“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.” Psalm 23:4

Tuesday 16 September 2008

Today began like so many others. The children gathered here in our yard by a quarter to seven, filling pails and buckets of water to tend their garden. John, the head boy organized some of the other children for sweeping and making sure the classrooms were in order. Our usual morning of smiling children, happily greeting us. Yvonne had come with a small handful of white sugar as a treat, and Chikomba had two small “sweets” (hard candy). Ron brought out brown sugar which the girls were not familiar with, but eager to try – more laughter. Ron met with the workers at the cafeteria building, continuing installing window sills, patching wall cracks and painting and fitting doors. As they worked they could hear the sounds of music, peaceful drums playing in the village. I was off to pick up Foster and then we headed to town, me driving the car and Foster the truck to renew vehicle fitness registrations. As we were driving in town, little could we know what tragedy had struck at George.

It was half past noon, as I was driving back to George when I received a call from Ron. Four men had come to the site asking for help and looking for Godwin, the Chairman of George. Godwin had borrowed a bicycle and gone to Twapia to buy relish (kapenta, the tiny fish eaten with nshima). The men told Ron that a man at George had hung himself this morning. They had phoned the police around noon, but they had not come yet. They asked Ron to please phone the police again and help find Godwin. It was soon discovered the police had not come yet because there was no transport for them. The men were understandably upset and anxious, as their friend must remain in the state he was found until the police arrive. Ron phoned me and asked me to look for the Chairman at Twapia and stop at the police station. I phoned Foster who was about ten minutes behind me, and he was able to phone Godwin and I met him at the entrance to Twapia. We drove to the Buyantashi Police Station, a satellite station located at the front of Twapia which serves the George Compound. The Chairman, who is similar to a mayor status, had quickly gathered information and filed the official report. The officer made careful notes as Godwin provided what information he had. The deceased, Dan Lungu, age 29, had returned home to George just three days earlier, having spent some time in prison. His wife had gone out early this morning, which is the usual time to do errands and any shopping, before the heat of the day. When she returned home she found her husband had hung himself using a mosquito net inside their home. They have not lived at George for very long. That was all the report said.

Once the report was filed, we were referred to the main police station at Twapia. The officer in charge, Mrs. Chijobeka Luwi, called two detectives to accompany her to George. And so I drove Mrs. Luwi, Godwin, and two officers, one holding an AK47 gun across his lap, back to George. When I asked about the gun, Detective Henry told me they must always go into the bush armed – just as a precaution – for their safety and ours. They never know what an investigation might reveal or what responses may be invoked. We stopped briefly at the OMNI site for Ron and Foster to follow us in the truck. That was the first it struck me just what all this trip would entail, and my head started spinning a little. We drove far back into George, twisting and turning down dirt paths until we saw a large crowd gathered outside a small dwelling.

The two detectives donned surgical gloves and entered the home with the officer in charge. Foster and Ron followed them. I remained outside. The size of the crowd increased once we arrived, but most stood far back, forming a large horseshoe which surrounded the front of the house. Just next to the doorway sat a small child, a little girl about three years old, just sitting and staring without looking at anything, dirt stained tear tracks running down her cheeks. Next to her was a woman, early twenties, holding a baby of about nine months in her lap. She was wailing, crying out to God, rocking back and forth in aguish. It was heart wrenching – heart breaking, a young woman widowed much too soon, left with two young children. Just then, they called for me inside the house. I wish I had not heard. My eyes slowly focused, adjusting to the darkness inside. There was only a small hole near the roof which allowed just a bit of light to filter in. It was as though time stood still for just a moment, as I slowly began to comprehend what I was seeing. What my eyes saw, pierced my heart. It was overwhelming - the tragedy, the hurt, the deep sorrow – and my heart just felt so very, very heavy, and tears surfaced immediately. I can’t imagine how this young woman who loved this man must have felt when she walked into that tiny dark room to find her husband and wonder at the torture he must have known to take his own life. All I could do was pray – pray for comfort and peace and healing for this family, pray that God will answer swiftly as this young mother and children call out to Him, and cry out for help.

