“…Christ in you, the hope of glory.” Colossians 1:27

Friday 25 July 2008

Many of you will remember baby Peter Mposhi from the April team’s blog. The team met Peter during a mobile medical clinic that was held in Baluba, which is in the deep bush, deeper than George. Peter was brought in by his mother Sharon, and accompanied by his older sister, Gift. Peter is 1 year 8 months, but looks to be around nine months. His tiny face was thin and drawn, his large eyes desperate and pleading, as he clung tightly to his mother’s breast. Peter and his mother both tested positive for HIV/Aids. Peter’s older sister, Gift, who is 4 years 4 months tested negative. The father is in prison. The team transported Peter to Arthur Davison Children’s Hospital in Ndola, where he could receive care in the malnutrition ward and then be placed on HIV medications. What Foster, our Zambia director discovered after the team returned to the United States, was that Sharon fled the hospital with baby Peter before the medications had begun. We’re still not clear as to why she fled, but there are many superstitions here regarding hospitals, and so many do not leave the hospital alive there is some reluctance. Remember, we are in a third world country. The people here, especially those from the bush have been raised according to tribal traditions and have very little knowledge of hospitals. Most of what they know of hospitals is that the rear of the hospital, the morgue, is where a funeral begins. Witchcraft is still practiced in many areas. And also consider the limited resources of a hospital in a third world country such as Zambia. We find dedicated physicians and nurses in these facilities, but their resources are limited. Time and time again we have seen medical equipment sitting idle because there are no funds for maintenance or repairs, or because they have been donated from another country and replacement parts are not available here. At any rate, I do not know why Sharon fled with Peter; there could be so many reasons.

I met Peter on our first day in Zambia, the 10th of July. Ron and I were accompanying Foster on his usual monthly rounds of delivering food stuffs to the children OMNI cares for on a continuing basis. I immediately saw why the team’s hearts had ached so after meeting Peter. Sweet, innocent Peter. A child who has lived such a short time, and yet touched the hearts of so many. As we drove down the very rough path to their home in Baluba, Sharon came from her neighboring cousin’s house with Peter wrapped in a chitenge tied close to her. We stopped the car and there was Peter, holding tightly to his mother, his only security. As we drew near I could see that desperate look in his beautiful brown eyes. You can see so much in his eyes; the pain, the pleading, the anguish, the despair. It is just too much to see in the eyes of a child. And as I looked deep into those wide eyes, I knew I was looking straight into the face of Jesus. Before me was an innocent child condemned to death. And what could I do. His tiny hand reached for me, and as I held that sweet little hand I said a silent prayer for this child and his family, and I thanked God for the blessing of Peter’s life. My heart was breaking wide open, as my mind was flooded with questions that have no answer. I wanted to drop to my knees and just cry and cry and cry, until no more tears would come. I knew I could not. But I did try to remember God’s promises – He is with us always. His name is Emmanuel, God with us. And I knew that Jesus Christ in all His grace and mercy would never leave this child. And the best we can do is to love him, love him as Christ has asked us to, and care for him the best way we are able.

As we walked across the rut filled dirt path to their home I was struck by what a barren looking place it was. A tiny little house; the tremendous need much too apparent. All I could see were two recently washed blankets, riddled with holes that lay drying on top of some small plants just above the dusty ground. Then I looked at Peter’s sister, Gift. There was no trace of a smile, wearing a torn dress, she is petite and pretty, and I wondered what would become of her in the days to come.

We had brought kapenta, tiny whole fish, and ground nuts (similar to peanuts) which had been ground into a fine meal. Both very nutritious and packed with the good things Peter’s tiny body needs. We made arrangements to take Peter for medical care on Tuesday, after Sharon returns from a church conference. Peter’s cough was deep and worrisome. As we drove away Foster also explained that Sharon drinks too much, and he wonders how much of the food Peter actually receives, as they spend much of their time at the cousin’s home, even sharing meals there. Everyone’s need is so great.

