Play

Yesterday as I walked to the orphanage, I came upon 5 of the kids sitting in the maize field.  When I came closer and sat down with them, I noticed they had various red plates, tiny empty plastic bottles, empty milk cartons, and a few knives. The oldest of the gang, Milliam, was carefully stirring a concoction of dirt, mud, and maize stalks as the rest watched. They were preparing nshima. This was a time of play. 

After they noticed my presence, they abandoned their nshima and tackled me down in the dirt with joyful squeals. After we emerged out of the powder, Emmanuel, Nchimunya, and Mainza fought to sit on my lap.  Genesis came from behind and hung from my neck, nearly choking me. 

We pretended that dirt clumps were chicken, cabbage, or soya and that battered containers still held milk.  

Nchimunya carefully shoveled grainy dirt into the teeny bottle with an old knife, and Mainza threw chunks of mud into the air.

Salomy's mud-splattered face giggled as she tried on my oversized shoes and Sanford made silly faces like I've never seen before as he threw my brown jacket high into the air. 

Genesis walked a few yards to the hole in the ground which housed a half dozen month-old puppies, and brought the smallest one back to play. She roughly carried it, either squeezing too tight, grasping it by the neck, or swinging it. When I had her put it down and showed her how to gently pet it, she tried to make it walk by forcefully pulling one leg in front of the other. 

Emmanuel buried his snotty, dusty face into my chest and Nchimunya was fascinated by my little shirt pocket. 

Mainza and Emmanuel clunked heads a few times as Genesis charged us at least twice, attempting to steal a spot on my lap. 

It was a time of play, a break from the everyday, a taste of freedom. 

Passions

I've held a passion for missions and other cultures since high school, a heart for the hurting since middle school, and have loved art even longer. Mid-way through college, I thought it'd be incredible to combine those passions by painting murals and doing art with hurting kids all over the world. At the time, I had no idea how this would work, and simply was not in a conducive life state to pursue this dream, so it fizzled for a time. I rather focused my energies on college classes, student teaching, and prepping for the education world-- but the dream didn't die. 

Fast forward. As I prepped for this trip to Zambia, I asked and agreed to paint murals and lead art activities. I prayed that through this experience, God would provide clarity into the future, giving me a glimpse at next steps in my life. A few days ago, that dream that was stored away found its way to the forefront of my mind. I remembered. 

And how it resonated. My heart was filled with joy as this passion was reignited and to see the beginnings of this dream take root in the here and now. 

And while I do not know when or where or how this passion will take shape going forward, I trust God will provide the right people and circumstances at the perfect time to make it come to pass. 

Art

Now that I've completely finished the 4 main orphanage murals and am just about done with the 3 murals in the house moms' rooms, I've started to shift my focus a bit.  Instead of the kids and moms mostly observing me do art (there were a few instances where I received assistance from the older kids and a mom), it's time to let them in on the creative process! 

Yesterday morning I brought a pack of extra thick crayons and white paper for the 2, 3, and 4 year olds to make drawings.

As I walked up to the property, the kids immediately knew something was different, as I came holding the above materials. They eagerly followed me to the back of the house, where a clean concrete floor allowed for us to sit and do art. I passed out one piece of computer paper and one crayon to each kid. For about 5 minutes, it was fairly peaceful; the kids sat and drew, and would come up to me every minute or so, enthusiastically showing me their crayon creations. 

But after those precious few minutes, things got a little out of hand.  Emmanuel started chewing on his brown crayon (maybe he thought it was chocolate?). Ruth crumpled up her yellow crayon inside her paper and hid it underneath her with a devilish look. Nchimunya misplaced his paper at least 3 times, each time assuming someone took it from him.  Genesis decided to scream and cry when she didn't get the color she wanted. Isaac decided his crayon worked better as a drumstick. Otavia thought it'd be fun to tease Salomy by stealing her paper away.  And the wind kept blowing Mainza's paper away. And during this whole time I was held captive as Milliam braided my hair tight enough to make me wince. 

But aside from this, or perhaps because of it, it was a life-giving experience for all involved. The kids got to use a medium they had very little or no experience with and got to practice creativity. 

Today I brought watercolor, brushes, white paper, and a water container to the orphanage. I figured I'd go for one-on-one painting sessions, given the more advanced nature of the medium and how the previous art time worked out. 

I started with a few of the older girls, Milliam and Otavia, who are about 10 years old. They enjoyed the process and caught on quickly. 

I hadn't even considered doing sessions with the moms, until I remembered that one mother, Ba Betty, lost her father the previous day and would be leaving for her home town for 8 days to mourn the loss. I found her behind the house hanging laundry. She didn't seem particularly excited to paint when I asked her, but after she began, her solemn spirit quickly turned to that of joy. She gained confidence as I encouraged her to think of objects to paint instead of me providing all the ideas.  The mood continued to rise as Milliam and Ba Ennie entered the room to watch. Ba Ennie was especially spirited as she helped direct Ba Betty what colors to paint a giant snake. There was lots of laughter. 

