So remember when I said I wasn’t a blogger, that electronic
communication was hard for me? You
probably thought I was exaggerating, but as this post finds its way online a
couple months after its predecessor, you’re understanding what I was
saying. I’m sorry. I’m a work in progress.Honestly, part of my delay in writing some sort of update
was being at, in addition to a pretty significant lack of time, also a pretty
significant lack of words. Its like after you finish a really long and
detailed book and someone asks you how it was.
What do you say? There were good
parts and there were bad parts, and you try to tell little tidbits of it here
and there, but giving an accurate depiction of all that you read, a truly
summative description of the story; that seems impossible. Putting to words
what has happened in the past couple months has felt a bit like that. My life has changed, in what at times seems
like its entirety, and I kind of don’t even know where to start. But the time is far overdue for me to at
least give it a try. Though maybe instead
of attempting a full synopsis of the last two months, I’ll just share some
thoughts from this past week. This week was our first week of school. I suppose
this seems like not only a good time to share recent events, but also one to
pause and reflect on them personally as well, so here it goes.At the close of this most recent one, I’m struck by how many
“first week of school”s I’ve lived. As a
teacher’s kid, then a student, then a teacher myself, the start of the school
year has been a notable event ever since I can remember. My 12 month calendar has always operated from
August to July. At week’s end, I’m
thinking about how this first week was so similar and yet so different from
those past.As per usual on the eve of the start of school. I slept
restlessly on Sunday night and anxiously awoke extra early Monday morning. However, as I sat to have my daily time with
the Big Guy, my attention was already perked by the differences even in my
prayers. While I still prayed for the Roots girls and the kids of Highland
Park, and for my family, and for my heart and tongue to be granted the
graciousness that doesn’t come naturally (that last one is a def necessary routine
and repeated prayer), I found my prayer journal had taken on some new
ones.
I prayed for my co-workers and my roommates, many of which are one in the same. I’ve prayed for my fellow teachers before, but this was different. These people are more than just colleagues I go to work with, they are people I’m doing life with. I prayed for logistics, for the building operations and staffing of our schools, things I had never really put a second thought to in the states, but now an area of which I had vested concern.
I prayed for our teachers. I prayed prayers of surrender of worry and of thankfulness for them and about them. From family members to friends, obviously there have been lots of teachers in my life I’ve held dear, but with these, especially the secondary teachers, it’s a little different. It’s one of those times you find yourself caring for a group of people so much illogically fast. My heart almost reflexively contracts with a strange mix of pride and concern and appreciation at their thought or mention. Here are these professionals who have chosen to take their own education and skill and charge ahead into the unknown with us, into the darkest places of this city to meet our kids where they are and willingly put up their hearts to be broken on their behalf for His glory.
Or I suppose this is what I pray for. And I’m reminded to pray for myself to choose to do the same everyday.
And obviously the kids; I prayed for our kids. The nearly 10,000 children that flooded our LCA’s this week, almost 3,000 of them for the first time. Like I said, I’ve prayed for the kids that enter my school’s doors for a while now, but again, this is a little different. These children who have been continually told and shown and told that they are the “least of these,” its our task to show them that to us, to Him, the opposite is really true; they are of the greatest worth. Oh that our schools would be the safe haven so many of them long for, the lighthouse to which they can return everyday where they experience God meeting their needs.That first morning and still now I pause at this developing reality. All of the above mentioned, the things I had theorized, maybe even hoped, that my heart would care for, how surreal that it now does. My heart painfully, yet joyfully breaks for these things, these people, this place every day anew.
As I went out into the schools that opening Monday, I had that familiar feeling; that dichotomous and unique feeling of excitement and nervousness that often accompanies the first day of school. I’ve always thought it interesting that both teachers and students experience that feeling…every year. I wondered if teachers and students here would show evidence of the same. And of course they did. But I saw something, no, I experienced something different, something more with our kids here. They weren’t just excited for their first day of school; they were elated. The sometimes disguised blessing that comes from their hardships, the idea that many of our kids in the States never get the chance to fully understand or appreciate, our kids here don’t have to go to school, they get to go to school. And even on that first day, many of them could barely contain their joy of this prayer being realized. Imagine this as of one the parts of the book that no matter how much I try to describe the contents of its pages, my description will not suffice. Just trust me, you should come read this chapter for yourself someday.