The police detectives made an investigation at the home, then removed the body of Dan. The poor, tortured body of a young man who knew despair that no other here can imagine. They placed the body in the back of the truck, his wife brought a blanket from inside the house to cover him, and Ron drove the truck with Godwin and Detective Henry along with some friends and family to the morgue at Ndola Central Hospital. I sat in the back of the car next to Dan’s widow and infant, as Foster drove us with the other officers back to the Twapia Police Station. We left them all there to fill out more reports. When Ron returned to the station with the other officer, he picked up Mrs. Lungu and baby and returned to their home. He made a brief stop here at the OMNI house to retrieve a blanket. You see, she had used their only blanket to cover the broken body of her husband.

The village is in shock, as this is the first suicide anyone can remember ever happening at George. You can’t come to Africa and not be changed… forevermore. We are just praying intently for this family, for comfort and healing and strength and an abundance of God’s grace, love and mercy. That this family can lean into the strong arms of our Savior and feel His warm embrace, and know that He is with them always. No one here seems to know why this young man, with a young family, decided to take his life. Tonight, along with all of George Compound, we seek God and cry out to all of heaven and pray that God will heal these broken hearts, and protect and provide for this family.

“you will make me full of joy in your presence...” Psalm 16:11

Today was the first day of school for the last term this year. Opening was delayed one week due to the funeral of Zambia’s President. Today meant a lot of things here at the George OMNI School. It meant all the children would gather together again for the first time in over a month. It meant there would be a lot of chatter and some rowdy behavior as energy levels increase with the number of children present. It meant a good, hot, nutritious meal for all our students. And once again, it meant cleaning, as all the desks and chairs were wiped down and floors swept. There were huge smiles of gratitude from the teachers when they entered their office to find the shelving unit Ron had installed during the break. They quickly recruited some of the older boys and reorganized books and supplies, and swept it all clean. A nice way to begin the new term – clean and organized.

Today also meant one other thing. Something the children have been looking forward to for a very long time. Today meant new shoes for all the children. It was last January that First Lutheran Church in Strongsville, Ohio sponsored a U2Charist celebration where they collected shoes for our children. First Lutheran shipped thirty-one boxes filled with shoes to Zambia. Most of the boxes arrived in late February, but were held hostage by customs. The customs fee was outrageous, and more than the value of the shoes. After a lot of work by Foster and a customs agent, and then Ron and I arguing with the Post Office who then wanted more than the customs fee for storing them since February, the shoes were finally released last month. I wish that every person who attended that celebration and prayed for these children and donated a pair of shoes could have been here to share in the joy of this day. We placed a free-standing shelving unit, with three shelves on the front verandah. Each shelf contained three rows of shoes, all arranged according to size. As the children gathered for school, their excitement increased as they saw the shoes that awaited them. What they didn’t realize at first was that there were three times as many shoes which remained inside, just waiting to restock those shelves.

It was an easy task for the teachers to gather the children at the front of the house to receive this wonderful gift. They formed lines according to grade. And this time, the line of order was reversed, and it was oldest first! It seems that the older children usually are the last ones, and if sometimes the supply runs low on whatever is being handed out, they are the ones expected to be understanding. But today, there are plenty of large sizes – plenty of shoes for the older children. It is customary for the schools in Zambia to have a child named “head boy”. He is one of the older children, and he assumes responsibility when the teacher is not present. He takes charge of the activities outside when the children gather, making sure there is no fighting. He helps organize the lines the children form. He helps during lunch time, making sure all the children receive their food and milk and that they are behaving as they wait for the prayer before meals. And he is the first child to enter the school each day, and begin sweeping and readying the classrooms. So, we decided to honor our head boy, John Mwamba, in a special way, and allow him to be the first to choose a pair of shoes. In fact, we had already chosen a special pair of shoes for John. Someone had donated a pair of good-looking, sturdy, high top, red Nike shoes that just seemed to call out John’s name. Teddy, one of our teachers, explained to John that if those shoes fit, and he liked them, they were his, but he was free to choose any pair he wished to have. John gave a quick glance to the rows of shoes on the shelves, but put the red Nike’s on, smiled, shook my hand, and with a very sincere ‘thank you' joined the others in line, as they cheered for their head boy and his new shoes.