When Ba Betty finished, I asked Ba Ennie if she was ready for her session, she asked to wait so she would have time to figure out what to paint. An hour later, she brought in a children's bible book and asked for a pencil so to draw a picture of John the Baptist before painting. She took her time, carefully copying every detail outlined in the book. The finished painted product was excellent. 

Ba Balita painted a picture of a house with colorful flowers. What was neat was how she included inside information on the outside of the house-- a red bed and man eating oranges on a table. She said the last time she painted was as a child in school. She complained of shaky hands. 

I'm excited to continue these one-on-one sessions both with the kids and adults, and am humbled to bring a new experience for many to enjoy. I'm especially excited to minister through art to the orphanage moms, as they work and love so tirelessly 6 days a week. 

One thing's for sure-- despite speaking mostly Tonga, the kids definitely know what the word 'painting' means, as they follow me around, squealing, 'Painting! Painting!' 

Snapshots

Children's footprints in the sand.

Uninhibited stars with no city light to compete with. 

Simply enjoying each others company with no need for television, radio, or other forms of entertainment. 

Singing and dancing unabashedly. 

Pumpkin bread baked with coals underground. 

Hearing the 'whoosh ' of lighting the gas stove.  

Sitting around a fire with friends. 

Waking up at 5am, greeted by the Milky Way and shooting stars. 

Turning shower water brown from all the accumulated dust.  

Children running up to you, with arms outstretched, hoping to be held. 

Having a ten year old girl braid and tie my hair, wincing at each tug and pull but wanting to be as tough as the other little girls. 

Watching the toddlers create masterpieces with extra thick crayons and old computer paper. 

Having to remind the toddlers not to chew on their crayon. 

Going on walks at 6am, watching the sun ascend through the sky. 

Avoiding eye contact with a baboon, hoping I don't accidentally challenge it to a dual. 

Feeling the rain-like spray of Victoria falls as we cross the bridge overseeing the gorge below. 

Feeling the warmth of the sunset reflecting off the water as we drift down the Zambezi. 

Ripping off the covers and putting on a third layer to protect against the chill of the morning. 

Never knowing if 3 year old Jakob will speak to me in English, Tonga, or Afrikaans.  

Listening to Africaans music on the 4 hour drive to Livingstone. 

Feeling the stares as a 'makuwa' as we approached the local futbol game. 

Wiping off the booger and dust-covered faces of the little ones. 

Painting the mural alongside Junior or Milliam, showing them what color to put where. 

Dusty feet. 

Tripping on roots and rocks. 

Walking the 30 minutes in Sunday sunshine to church. 

Stepping on thorns that found their way in the tent.  

Squeezing a child in my arms. Forehead kisses. 

Breathing in fresh air outside after painting for so long. 

Watching House, ER, or Lie to Me every night during dinner. 

Igniting the gas to create hot water for washing dinner dishes.

 Six wild African puppies licking my hands and climbing all over me. 

Golden sunlight filtering through the tall grass as the sun descends. 

Cooking dinner with a refreshing breeze passing through the outdoor kitchen. 

Spotting hippos, crocs, giraffes, elephants, eagles, and cranes on the Zambezi. 

Sitting on the orphanage kitchen floor in a circle with the moms eating nshima. 

Frustration over paint drips that flew under the radar. 

Painful blisters from digging holes in the ground. 

Random bug bites. 

The dogs eating a pound of flour after the spill. 

How sound travels so far. 

Hearing drums, music, and lively shouts from the local bars in the middle of the night. 

Sleeping peacefully through the inhuman noises coming from a friend as she violently vomited right next to my bunk. 

The full moon illuminating the path at night. 

Hearing the gentle breeze in the dead of night. 

The dogs dreadfully howling or barking at suspicious-looking trees at 3am. 

Taking off our sandals to prevent sand from making its way in the house. 

Going on runs on sand roads and being able to see for miles off in the distance. 

Not knowing how long church will go. 

Acting out David and Goliath for the kids at church since no one else showed up. 

Going to the sketchy auto shop where the senile old man guard won't let you through the gate. 

Cooking for 18. 

Instant coffee and Zambian crystal sugar. 

Putting out brush fires with tree branches and shovels. 

How the land rover chugs diesel. 

Sorting endless clothing donations according to age, article, and gender. 

Brushing skink poop off the tops of library books and sweeping it out the door. 

Sitting with a child or adult, watching the joy of painting for the first time.  

The oh so complicated laundry system. 

Singing

I like to sing. In the car. At church. At karaoke. And, here in Zambia. 

I also like to just sit with the kids at the orphanage. Play, tickle, hug, giggle. It's a riot. 

