Month five, Zambia: Welcome to Africa.
The representation of the community below is not in any way descriptive of all my time in Zambia, or of the country as a whole. It is a stunningly diverse nation scattered with not only struggling slum neighborhoods, but busteling cities, and gorgeous country sides, too! The land is full of the most beautiful, smiling people you’ll ever meet, colors vibrant enough to lift your mood on any given day, and music that absolutely demands you to dance along to its beats. Bearing this in mind, let me tell you about our visits to John Laingi community…
The streets there are a grey dust, the shade of a pencil’s lead, and flooded from the recent rains.
Drunk men stumble out of the dark bars in groups of twos and threes, squinting at the harsh sunlight and motioning for you to come closer.
“Where are you from, my white sisters? Where are you from??” they bark.
The flies and mosquitos constantly circle the air around your head.
Children, each favoring at least one infected wound, run barefoot over the broken glass, thick streams of sewage, and piles of half burnt garbage.
The sun beats down harshly on the people sitting outside their cinderblock homes-most the size of small sheds.
A woman nearby cries out profanities as she palms a small bag of narcotics before begging for our prayers.
The hot stinch is almost unbearable. You can’t escape it anywhere within the community.
Young girls, ranging from nine to fourteen, carry infants strapped to their tiny stooped backs, with beautifully printed fabrics.
“Come. I want to talk to you. Come, here! Come, come!” everyone demands.
“Mazoongoo! Mazoongoo!” they all mock; some have never seen white skin, first hand, before.
“What did you bring for us!?” the people always shout.
We do have something for them. Maybe nothing they expect, but something so much better. We have a fierce kind of love from the Father, We have a sweet hug from the Maker of the universe, we have the most powerful words of truth about the Son of God who died specifically for their deliverance.
I am beyond stoked. ‘This is where we need to be; this is exactly where Christ would be!’, I think to myself. ‘This is where the gospel needs to be heard.’
I can hardly wait to share what we’ve brought them.
We duck into the first home, have a seat upon the floor of a dark room, the only room, and slap trains of menacing fleas away from our ankles.
We sit in a still silence for a few moments before initiating conversation with the family “Hello, how are you?” “What are your names?” We say in soft tones.
But our slow, gentle approach is not satisfactory to our guide.
“Tell them something.” we’re ordered.
“Pray with them.” we’re instructed.
“Do the prayer of salvation.” we’re proded.
We’re in and out in under five minutes.
On to the next house.
My stomach turns.
The process is repeated.
And again.
My eyes well up with tears as we enter the fourth home.
I refuse to speak.
“You came all the way from America, to tell them…to tell them what???” I’m taunted.
As we leave the house a tear finally breaks the imaginary barakade I was holding up with all my might.
My heart was broken.
Not because of the brokenness that surrounded us, but because of the seemingly heartless method being used as the solution.
Compleately unsure of the meaning to the words leaving their lips, each household simutaneously repeated a standard prayer of salvation, with monotone voices and dead eyes, void of all emotion. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were robbing them of something that is supposed to be so special. Their salvation story should be unique to each of them, something intimate with Yahweh, something sacred.
I didn’t see Christ in anything we were doing there that day, so I refused to be there as well. I hardened my heart and closed my mouth.
I was proud of my ‘noble’ decision to remove myself from a situation I deemed unholy.
However, in prayer, later that day, I realized my reaction couldn’t have been more wrong.
Maybe I didn’t see Christ in the situation, but the Word tells us that Christ lives in each of us. (2 Tim 1:14) It charges us to be His hands and feet. (Matt 28:19-20 ) It was my responsibility that day, to bring Christ into what we were doing. Instead, I chose to check out. If anything, I was the one guilty of removing Him from the environment that afternoon.
Thankfully, our God is a patient teacher.
We returned to that community several more times that week, and God gave me the opportunity to truly show His love to these people, despite the surrounding circumstances. He challenged me to sit longer when I was being told to move on. He pushed me to ask provoking questions before I prayed, so I knew exactly what each heart desired prayer for. He lead me to detach from the group in order to approach people slightly off the directed route. He encouraged me to be more like Him.
I don’t know what seeds God planted in that community. I don’t know what fruit may come from our time there. But I know that He planted something in me. He entrusted me with His love and empowered me to show it to His people. Sometimes, that’s all we can do. And always, that’s enough.
“Guard, through the Holy Spirit who dwells in us, the treasure which has been entrusted to you.”
-2 Timothy 1:14
“Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”
-Matthew 28: 19-20