Then the parade was on. Teachers called three children forward at a time. In this continuous stream some came forward wearing worn out flip-flops, some wore shoes with toes poking through holes in the end, or tied together with a piece of string. But for most, there were no shoes to remove before trying on a pair. We allowed the children the pleasure of picking and choosing which shoes they would like to try, and Ron and I and the teachers would try to make sure they were a good fit – not just good-looking! The smaller children would climb onto a chair to survey the shoes on the higher shelves, making sure to choose just the right shoes. Their patience as they waited in line was amazing. There were necks craning to see who got what pair, ooh and aahs as we would bring out more shoes to refill the shelves, and proud smiles as each child stepped off the verandah wearing a new pair of shoes. It didn’t matter one bit that the temperature had soared to over 105 degrees before 9am. The children were so happy to have shoes, and I think it was doubly exciting that they were allowed to choose for themselves. Their joy was contagious – highly contagious – and continued to overflow as each child stepped up onto the verandah and approached what seemed like an endless supply of shoes. Many of the children couldn’t contain their joy, and danced their way off the verandah and back into line! What a blessing! We heard so many thank you’s, received so many polite curtseys and bows, and saw so many huge smiles. Many stopped to ask for a photo with their new shoes. And yes, as always, the children were singing as they waited in line for their turn. They were singing the song they wrote about OMNI – the song that says love isn’t love unless you give it away. While they were singing it as their thank you to you, it was also the children giving their love away – and back to you. Thank you for sharing your love. Thank you for this wonderful gift to these children. Thank you for sowing the seeds of gladness. Thank you for allowing us the privilege of sharing in this blessing! I can’t help but think of Psalm 19, although it may be referring to the ordinances of the Lord, the words keep echoing in my mind – “They are more precious than gold…they are sweeter than honey…”

“..and He healed those who needed healing.” Luke 9:11

Saturday 6 September 2008

Late last evening my phone started beeping – a text message from Godfridah, one of our school teachers. It said that one of our students, Piet, had been stoned and taken to the hospital earlier with a head injury, possibly admitted. Godfridah lives nearby Piet’s family and has always looked out for the three boys there. Piet, Tammy and Gift live with their widowed mother, and were three of the boys who we originally came to know at Agape Children’s Village in the deep bush of Mpongwe. OMNI helped support Agape, and eventually came to learn of abuse which was occurring there. During OMNI’s visit in 2006, Rick Jaster spent many heart-wrenching hours working to free the children from that abusive situation. Now, we can happily report that these three boys have been reunited with their mother and now live at nearby Twapia. Gift, the oldest of the boys attends an upper grade at Twapia School, while Piet and Tammy (pronounced Tommy) attend OMNI’s school here at George. I must admit I have a special affinity for these children. I believe everyone who traveled as part of the OMNI team to Agape would say the same. But, the Agape connection is just one reason I feel a special connection to these children. It also means I have known them since I’ve been coming to Zambia, and I’ve known them to be loving and kind children full of laughter and songs. This year I have formed a special attachment to Piet. While Ron and I are living here at the project site, in one room of the house that is used for the school, Piet has taken me under his wing. I can be outside or inside, surrounded by children. Children who desperately want to communicate with me and me with them. While we can always understand a smile or a thumbs-up from one another, language is a difficulty. Most of the children only speak Bemba, with maybe just a few words of English. And me, I barely know a few words of Bemba. The children will be talking away to me in earnest, speaking the only language they know, and Piet will quietly come next to me, and interpret. It was such a wonderful surprise the first time it happened. One of the other boys was telling me a vibrant and exciting story with much animation – all in Bemba. When I told him I was sorry I couldn’t understand, Piet, retold the tale of how James Phiri helped to kill the snake that day – all in English. And then translated my Aaahhhs and Ooohhhs and Yuks and cheers for his bravery into Bemba. Piet, wise beyond his years at age 10, stepped in to bridge a gap. Ever since, Piet has been my interpreter. What a difference he has made. And poor Piet, he even tries to teach me some Bemba!
But, I’m afraid I’m not a very good student.

