“How was your trip?!”
Returning to Zambia was so
good. I am so glad I went. These
three weeks truly fostered a lot of healing and growth which wouldn’t have happened
if I hadn’t chosen to embrace the paradox again.
Returning to Zambia was so
hard. Good, but hard. Unpalatably bitter and addictively sweet; mingling
together deep in the emotive gut, satisfying a long ignored heart-ache yet
pricking at only freshly healed wounds.
Bittersweet.
Sights, smells, and sounds have a powerful way of triggering
memories. I spent three weeks re-living
memories. Some of these are really ugly memories, unjustly punching me again
with hurt. Some are joy-filled memories lingering in the air, whispering of
good times past. Both were hard to
replay, yet each were redeemed by new memories and new scenes.
It was amazing how quickly and comfortably I immersed back
into the culture. Accent turned on,
forgotten Tonga words from somewhere in the recesses of my memory responded quickly
to familiar phrases. The Zambian part of
me eagerly pushed aside the American, proving that she still exists and that
she still thrives in, and loves this home.
Yet the American part of me continued to surface, quickly
irritable with the daily-life stresses which she has never enjoyed. Dirty air, dirty hands, dirty body, dirty
children who pee-on-your-lap-moments before you get up to preach. The American part of me doesn’t like being
dirty. She also doesn’t like the stress
of boiling water, precious drinking water which just might run out. Survival mode switched on, anticipating
dwindling food stores. Electricity out
for hours, fridge gets warm, food goes bad, jobs left unfinished. Warm bucket baths which never really get you
clean in a less-than-clean bathroom. The ever changing schedule which leaves
the day an unpredictable waiting game; waiting for promised visits, waiting for
promised electricity, and waiting for more waiting.
The broken part of me, still burnt out from “Zambia past,” lies
in that same bed in that same room under that same mosquito net. Sick. This is an all too familiar feeling. Angry, hot
tears that my body is slowing me down again from doing what I came here
for. Fear. Trapped in the bush, out of
reach from “real” doctors, sick with multiple symptoms, exhausted in body and
mind, prickling skin, achy all over and the thermometer reads 100.1F Malaria?
Probably not. But there is no
risk taking. No waiting for it to get
worse. A finger prick and 5 minutes later the negative rapid-test rapidly calms
my nerves. An hour of sleep, fever broken soaked in sweat, and I am once again
ready to embrace “Zambia present.”
The Zambian part of me loves laughing; laughter in the midst
of poverty, joy in the mist of pain. My
heart beats to Zambian rhythms in a way it never has to jazz, rap, or rock, and
it skips a beat to be reawakened in rejoining the song. Dancing with friends, new and old, laughing
together to groove without shame and move together in spirit. Sharing meals,
sharing pain, sharing hope. Sweet laughter
overwhelms bitter reality and cements my heart once again in love for Zambia
and her courageous, vibrant people.
And in the midst of the bittersweet, both the American and
the Zambian in me, are renewed and restored to once again thrive in a place
which my heart, gifts, and abilities were built for. Teaching students who enjoy learning,
challenging minds which have not been stretched, and being a small part of a
rapidly growing Kingdom and Church that is built upon a sincere faith in the
One True King. This is where my heart
sings and spirit soars, loving being home,
and regaining confidence in the possibility of “Zambia future.”