When we returned on Tuesday, the change in Peter’s condition was dramatic and devastating. In those few days his little face had become drawn and sullen, he was not responsive, and his cough had worsened. Sharon asked if we could also transport another relative to Twapia Clinic – a young man whose feet and legs had severely swollen. When we saw him, we knew at once that this man was actively dying. The result of waiting too late for an HIV diagnosis; the medications unable to alleviate any of the effects of the disease, and it quickly progresses to an advanced stage. To see this man, and the look in his eyes – searching and frantic – it is something I will never forget. We drove in silence, except for sound of the deep wheezing and coughing of Peter, and the quiet sobbing of his mother Sharon. In fact, Foster and I were also crying, silently wiping the tears away, seeing how quickly Peter had become so desperately ill, and fearing his time here on earth was quickly drawing to an end. Peter was admitted to the hospital again. This time Sharon assured Foster there would be no fleeing. She had seen the results and how very sick Peter had become.

We returned in a few days to find Peter looking better and more alert, but with large sores at the corners of his mouth. Foster spoke to a nurse and she said they were running blood tests, and the doctor had Sharon stop breast feeding due to her positive status. Peter was improved and we were happy to see Sharon so attentive.

Ron and I visited Peter again today at the hospital. Although Foster is at his home in Kitwe, and we knew we could not speak to the mother, Sharon, we were hoping to find a nurse who would be willing to talk to us. When we arrived the nurse in charge brought Sharon and Peter out to see us, and then introduced me to Peter’s doctor. I was so grateful to have this unique opportunity to speak with him and learn of Peter’s condition and what plans are in place. Dr. David said Peter was severely malnourished when he arrived at the hospital last week. I expressed my concern over this, since OMNI has been providing ample food for him. Unfortunately, it seems Foster’s fears that others may also be consuming the food were not unfounded. I’m not sure how we will deal with that. The first goal at the hospital was to build him up nutritionally, which they have done. The doctor confirmed that Peter is definitely HIV positive, and they also fear he now has TB and/or pneumonia. The x-ray is indicative of TB, but they need to do more tests to be sure. He said once the TB status is determined, they will most likely treat the TB and pneumonia before placing him on HIV meds. The sores were much improved around Peter’s mouth, and he was much more responsive, even reaching out to take hold of Ron’s hand. Dr. David assured me if there were any needs before I returned to the hospital he would phone me. I also asked the doctor if he had the opportunity to observe Sharon with Peter. He said Sharon has taken very good care of Peter, and has even helped care for other babies whose mothers were not caring for them. We will return again next week to check on Peter. In God’s eyes we are all one in family with Peter, Gift and Sharon; brother and sisters in Christ. Please remember them in your prayers.
“The Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words.” Romans 8:26

“…Rejoice because your names are written in heaven.” Luke 10:20

Tuesday 22 July 2008

Mrs. Kasonde – born 1943, died 2008

Our hope is in Jesus, and the place of hope He has prepared for us is called heaven. Today was our first funeral transport this year. Mrs. Kasonde was, by Zambian standards, a very old woman. We are told that she died peacefully in her sleep from high blood pressure. We know from the hundreds in attendance at her burial that she was a highly respected and well-liked woman from George Compound. To her family she was a pillar. Mrs. Kasonde attended the Jerusalem Church in Chipalakusu, which is quite a distance from here. We are told she walked there each and every Sunday to worship. At her burial, the choir members from her church walked to Kantolomba to sing of God’s glory and thanksgiving for Mrs. Kasonde’s life. We were never able to find out her first name. We asked her son, and he said, “I don’t know, I only called her Mom.” But everyone knew her, and it seems as though the entire George Compound is in mourning. She was in fact, Foster’s neighbor here at George. She left behind a husband, six children and ten grandchildren, siblings, nieces, nephews and cousins.

Our trek began around 9am this morning. As Ron swept out the back of the truck he noticed a large crowd forming just in front of the gates to the children’s village. As we pulled forward and the gates opened, people of all ages climbed into the back of the truck, many women with babies on their backs wrapped tightly in chitenges. We could see others running down the dusty road, hoping to make it in time to catch a ride. You see, the walk to Kantolomba cemetery is well over 2.5 hours. But, there were many, many people who made that long walk to Kantolomba, as a final tribute to Mrs. Kasonde, one last gesture of respect. It’s a walk along dirt paths, uneven with holes and rocks, and up and down several hills. And consider also, that most do not have shoes here. Burials are quite different here than in the United States. There is no funeral home, no embalming, no visitation hours, and no funeral director to handle all the arrangements. You don’t sign a book, there is no prayer card, and most often there is not a tombstone or even a grave marker (a privilege reserved for the very wealthy here). In their place we find great love, tremendous respect, gratitude to God for the life of the one now gone home, and praise and thanksgiving for the glories of heaven that await. And there is never one minister; there are always several, offering prayers and scripture readings. It is an experience that reaches deep within your heart, and you have never been more sure of the presence of God.