This morning when I called Godfridah she confirmed that Piet had been admitted to Arthur Davison Children’s Hospital, but she didn’t know any more. She said she would make sure that Gift and Tammy were fed and cared for in their mother’s absence. So, Foster and I were off to the hospital to find Piet and his mother. The differences between the hospitals here and in the U.S. are striking, if not shocking at first. From the outside you see a structure probably from the 1950’ or 1960’s with large windows streaked with paint and the eternal dust of Zambia. Upon entering we always climb several flights of stairs, the edges of the stone steps worn away from too many years of too many footsteps. As we climb we pass several wards, some bearing the sign “high cost” for those who can afford to pay, the remaining wards named after Zambian Rivers, which is for the majority of the children. After several inquiries we discovered that Piet was in the Kafue Ward in a tiny little quarter which contained four small beds and four chairs. The chairs are for the mothers or whatever family member comes with the child to care for them. They were lucky. As we searched the ward for Piet, we stepped around the mattresses which lined the halls on either side. There were no sheets or covering on any of those mattresses, yet each was bed to a child and whoever had come to care for them. As Foster made inquiries about Piet’s whereabouts I watched as a doctor and a nurse, both in starch white uniforms attended to the children in the hall. The doctor would crouch next to each mattress and gently and tenderly care to each child, talking with the adult at each child’s side for as long as needed. And this is when the tears could easily flow. As you watch parents bringing what little they have – be it food, blankets, and clothes – feeding and caring for their children. As you watch educated, dedicated, caring physicians and nurses treating children in difficult circumstances, to the best of their ability, using the limited resources available. This is just one more effect of the extreme poverty prevalent here in Zambia. It is heart-breaking to witness, and at the same time heart-warming.

After some time Foster discovered that Piet had gone for x-rays. So, down three flights of stairs, through a dimly lit hallway, and we found Piet and his mother, Florence, just leaving the x-ray room. She was carrying the x-rays, and they walked up the three flights with us back to Piet’s bed. There was no wheelchair, no orderly or nurse, just a mother walking with her son. Florence said that Piet had been at a stream washing some clothes, and a boy told him he was dirtying the water and threw a large stone at him. Piet told her the boy didn’t intend to hit him, that he was only playing. I don’t know. Life in the villages can be very rough and tough. The stone struck Piet in the back of the head, leaving a large gash and a fracture. Half of his head had been shaved and there was a large, bulky bandage covering the wound. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the doctor to return, read the x-ray, and make his recommendations. All indications were that Piet would be coming home soon. He had experienced some dizziness, but was feeling much better today. What I could see was a little boy, from a traditional village, scared at the prospect of being in the hospital. Poor Piet – he didn’t speak a word, eyes wide with fear. We looked at his x-rays and he did manage to laugh a little at seeing what his head looks like from the inside-out! We left Florence a bit of money so she could pay for the x-rays and any medication that might be necessary, and also to buy food for the two of them while there. She knows she can call, and we’ll be there if Piet needs us. She also knows we will all be praying for him. The photo is from the July 11th, when the gift of bread was distributed to the school children. That boy with the sweet smile on his face and the bread in his hand is Piet.

“Uphold the rights of the oppressed…” Psalm 82:3

Monday 1 September 2008

This past week has without a doubt been the most difficult we have faced since arriving in Zambia this year. Our emotions have been at the breaking point, as we are consumed with grief at the loss of Ron’s sister, Jan, coupled with the continuing worry as we search for a solution to the quickly deteriorating situation of baby Peter and his sister Gift.

When we returned to the hospital as scheduled with Peter and his mother, Sharon, to receive the HIV medication for the two of them we became very aware of the seriousness of the situation. After hours and hours of waiting as Sharon was shifted from room to room and department to department, Foster and I were finally called in to speak with the counselor and nurse in charge. They informed us that they could not give Peter’s mother his medication. They said she is just not responsible. They did not believe she would administer the medication properly and even had serious doubts that Peter would be fed regularly. What we have discovered is that Sharon and Reagan, Peter’s parents, are both alcoholics. In fact the day we took Sharon and Peter to receive their medication she had been drinking already, before 9am. There was nothing we could do at that point, so we took Sharon and Peter home. Reagan was there, and we explained the situation to him. In conversation with him we also discovered that he had indeed been aware of his HIV status long before we transported them to the testing facility. Denial is not uncommon here. There is a huge stigma associated with HIV/Aids, especially in the villages. The common belief in the traditional communities is also that if you begin the treatment, that is what kills you. As we remained at the home talking with them, other family members came to the home – Sharon’s small mother (her mother’s younger sister) and her grandmother – and it became quite evident that there was no one there who was capable of caring for Peter and Gift.

