In the second hour of sitting at the Zimbabwe border, I started dreaming about water. Not just water, actually- ice. Sonic ice, in a Route 44 cup.
From my position on the floor of the Zimbabwe Border Control building, I watched the legs of the lines going through customs and immigration. Most of the people had their passport in one hand and a water bottle in the other, and the only thing keeping me from begging for a drink was the language barrier. My squad waited for our visas into Zimbabwe- a country we spent 14 hours in, all of them on a bus- for the better part of three hours, and I was thirsty.
I sat in the corner on the dirty floor, trying to catch the slight breeze from shifting people in the stuffy border crossing, and dreamt of water. Water, pouring out of the tap in my kitchen sink. Water, draining out of my shower. Water, turned into mist and blown by fans through my sweaty hair in between games at softball tournaments in the Texas heat. Water, water, water.
I’ve never been thirsty. Growing up in upper-middle-class America, where I could have fresh, cool, clean water whenever I wanted it, I thought I understood thirst. Working at camp, I clipped my Nalgene to my backpack every day and implored campers to “Hydrate, feel great!” During long softball practices, I downed blue Powerade and ice water. And after a long, dry season of faith, I thought I knew all the ways that thirst could touch me. But I was wrong.
Some moments on the Race are purely about shattering our American worldview. I was in no way close to danger, there on the floor at the Zimbabwe border. There was a full water bottle waiting for me on the bus, next to my raisins. Once again, my white American privilege offered me quick release from momentary discomfort.
But the realization body-slammed as I sat there in the corner that this level of thirst isn’t abnormal for many people. Across the worlds, 663 million people go without access to clean water, and die of water-born diseases. For millions, thirst will kill them.
Last week, the first week after Epiphany, the church remembers the slaughter of the Holy Innocents. The children slaughtered by Herod in the wake of the wise men’s deception, killed as Jesus, Mary, and Joseph fled. Matthew quotes Jeremiah 31:15-
“A voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children;
She refused to be comforted, because they are no more.”
Thousands upon thousands of people who die for want of clean water are children. What I learned, with my back against the wall at the Zimbabwe border, is how awful and how preventable this slaughter of Holy Innocents is.
Clean water is such a simple dream. Yet it is unattainable for twice the population of the U.S.— 1 in 10 people worldwide.
In six months, I go home to my kitchen sink that gushes with pure, fresh water. But I won’t be so comfortable, as I crunch my Sonic ice on a summer afternoon, or fill a cup from the sink. A part of me will always remember watching water pass by me, just out of my reach, as I sat there and wanted.