Once the truck was filled with mourners, we proceeded to the morgue of Ndola Central Hospital. It is a slow drive, with flashers going constantly, and officers at police check points motion for you to proceed without hesitation. As Godwin, chairman of George informed us “No, they cannot stop you.” This too is a matter of respect. At the hospital, most of the mourners exited the truck and remained at the front entrance to the hospital, joining others who were there for the same reason. Four women entered the hospital gates with us, a minister and the chairman. We drove to the rear of the hospital, following the signs for the morgue, where the women would identify and prepare the body for burial. We were sixth in line. Many more followed. The women entered the morgue carrying a small suitcase which contains rubber gloves (which they all wear throughout the process), soap and towel to wash and dry the body, powder which they sprinkle on the deceased once clean, and the best chitenge they can find for burial. After nearly an hour, Mrs. Kasonde was placed in the coffin – a tiny narrow wooden box, and carried to the truck for the long drive to the cemetery. The mourners climbed back into the truck, and flashers on, we joined in the long procession to Kantolomba. It was a procession of many, many different families with coffins in the back of trucks and cars, and even some small buses.

The drive to the cemetery is the same for everyone. Part of the way is on paved highway, full of deep holes, and bumps; followed by a dirt road – very rough with rocky protrusions and deep holes to constantly dodge. But the drive is inspirational. It is comforting. Almost everyone on the truck is singing. Some are crying, but most are singing. They are singing about God’s mercy. They are singing praises. They are thanking God for being our refuge. It is so very beautiful; strong and proud voices, harmonizing beyond belief, oftentimes the group echoing a leader. As we near the final road to the cemetery, the heart-wrenching wailing begins, as the finality becomes so very near and too real. Today the narrow dirt trail to the graveside is overflowing with crowds of mourners, and vehicles unable to move any further down the path. There is nothing to do but wait. And now we can hear the singing from many trucks, and see the crowded gravesides, so many gathered amongst the mounds of dirt which are the graves. It is unbelievable as we slowly continue down this dusty path to see the thousands and thousands of graves – so very close together and most marked only with the branch from a tree.

Once we are able to pull off the road, we begin the long walk to the grave. There are too many burials in the same area today, so the service is held in tiny clearing, and mourners crouch on ridges of dirt, in what once was probably a field of maize. There is much singing, the choir using hand motions and stepping to and fro in rhythm with the music. There are many prayers – strong voices calling out to God – thanking Him for His mercy and grace and for giving us His son, Jesus Christ who died for all of mankind. There were many scripture readings, but the main focus was Revelation 20:11-15. And the minister concluded by asking the profound question “Will your name be found in the book of life?” Then it was time to pass by the deceased for the last time. The top portion of the coffin was opened, revealing only the face of Mrs. Kasonde, and mourners passed by, first the men and then the women. During this time the choir was singing about the day we will be with Jesus, and sing with Jesus for all eternity. Many made the sign of the cross as they passed by, all heads were bowed and eyes lowered in reverence. Several of the daughters were near collapse and were literally carried past the coffin, as their grief consumed them totally. Their wailing, their cries for their lost mother, their pain was pure and honest, and beyond anything I have ever witnessed.

The procession to the gravesite followed. The gravesite is small, only large enough for the burial, with a narrow foot path between each grave. The cost we are told is 5,000 kwacha – the equivalent of approximately $1.50. As each mourner passed by the coffin they climbed the small hill to the grave, where the men were still busy with their picks and shovels; strong arms chipping away at the hard earth. They measured the coffin using a long piece of bamboo and would periodically drop it into the grave to calculate how much more they must dig. Six men carried the coffin on their shoulders to the grave, escorted by the choir as they sang “Welcome home to Jesus.” We looked on as the brother of the deceased climbed to the top of earth mounded next to the grave and crumbled the large clumps of dirt, hard as stone, into free flowing, smooth soil.