Foster and I discussed the situation at great length, and went to an attorney in town to discuss available options. Our next stop was the Ndola District Social Welfare Office, where we were informed that Baluba falls under the authority of the Luanshya District. Before heading to Luanshya we stopped at the Provincial Juvenile Welfare Office here in Ndola to discuss Peter and Gift with them. The officer in charge there said she would contact the Luanshya District office and they would contact us. Arrangements were eventually made for the Luanshya District officer to make a home visit. I don’t know that I can really explain all of this – it sounds fairly straight forward – but it was anything but. Here in Zamia, you don’t just make a call, and then see things happen. You drive to each and every office, seek out the proper person, and many times wait hours or make return trips in following days in order to find that person and speak to them. One further complication in business dealings here is that lunch is strictly observed between the hours of 12:30pm to 2pm. During that time you will find virtually no one in any office, and even most businesses are closed. So, this process of making arrangements with the Luanshya Social Welfare Office literally took days. Torturous days of seeking people who could help Peter and Gift. All the while we are praying, and wondering if the children are safe, are they being fed and cared for, and knowing it was one more day that Peter was without his medication. While every office understood the urgency of the situation and did their best to expedite the process, it still took so very long. The other hindrance is transportation. If you want someone to go somewhere you have to provide the necessary transportation. There are not government vehicles available for the social welfare officers, and personal vehicles for the workers are few and far between. And, we couldn’t just give the Luanshya officer, Mrs. Mwalo, and address of a home to go to either. Baluba is a traditional, village community with haphazard placement of homes, no streets, only the tiny uneven dirt paths, and certainly no addresses.

But finally, we met Mrs. Mwalo in Luanshya. She is a woman of about 30 years I would imagine, strong, straight forward, compassionate, and I would say wise beyond her years. She is passionate about her job and the children of Zambia. She was a breath of fresh air. As we drove to Baluba we gave her all the details we knew. When we arrived she explained who she was and the purpose of her visit. She took down the family history, names, dates, and relationships. We also discovered that they were not living in the home, but only renting a tiny room attached to the home. The room is about five feet by eight feet with no windows, and only a chitenge covering the door. As we peered inside the only things there were a large blanket we had given them which was being used by the entire family to sleep on, the small blankets we had given Gift and Peter, and there was a small pile of clothes in the corner. That was all. There was nothing else. Mrs. Mwalo talked to them about their health issues, their income, and their addiction to alcohol, and on and on. She asked tough questions, like “It’s lunch time, why aren’t you preparing food for your children? Why don’t you have a small garden so they can at least have something to eat? Where is the food that was given to you for Peter? Why do you worry more about where your next drink is coming from than the well-being of your children? Why aren’t your children bathed?” She was thorough and she was firm, but she was also kind and compassionate. She also talked to Gift and a few of the neighbors. She discussed different options but in the end said the children would just have to be removed. Before we left, Sharon and Reagan agreed that Peter and Gift would go to a new home where they could be properly cared for. Mrs. Mwalo said that Sharon is very clever and it is her opinion that she only uses the children to get food and money. And so we would all search for a safe haven for the children, and then return. In the meantime, there was not one bite of food at the house. We went to the street market and bought mealie meal (for the staple food, nshima), oil, sugar, salt, and the vegetables commonly used to make the relish which accompanies the nshima – rape, tomatoes, onions, and a special treat of tiny eggplants. We returned with the food, and Mrs. Mwalo also handed an orange to baby Peter. I’m sure they feasted that night, and we all said a prayer that they wouldn’t sell the remaining food to buy beer.

