe ever filling these lungs.