As we waited for the grave diggers to finish, the choir continued singing, and I was suddenly struck with the beauty of this day, the beauty of this service and our surroundings. The choir, wearing long green and yellow robes, standing tall, voices strong and filled with the Holy Spirit – the rolling hills of Kantolomba behind them, the coffin in front, the sun shining brightly, and the sound of the pick axes striking the hard clay ground, and the heart wrenching wailing. It reaches deep into your soul, and your spirit knows things it never could have known before.

The ministers continued with more prayers and songs, and then the coffin was placed into the ground. Two men stood inside the grave at opposite ends, carefully lowering the coffin deep into the ground. It was mostly young, strong men who then quickly covered the coffin with the dirt they had just dug out, and mounded it to a height of about two feet. A few of the ladies came forward and knelt beside the grave, carefully removing any remaining large clumps of dirt and any stray twigs or roots. They raised their arms towards the heavens as they joined the choir singing, ending quietly with “Amen.” Names were then read from a list held by the brother, Joseph. As each family member’s name was called, they stepped forward to receive a flower or a small wreath. Each knelt beside the grave and lovingly placed their last remembrance on the top of the mounded earth. Somewhere in the middle, after husband, children and grandchildren, Joseph called for me to step forward as the representative for OMNI. Placing a flower on the grave of the deceased is a privilege usually reserved for family members and church elders. Nonetheless, I was given a single, perfect, pink rose to place on Mrs. Kasonde’s grave. It was an honor I did not take lightly. I knelt close to the grave and carefully placed the stem of the rose in the dry soil alongside the others. At the conclusion of the service Joseph spoke of OMNI, first in Bemba, and then in English so we could know. He thanked us for taking the time to assist their family with their needs at this most sorrowful time. He thanked us for truly caring about them. He thanked us for caring for the children of Zambia and all of those in need here. And his final statement which concluded the service was “May God bless OMNI richly in their efforts, may God bless those who work with OMNI and give of themselves, may God bless the OMNI Children’s Village and all of the children there, and may OMNI continue to grow and succeed according to God’s will.” Once again we were in awe, and we were greatly humbled. We are so grateful to God, grateful that He has opened our eyes and our hearts, and so very grateful for bringing us to this community we have come to know and love.

“He shall give His angels charge over you, to keep you in all your ways.” Psalm 91:11

Saturday, 19 July 2008
Today was a day for cleaning. Much of the day was spent picking up pieces of broken cement and bricks, and papers and wrappers from the yard. The goal is, of course to have a neat, clean yard, but also to have a clear pathway for the women who cook lunch for the children. They bring huge pots of food from the backyard cooking hut into the kitchen to fill the plates for the children. So, we collected wheelbarrows and buckets full of stones which we deposited as fill around the septic pit, and all the papers went into the trash pit which is then burned. I think Monday I will introduce the concept of a waste basket to the school children, and encourage them not to throw their papers on the ground. Trash receptacles are not something which is common here, and are virtually unheard of here in the bush. It was also wash day. We don’t have a clothes line, there are no towel rods or hooks in the house, so Ron fashioned a makeshift line by tying a piece of rope to one of the bars on the kitchen window, wrapping it around the support post on the back verandah, and then he backed the truck up to the correct position and made the final tie there. At the end of the day, all was well, although we were very tired. A peaceful evening. We had just finished supper when the power went off – and it was pitch black. The sun sets just after six, and when it’s gone, it’s really dark. We got out the lantern and flashlights and I decided to call my sister. I went out on the back verandah to try to get better reception when I spotted them. It was a small army of ants coming up the side of the porch and marching straight for the back door. I called to Ron and we got the only bug spray we have – permethrin which is for our clothing – and it did not stop them. Now they were coming in hordes. While Ron continually swept them off the back porch, I went with my flashlight to find the guards. I told Pedro, whose English is fairly good, that we were being invaded by ants. His reply was “Oh no, what will you do?” It was not the response I had hoped for. I said I was hoping he had an idea. Regrettably, he said he did not.