Our mission was clear. Mrs. Mwalo would type her report and file the official findings. Foster and I would immediately begin to search for homes for Peter and Gift. Our first stop was a home we know here in Ndola that keeps HIV+ children. It is Buseko Home – which means joy. We had in fact recently visited there and knew the children were happy and well-cared for. However, the director informed us they were not able to accept any new children at this time. She suggested that we go to St. Anthony’s Home for Children in Masala, which is near the large traditional market where we purchase the food for the school. It is supported by the Catholic Church and Dominican Sisters and is a beautiful place. We immediately had a good feeling when we got out of the car – dozens of children came running, smiling and happy, holding out little hands to greet us, and some with arms outstretched wanting to be picked up and held. And so I picked up one little girl as another held my hand, pulling me to meet the adults, the mothers of the homes, and actually placing my hand in theirs, making sure there was a proper greeting. After a few minutes of reveling in that unexpected joy, we talked to the assistant director, Gertrude.

The director, Maureen was in Ndola. We phoned her, returned to Ndola to pick her up, and discussed the situation on the way back to Masala. She said in fact they would be happy to take both children and care for them. When we returned to the home, we knew we had found a place where the children would most definitely be loved. When we pulled up into the yard, and the children saw Maureen, they mobbed her until she could barely exit the car. They were holding onto her, hugging her legs, chattering and cheering for her return. That’s love. She gave us a tour of several of the houses, citing names and histories of all the children we met. She told us that there have been eight children who entered the home HIV+ who have now tested negative. She said they have been told that before a child is eighteen months it has its mother’s antibodies, but then can develop their own healthy antibodies with proper care and medications. But, as Maureen said “It is just a miracle from God.”

Mrs. Mwalo was familiar with St. Anthony’s and in favor of taking Peter and Gift there. She quickly made her report and we picked her up the following day and returned to Baluba to take Peter and Gift to their new home. The first person we saw was Gift. Poor little Gift - four years old and dressing herself - dress on backwards, buttoned wrong, and pants dragging the ground. Then we saw Peter sitting on the ground. Both children dirty and wearing the same dirty clothes as the day before. And then came Sharon. She refused to let the children leave. Reagan tried to talk to her, even attempted to pry Peter away from her. Mrs. Mwalo talked to her – argued with her. The neighbors gathered around and were yelling at Sharon to just give her children a chance to live and be cared for. But it all fell on deaf ears. We had no choice but to leave without the children. I think we were all crying as we entered the car, and watched as innocent Gift stood there waving good-bye. It was horrible. I think it was the hardest thing I have ever done, to leave those two children there. I wanted to just grab Peter and Gift and run. As we drove back to Luanshya we discussed what the law could do to protect these children. Mrs. Mwalo has never had a parent refuse to give their child a better life, and said she would have to do some research.

Foster and I returned to the Provincial Juvenile Welfare Office in Ndola and they made plans to return with Mrs. Mwalo and the police to forcibly remove Peter and Gift from the home. I dread that trip to Baluba and the ensuing encounter. But, we never know what each day will bring. That was Friday, and Saturday afternoon our guard came to find me at the house. He said there was a man with a child here to see me. But we never know what each day will bring. This afternoon, our guard came to find me and said there was a man with a child at the gate to see me. As I started walking down the path, Reagan, Peter’s father started walking toward me. I could see Sharon crouching near the guard house with Peter wrapped in a chitenge on her back. I immediately said a prayer of thanksgiving. We have been praying mightily that Sharon’s eyes and heart would be opened. Reagan speaks English quite well, and told me that he had just been talking and talking to his wife and now she agrees the children must go where they can be cared for properly. He said he told her to think of what will happen to the children after they are gone. He said “Me, I was even crying.” He said you’ve seen where we live, you know we have nothing and we cannot care for the children – God bless you for loving our children and wanting to help them.