Today I held 2 year old Nchimunya.  He was being a character, as usual, with his little face covered in boogers and dust. I sang over him songs about Christ, the notes echoing and magnifying off the walls in the orphanage. 

As I sat holding this precious gift staring up at me, Zephaniah 3:17 came to mind:

The Lord your God is with you, he is mighty to save. He will take great delight in you, he will quiet you with his love, he will rejoice over you with singing. 

As I looked down at Nchimunya, a defenseless child with no earthly parents, the mental image of our Heavenly Father adopting us as as his own, holding us close, loving us unconditionally, tenderly singing songs of peace over us ... it brought me to tears. 

Why?

Why fear knowing that the king of the universe holds us close, whispering words of faithful love? 

Why worry knowing that God takes great delight in us?

Why fret knowing that our God is mighty to save? 

The Tonga Continued

The tonga people demonstrate respect towards each other in many settings, more frequently than Americans. Things as simple as using the title 'Ba' before a name (synonymous with Mrs. or Mr.) or bowing or curtsying connotes respect towards an individual.

Interestingly enough, while the tonga have a word for our version of 'sorry,' they use the English to express empathy and compassion. While walking with a group from church through the bush, I tripped on a root and hurt my toe.  Instead of laughing (like I might instinctively do if a friend was in the same predicament), the tonga women said, 'Oh sorry, sorry.'  They felt what I felt. 

Tonga children show the utmost respect towards parents, teachers, and those older, much unlike the United States. Part of why this is is because from the very beginning, children have a role to play in order to help the family survive, whether it be washing dishes, helping prepare food, or gathering supplies. Children here know their duties and what us expected of them. 

The tonga people also show respect through listening. In America, there is an urgency to fill every gap in a conversation, to prevent 'awkward pauses.'  The problem is that oftentimes in order to do such, more effort is put into thinking about what to say next rather than listen to what the other is saying. In contrast, people here truly listen and think. Therefore it's not uncommon to sit in silence for seconds or even minutes. There is a peace in simply sitting an enjoying another's presence. 

This was especially true when I visited a family who lost a son to AIDS (the statistics say AIDS infects 25% of this population, but this number only represents those who have been tested) . As we approached the property, I saw many people sitting on the ground in clusters: men, women, and children who were either the immediate family, extended family, or friends of the man who passed away. They all sat still and spoke quietly as they grieved the loss. Many people from the community also came to offer condolences through tonga-style handshakes and simple presence; people filtered in and out quietly and respectfully. 

I, along with Olivia and 2 orphanage house moms, went to each cluster, shaking hands tonga-style but saying very little. Because I have never attended a tonga funeral, I watched Ba Balita closely. When she shook someone's hand, I shook their hand. When she knelt down to sit with someone, I did the same. When she was quiet, I was quiet. It was a humbling experience. 

Modesty truly is a relative concept and looks different wherever you go.  To the tonga people, a woman wearing pants, shorts, or a skirt above knee-length is perceived as a prostitute; the lower half of a woman's body is seen as the sexual part, whereas breasts are seen as tubes for feeding babies. Therefore, many woman have no problem exposing themselves during breast feeding or changing clothes. To prove this point, I'll just say that I was not expecting to see the same women expose herself twice within the course of 2 hours with no second thought of my presence. Aside from this, children often go without underwear or pants, and always go swimming nude. 

Before leaving the United States, I remember listening to a person on Christian radio enthusiastically talk about the experience of collecting pairs of shoes then delivering them to 'less fortunate children.'  While this and other efforts are executed with good hearts, they are also done in ignorance. What many don't realize is that when children grow up without shoes, their feet grow strong muscles and a tough, calloused exterior; children and adults do just fine without shoes. However, when these children and adults are given shoes and begin to wear them, their feet and muscles lose their toughness and strength, thereby leading to injury if the shoes are later removed.  This, not to mention that children quickly outgrow shoes and that these donations hurt the local economy, are strong reasons to truly understand a situation before treating it as a crisis. Americans need to realize that most of the time, a people group that to us is struggling really is doing just fine, and that we can learn much from them. 

The concept of dating is a foreign concept to the tonga. In the United States, many operate with a test drive mentality: we'll see how things go with no initial promise of committing. For the tonga, if a man sees someone he'd like to marry, then he will intentionally pursue marriage.  

If a couple is 'dating,' it is assumed they are sleeping with each other with no plans of marrying. There is no middle ground. This is perhaps why being alone with someone of the opposite gender is seen as scandalous, and why fathers are not allowed to associate with daughter in laws, as these relations could be misinterpreted. 

As with any culture, there are also negative parts of the tonga culture, one being alcoholism. Many men drink in excess, especially during seasons of little work.  This leaves the wife and children suffering financially, emotionally, and physically, as the husband often comes home and beats the family.  