I returned to the house with the bad news. We stuffed a towel under the door, and soaked it with the permethrin, hoping it would at least deter them. We were stepping on the ones that had made their way into the house and we were just figuring out who would stand guard at the door first when we saw two lights approaching. It was the flashlights of our guards, Pedro and England. I went back outside to see what was to be done. When I shone my light on the back verandah it was like a horror movie. There were thousands and thousands and thousand of ants everywhere. There were areas where they were so thick they looked like a black rug, moving closer and closer to the back door. They were on the ground along the sides of the porch, they were on the porch, and they were even on the back wall. Pedro and England did not speak a word to each other, but went straight to work. As they began, Pedro said, “You may go inside madam, we will take care of this, do not worry.” Pedro quickly swept the ants off the walls and cement porch, as England poured a line of paint thinner around the base of the porch. They had brought large bundles of dried elephant grass. England lit the ends of the grass as Pedro shone his light for him to see. England then torched the thinner, burning the ants out, and sticking the burning grass into any hole he saw them emerging from, letting the grass burn so close to his hand I was afraid he would be burned. This process of burning continued for about forty-five minutes, as we watched from inside the house. There were small and sometimes large bursts of fire, burning the ants all along the perimeter of the verandah until they were confident all the ants were extinguished. Pedro informed me that these are known as fire ants, and “Yes, of course madam, they bite”. With a huge smile, he said “Now you may rest well”, and they returned to their post at the front gate.

We know that God keeps His promises, and we know that He has indeed given His angels charge over us. We know that angels are the forces God constantly provides to take care of us. However, we don’t usually see them or recognized them, but we did tonight. Tonight, those angels were named Pedro and England. Thank you Lord for sending Your angels, and for opening our eyes to recognize them.

“Holy Father, protect them by the power of your name…”John 17:11

Thursday, 17 July 2008
How to track a snake.
We are constantly learning, continually amazed, and always in a state of awe. This afternoon there was some commotion just near the front verandah of the house. I heard children yelling and shrieking. As I ran to see what had happened, the children were beginning to quiet some, as their teacher, Teddy was already at their side. The children were in a large circle, with lots of frenzied chatter amongst themselves. Teddy explained they had seen a snake. The children are well educated in how to deal with snakes. And in case there is any doubt in your mind, the snakes here are large and all poisonous. The children saw the snake enter its hole in the ground, so one of the boys began breaking away the hard ground with a hoe, just below the surface, following the path of the snake’s hole. Teddy took a long piece of bamboo and very carefully probed the hole, reaching further and further into the hole with the stick, until only a small potion remained outside the hole. As he pulled the bamboo from the hole, his eyes said too much, and then we heard that long Zambian “OooooooOOOH”, with the intense inflection at the end. It’s something like Uh-oh, only much more serious. When I asked the meaning, he explained he was looking for the end of the hole, but none was found. This was serious. So, the careful digging and probing continued as I watched in fearful trepidation with the smaller children huddled close to me, tiny hands holding on to me – all of us hoping they would find the snake, and yet fearing the moment it would emerge from the hole. And so the boys took turns digging, continuing along the long path, still probing, and still no end to the hole. After about 30 minutes they stopped digging and several of the boys remained to watch the hole – hoe in hand, ready to strike when the snake appeared. I went back into the house (to continue scraping paint from the glass window panes), and the children not in school returned to their play time outside. Ron remained with the boys, keeping a watchful eye on the hole. They did see the snake peek out of the hole, just long enough to spot them and quickly retreat back into the depths of its home. It wasn’t long until we heard screams again. This time as I went out I saw a large group of children near the termite mound (a favorite resting place for the snakes) yelling and throwing rocks and sticks. And there it was. Teddy said it was a garden snake, about two meters long, mortally wounded by a rock, but still moving a little. Unfortunately, this was not the snake spotted earlier. They saw this one coming from the opposite direction. The vigil continued at the site of the hole, and so did the digging and probing. Much to my dismay, the snake did not appear. That hole is a little too close for comfort. Further discussion with Teddy revealed that this type of snake is indeed poisonous but will not climb walls. I was afraid it would come in the window where a pane of glass is missing. But it will slither in through any open doors or cracks large enough for them to fit through. The good news is they really don’t like people. The bad news is they are plentiful. Did I mention yet that we have seen too many snakes – dead, alive, and skins only? Godwin, the chairman of George was very reassuring. He said that these garden snakes or house snakes (I think that tells it all!) really don’t come in the house often, and if they do you just beat them with a stick. It’s the black mambas that like to come inside. Now that’s comforting! I think I’ll say an extra prayer and take a sleeping pill tonight, or maybe I’ll just lie awake all night shining my flashlight on the rafters over my bed. I haven't quite decided yet.