When I approached Sharon, she greeted me and then immediately handed Peter to me – a sign of her willingness to release him. They wanted to see St. Anthony’s Children’s Home, so Ron and I drove them to Masala. The director was not there, but I explained to Gertrude that these were the parents and the infant Foster and I had talked to them about earlier in the week. Sharon passed Peter to me through the car window and remained inside the vehicle. I asked Reagan if Sharon wouldn’t like to come inside and see where her son would be living, but Ron said he would go to the car for her. I don’t know what he said or did, since Sharon doesn’t understand English, but he came back inside with her. Reagan was telling Peter to greet his new friends, and Peter was holding out his little hand to the other children. It was plain to see how pleased Reagan was – he saw happy children, laughing and playing. He remarked how clean and orderly the homes were, and how clean and well dressed and healthy looking all the children were. Even Sharon seemed to mellow as she spoke with the house mothers, explaining about Peter’s TB medication which she had brought along. Gertrude also explained that they were free to come and visit the children here, contact would not be severed. The house mother took Peter from me and whisked him away for a bath, complete with clean clothes and a diaper. As we drove back to Baluba we talked with Reagan trying to make sure they were sure – that Peter and Gift would be ready to go to this lovely new home on Monday morning. We felt they must be sincere since they had found a way to come here to our site at George all the way from Baluba – which is a very long distance. We spent the remainder of the weekend praying. Praying for a smooth transition on Monday. Praying that Sharon and Reagan are sincere. Praying that Sharon and Reagan’s hearts remain as they were this day – full of unselfish love for their children. Praying that Sharon and Reagan find peace and favor with the Lord. Praying for a happy new life for these two precious children.

And then came Monday, today. Foster came in from his home in Kitwe on the bus, and I met him at the turn off to Luanshya. He was ringing Mrs. Mwalo, but there was no answer. We drove to the office and she was not there. Fortunately we knew her home, and found her there and explained what had happened Saturday. She was relieved to not have to involve the police. It just makes it that much more difficult for everyone, especially the children. We drove to her office and she collected her papers and we were off to Baluba once more. When we arrived our anxieties quickly left as Sharon, Reagan, Gift and Peter all piled in to the car without incident. There was paperwork to be completed once we arrived at St. Anthony’s and so I picked up Gift and walked around with her, while one of the house mother’s again scooped Peter up in her arms and bathed and dressed him in clean clothes. I returned to find a shouting match occurring between Sharon and everyone else in the room. Sharon had changed her mind about leaving Gift. Mrs. Mwalo told her the choice was not hers any longer, that the law had made the decision. I quickly passed Gift to one of the mothers as the arguing continued. I followed a few minutes later and found Gift also being bathed and hair washed. Sharon was now sitting outside the house and Foster told me to get in the car. We were going for the police because Sharon refused to leave without Gift. We found a police station at Masala and were returning with one of the biggest, burliest looking police officers I have ever seen, when we spotted Sharon walking through the market. The officer jumped out of the car and escorted Sharon to the police station where she received a proper lecture from the officer in charge. As we drove back to Baluba, all you could hear was Sharon yelling. I asked Foster to translate a little please. He said she was saying that her husband doesn’t provide for her – she doesn’t have any nice clothes or shoes or a nice home or money for anything. I asked if she had said anything about the children. Mrs. Mwalo said she had not mentioned them once. She said she was only complaining about her own needs and wanting money. Mrs. Mwalo gave her a little bit of money from her own pocket – she said just for the sake of peace – and Sharon immediately quieted down and never said another word. When we finally dropped them at their home, I gave Reagan a Bible, and asked him to please read it and read it to Sharon. He thanked me and said he would. And Sharon also thanked me. I’ll never understand all that has transpired here. The only thing I can know for sure is that it is all according to God’s will.

Now, we continue in prayer for Sharon and Reagan and Gift and Peter. We are praying that Sharon and Reagan come to know the Lord in what time they have left, and that they seek counseling and treatment for their disease. I left Peter sitting in a bed playing with a toy – something I’m sure he has never done before, and Gift was in a tub full of water, hair soaped and eyes wide with wonder. I know that right now, they are being loved as they have never been loved before. We will return to visit, many times before leaving for the U.S. Maureen made a point to let us know “You are always most welcome here, anytime.”

I don’t think we’ll ever know the truth of the past, and at this point it really doesn’t matter. But what we do know is that Gift and Peter now have a chance at life, and hope for a future. Thank you Lord for your mercy and grace. Thank you Lord for blessing our lives with these special children, Gift and Peter. We thank you for providing a Christian home full of love for these children. We are so very thankful for the love and care and peace Peter and Gift will now know. But, my heart is still aching, for so many reasons. As we left Baluba for the last time today, I looked out onto the crowd of children who had gathered around us. And as they were smiling and waving good-bye, I wondered. How many more – how many more Peters and Gifts are there? Are they here right in front of me? Am I looking into their eyes now as I wave a tearful good-bye? Lord, please show us the way, guide our steps.