Tonga wives have very little say in the family, and many husbands believe it is their duty to beat their wives so to teach them a lesson. In addition, polygamy is a common practice, with some men having 4 or 5 wives and dozens of children. However, Christian men do not practice polygamy. 

Evangelistic efforts in the eyes of those coming into the culture is often perceived as wildly successful, because the tonga are very enthusiastic in accepting Christ. What they may not realize is that the tonga are superstitious and animistic, meaning that they believe in the forces of many spirits and gods. They fear certain animals, such as the chameleon.  They wear special bracelets and anklets to ward off evil spirits. They dedicate each child to a different god.  And if they are angry with someone, they can put a curse on them, which can result in death. 

Therefore, when evangelists present Jesus, to the tonga they add him to a repitoir of other gods they believe in an effort to protect themselves and their families from evil spirits. However, they don't accept him as supreme lord and savior. This is why providing the context of the all-powerful God and the messed up state of humans must come before presenting the good news.  Without it, it is like putting a roof on a house with no foundation or walls; Jesus' promises have nothing to stand on.  A context is non-negotiable. And while there is a time and place for evangelism, it must come through long-term relationships and discipleship. 

Chameleons

When I say the Tonga people are  afraid of chameleons, I mean it. Whip out one of these incredible animals and shove it in someone's face, and watch them run for their lives! Allow one to crawl up through your hair and onto your head, and prepare for the horrified looks from onlookers (I know this by experience). 

As animists, the Tonga are a very superstitious people and believe in a variety of spirits. Don't ask me how the chameleon achieved fear status, but that fear is alive and well. 

While from an American's perspective, it seems absurd to fear chameleons as the Tonga do, I wonder if God sees us as more connected than we believe. 

While we do not fear chameleons, we certainly are terrified of failure, financial ruin, torn relationships, a failing economy, job insecurity, being lonely, etc etc etc. 

And similar to how Americans may perceive the Tonga, God may be throwing his hands in the air, saying, 'Why? Why do you fear?'

Perhaps God wants us to know that while are fears are very real,

he is much larger than all of it.  

Perhaps God wants us to see that all we need is to seek him in everything, and all things will be taken care of. 

Perhaps God is telling us to quit trying to control everything, and instead enjoy the rest and abundant life he offers. 

Perhaps.  

Interruptions

I'm a singular task-driven person. If I want to get something done, I typically prefer to focus on that one thing until it's completed. I am sincerely annoyed by interruptions; I see it as a barrier to finishing what needs to be done. 

Cue Africa mentality. 

Here, interruptions and disruptions are the norm.  

Exhibit A: 

After a long morning of painting at the orphanage, I ate lunch at main camp, then prepared to head back to finish a mural that afternoon.

As I was eating, I heard what sounded to be a truck pulling into a gravel driveway. I looked up, expecting to see just that, but was surprised at the sight of nothing. After it happened a second, then third time, I got out of my chair and walked toward the sound. 

I squinted my eyes, desperately trying to see what I was hearing. Then I saw what was almost mistaken as a cloud- a puff of white smoke hundreds of yards off in the distance. Was I hearing and seeing the signs of a brush fire? 

Because Amber and Jako were gone for the next few days, I went to Nate, the next person in charge, and asked, 'Do brush fires normally burn white?'

He left out the gate and went out in search for this phantom fire. He came back running. We broke out the shovels, filled the water tank, and organized our team members to help put out this 15 acre fire. 

Long story short, I did not finish painting the mural that day. But, because of that interruption, many of us learned how to put out a brush fire, we were bonded together as a team, and were in awe of God's power. 

Exhibit B: 

I am again at the orphanage, deep in thought, trying to decide which colors would be most esthetically pleasing in relation to the other murals. 

As steam spewed out of my ears, a 2 year old child came up behind me and watched as he made babbling noises. 

I could have very easily ignored him. But instead, I put down my brush, picked him up, and set him in my lap. We sat for a little while. Sometimes I sang over him, sometimes we giggled. But in that moment, I was able to love a child, and he was able to show me the face of God. 

An hour later after I again picked up the brush, one of the orphanage house moms, Ba Betty, shuffled her way towards me, showing off her dancing skill. 

A simple smile could have sufficed, after all, I was busy at work! But where would the fun be in that? 

So I again put my brush down and showed her how a makuwa (white person) breaks it down. We laughed, we enjoyed each other's presence, we lived. 

Unlike how the American perspective informs us, interruptions are really not interruptions at all.  They are divine appointments. 

Divine appointments.

Don't miss out. 

A child wanting to play, a driver going 5 under the speed limit in front of you, a raging brush fire infringing upon your property, your food taking longer than anticipated.  These are not to be seen as  inconveniences but opportunities. 

A chance to play. To slow down. To learn something new. To make a friend. To love. To live. 

A chance to see the face of God.