Zambia (Kid Stuff - not really)

Sometimes the process of placing pen to paper, or in this case the depositing of keystrokes to the cloud, is a difficult undertaking.  So it is today.  Just as it has been on so many other days when the words were corked in a bottle so to speak.  Annoyingly, one word keeps popping out of the ol' jug over and over again: misery.  Needless to say but I'll voice it anyway, hardship and suffering are concepts that I don't desire to write about.  

Consequently, I struggle with the words, even as my mind races through any number of vivid impressions that were captured during those five weeks in Zambia.  It was January 2008 and the calendar marked not only the beginning of the Zambian summer but the start of the Central African rainy season as well.  Goodness, those obese drops raced down, each driven with a hell-bent determination to add its voice to the deafening roar before gathering and pooling in any cavity provided by the red earth.....only to be enticed upward moments later by the silent broil of the subtropical sun.  The outbursts of rain were amazing although they play but a minor role in this account.  It is more pressing to disclose that the majority of that five-week sojourn was spent in the capital city of Lusaka - a metropolis with a population of some 3.3 million along with the knowledge that roughly 80% of those souls reside in a komboni.  Often referred to as a compound by those of us for which English is our first language, 37 kombonis form the skeleton of Lusaka although each one might better be labeled "slum" or 'shanty town" as each is dominated by tenement housing, lack of public services, overcrowding, and squalor conditions in general.  The history responsible for this plight is far beyond my superficial understanding. 

Yes, misery is the first word that comes to mind but indeed that term is built upon a dictionary's worth of other words.  Words like:  brownout, walls, corruption, standing water, theft, HIV, orphan, putzi fly, cinderblock, cholera, prosperity doctrine, dust, fear, mud, suppression, subjection, heat, witchcraft, death, caterpillars....OK, enough of that.....it's all leaving a bad taste in my mouth.  There is a struggle to understand if the memories trigger the words or if the words provoke the recollection.  Regardless, there is no doubt that all the words are viewed through a prism from a first-world perspective.  A frame of reference sharpened on the whetstone of first-world problems and honed on the strop of first-world luxuries.

Simply stated, the intent of the journey to Zambia, the mission if you will, was to do good and charitable deeds.  That, and to record the sights of the matter with my little point-and-shoot camera and document whatever events transpired via the written word.  The specifics, the purpose, and dare we say the hope of those stated deeds have faded with the passage of time.  Today, the success, if not the wisdom of that mission can be debated and frequently is within the space between my ears.  But this much is certain - a knowledge persists that I received and brought home far greater blessings than any benevolence I left behind.  As for the camera, misery was never far removed from the lens and then the viewfinder.  From the very first day, photos were infrequent.  Somehow it felt as if the act of photography infringed on the subject's privacy and diminished their dignity.  At some point the means for recording the days events was relegated to my pocket altogether. 

Nonetheless, some pictures do remain and a few touch my heart.  I would like to share them now as I continue my personal journey in trying to understand five weeks in Zambia.    

Kids - the same the world over.  Eager to laugh, quick to run.  Whenever we walked through a Komboni, a group of kids would materialize almost out of nowhere and follow behind.  They loved to have their picture taken and would marvel in awe at their images on the little LCD screen on the back of the camera.   Then with the flash of a huge smile, they were gone.

The orphan without name.  This little guy sought me out and remained close as our group toured an orphanage (one large communal room) overseen by three women.  He was fortunate to have all the necessities - food, shelter, clothing - but craved companionship.  We were only able to stay for about 30 minutes but he sat quietly on my lap for the whole time seemingly content with the moment.  I'd be surprised if he has any recollection of our encounter given his age at the time but I can assure you that he touched my very soul.

This is James Sakala.  James and I visited together briefly maybe a half dozen times during my time in Lusaka.  James was a family man with a wife and three children although he is the only member of the family whom I met.  They lived in a two-room cinderblock home plastered on the inner walls.  Each room was maybe ten feet by ten feet with dirt floors and a tin roof.  Woven grass mats covered the floors.  There was no plumbing in the house but each room was wired with a solitary plug.  The house was rented for a few pennies a week.  A pittance by our standards but nearly a king's ransom for James.  Nonetheless, James told me that he was fortunate and blessed to be in a house with a tin roof.  The majority of his neighbors relied on cardboard and plastic film to protect them from the elements.

James could afford such luxury because of his entrepreneurial prowess.  Each morning James would wake at 2:00 A.M. and build a small open fire below some sort of iron, ovenlike contraption.  He did this in the living room and would bake "donuts" (more bagel-like than donut) while the family slept in the room adjacent.  At some point James would load his "donuts" onto a rack on the back of his bicycle and pedal some 20 miles to a non-komboni section of the city where he would sell his "donuts".  With the days earnings he bought supplies and perhaps some necessities for his family, load up the bike, retrace the route back home, and begin preparations for the next morning's batch.  Razor thin profit margins.  18/7 - no holidays.  The man's smile never wavered and not once did I hear him utter a word that could be construed as complaint or self-pity.  Thirteen years have past and I wonder what has become of James.

Red dirt was everywhere and it seemed to exist in one of two forms - dust or mud.  But this image dominates all other remembrances.  The stark reality of a fallen world in contrast to the comprehension of our Merciful Lord is profound.  Truly humbling.  

The concrete slab.  A godsend at a moment when home felt like a very faraway place.

It's been raining here in the Pacific Northwest for the past few weeks, seemingly uninterrupted.  Not the cloudbursts of Lusaka - just a "good old fashioned soaker" as my Mom used to say.  Neighborhoods not too far away have felt the devastation of flooding.  The standing water reminds me that cholera remains a very real menace in the kombonis of Lusaka and I fear to think about the ravages that Covid-19 has wrought in such a high density environment.  Yet, Covid-19 is prevalent here as well.  Severe disease of many varieties are commonplace and all too close to home.  Indeed, misery, in all of its many flavors, knows no borders.  The fallen world is just that - worldwide.   

Nonetheless, God loves each and every one of us to point that He has the hairs on our heads numbered.  (Matthew 10:30)

On one hand it is easy for me feel guilt for all my good fortune.  Especially, if I allow myself to indulge in the folly of comparing my life with so many of those struggling within the kombonis.  On the other hand, there is a simple leap of "logic" and I imagine that God has blessed me with unfathomable first-world benefits because once upon a time I did something good or noble or righteous.  Or was it my ancestors?  Maybe my government?   No.....No.....And definitely not.  

No.....God has chosen to bless me (and you) not because He is somehow obligated to do so.  Nor for the notion that there are favorites among us.  Indeed, God has blessed us because He is good and loving, merciful and holy.  God is sovereign.  His timing is perfect.  His purposes, His methods, are beyond comprehension.  God's blessings with all their grace are gifts, free and clear.  

I'm slowly beginning to comprehend those blessings that I mentioned earlier - the ones that I brought home after five weeks in Zambia.  There is an understanding that just like misery, blessings rain down in a myriad of flavors.  Blessings extend way beyond the material.  James Sakala was dirt poor by our standards but incredibly rich when it came to faith, hope, and love.  Each of us is on our own unique pathway.  Each life designed by our loving Savior and woven inexplicably with all the rest.  Ultimately, it is all for His glory.

Undoubtedly, life itself is a blessing.  Hold it all as one would a butterfly - in gentle awe.  Quietly, in humility, with palms open and up.    

Matthew 10:30 - "For the very hairs of your head are all numbered."

I Corinthians 13:13 - "And now abide faith, hope, and love, these three: but the greatest of these is        love."

Job 1 - 42