All in all, after my first couple months here and looking forward towards this year, I think I always want to come back to this first week of school. I think I need to. I need to be continually mindful of why I’m here, why we are all here – to serve these kids and the people of Lusaka in order to make much of His name. Amidst some things being frustrating, some things being amazing, and everything in between, its all in His sovereign hand; He will be glorified. I was reminded of this on a much overdue run this week. I’m a music person. As in I usually need music playing in the background of my solo tasks. Doing my quiet time, going for a run, while driving – I need music playing. I think that God uses music a lot of the time to help me talk to him. Anyways, mid-run, Second Chance by Rend Collective came up on shuffle. One of the repeated lines includes, “at the base of the cross, that’s where my hope restarts.” To be honest, there have been a lot of days where I’ve reached the end and I’ve needed my hope restarted. But wow, how comforting, how life-sustaining that my hope comes from nothing here, nothing in America or in Zambia, in people or in things, but in Him, solely in Him.
I prayed for my co-workers and my roommates, many of which are one in the same. I’ve prayed for my fellow teachers before, but this was different. These people are more than just colleagues I go to work with, they are people I’m doing life with. I prayed for logistics, for the building operations and staffing of our schools, things I had never really put a second thought to in the states, but now an area of which I had vested concern.
I prayed for our teachers. I prayed prayers of surrender of worry and of thankfulness for them and about them. From family members to friends, obviously there have been lots of teachers in my life I’ve held dear, but with these, especially the secondary teachers, it’s a little different. It’s one of those times you find yourself caring for a group of people so much illogically fast. My heart almost reflexively contracts with a strange mix of pride and concern and appreciation at their thought or mention. Here are these professionals who have chosen to take their own education and skill and charge ahead into the unknown with us, into the darkest places of this city to meet our kids where they are and willingly put up their hearts to be broken on their behalf for His glory.
Or I suppose this is what I pray for. And I’m reminded to pray for myself to choose to do the same everyday.
And obviously the kids; I prayed for our kids. The nearly 10,000 children that flooded our LCA’s this week, almost 3,000 of them for the first time. Like I said, I’ve prayed for the kids that enter my school’s doors for a while now, but again, this is a little different. These children who have been continually told and shown and told that they are the “least of these,” its our task to show them that to us, to Him, the opposite is really true; they are of the greatest worth. Oh that our schools would be the safe haven so many of them long for, the lighthouse to which they can return everyday where they experience God meeting their needs.That first morning and still now I pause at this developing reality. All of the above mentioned, the things I had theorized, maybe even hoped, that my heart would care for, how surreal that it now does. My heart painfully, yet joyfully breaks for these things, these people, this place every day anew.
As I went out into the schools that opening Monday, I had that familiar feeling; that dichotomous and unique feeling of excitement and nervousness that often accompanies the first day of school. I’ve always thought it interesting that both teachers and students experience that feeling…every year. I wondered if teachers and students here would show evidence of the same. And of course they did. But I saw something, no, I experienced something different, something more with our kids here. They weren’t just excited for their first day of school; they were elated. The sometimes disguised blessing that comes from their hardships, the idea that many of our kids in the States never get the chance to fully understand or appreciate, our kids here don’t have to go to school, they get to go to school. And even on that first day, many of them could barely contain their joy of this prayer being realized. Imagine this as of one the parts of the book that no matter how much I try to describe the contents of its pages, my description will not suffice. Just trust me, you should come read this chapter for yourself someday.
All in all, after my first couple months here and looking forward towards this year, I think I always want to come back to this first week of school. I think I need to. I need to be continually mindful of why I’m here, why we are all here – to serve these kids and the people of Lusaka in order to make much of His name. Amidst some things being frustrating, some things being amazing, and everything in between, its all in His sovereign hand; He will be glorified. I was reminded of this on a much overdue run this week. I’m a music person. As in I usually need music playing in the background of my solo tasks. Doing my quiet time, going for a run, while driving – I need music playing. I think that God uses music a lot of the time to help me talk to him. Anyways, mid-run, Second Chance by Rend Collective came up on shuffle. One of the repeated lines includes, “at the base of the cross, that’s where my hope restarts.” To be honest, there have been a lot of days where I’ve reached the end and I’ve needed my hope restarted. But wow, how comforting, how life-sustaining that my hope comes from nothing here, nothing in America or in Zambia, in people or in things, but in Him, solely in Him.