"This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it." Psalm 118:24

Tuesday, 15 July 2008
We awoke to a very, very cold and frosty morning, and as usual - no electricity. This meant grabbing the flashlight (or torch as its known here), washing in freezing cold water, and then the trip to the dreaded outdoor privy. We had a bowl of corn flakes and continued with our usual morning chores of pumping water and filling the containers we have in the house, wiping the dust from the tables and chairs (we have learned that Zambia has one more season - the dusty season, and this is it), making the beds, and getting ourselves straightened out before the children come in to prepare for school.

As I was busy inside, I looked out the window to see Ron at the pump, several of the children by his side, and all of them taking turns pumping the water. The children were there to water the school garden they care for. I looked onto the front verandah and saw two of the younger boys, Joshua and Asho, quietly playing a game with bottle caps and a piece of cardboard marked off like a checker board. When they saw me watching them, they greeted me with "Good morning madam. How are you this morning?" And then I looked out the back window and saw two of the older boys hard at work with picks and hoes, digging and turning the ground over to expand the garden. I could see children coming along side the fence, smiling and eager to come to school. I ventured out to the pump to eavesdrop on Ron and the girls. They were trying to talk to each other, some English, some Bemba - which resulted in little communication, but much laughter and giggling, and an understanding of one another that only love can bring.

John, one of the older boys, but small in stature, carried two large containers of water back to the house for us. I could see it was a bit of a struggle for him; his arms stretched long at his sides and muscles tense, but he was so proud and happy to do this for us. As I took all of this in, my heart filled to overflowing. I was so very grateful to begin my day in this way. Who could ask for more than to look out their window and see the faces of smiling children everywhere. And once again I looked on in awe and admiration of these children, who also slept in the freezing temperatures - but many without a blanket, who never have electricity in their homes, and the only toilet they have ever known is a simple hole in the ground. The Lord has blessed us abundantly. I thanked God, as I knew there could be no better way to begin this day.

“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat…” Matthew 26:35

Friday 11 July 2008
Bread for the Children.
Today Foster and I purchased the regular food supply for the school children. We made a trip to Masala Market. It’s a distance from here, but worth the trip when you consider the prices and the quality of food. Masala Market is a traditional Zambian Market, with roadside type booths constructed of scrap pieces of timbers and roofed with scavenged cardboard boxes which have been flattened and small pieces of discarded plastic. You can buy almost anything at Masala Market from clothing to food to house ware items. I think you can even get a haircut there. But our concentration today was food. We drove down the narrow dirt path, riddled with pot holes and ruts of all sizes, and were warmly greeted by our usual vendors. Foster has researched and discovered the most reliable vendors with the best prices and quality. There are enough beans at the school, so today’s purchases included kapenta (tiny whole fish), tomatoes, onions, and salt. As we returned to town we stopped to purchase small chickens, of which there were none, so we opted for buka fish. They are larger, meatier fish that are cut in half (the head being one half and the tail the other) and cooked in oil. We also purchased mealie meal which is ground maize used to make the staple food called nshima – something like stiff grits. We finished our purchases with soya nuggets, cooking oil, and dish soap. We had what amounted to about $5 left in our budget and were trying to decide if there was anything else we should or could buy for 140 children with only $5. Then Foster remembered the donation of a dear sweet lady from Prince of Peace Church in Ohio. During Foster’s recent visit there she had given him a bit of money and asked that he do something special for the children. After a brief discussion we decided on bread and butter. Not something we in the U.S. would normally consider a treat. We purchased loaves of freshly baked bread and lots of creamy butter and headed for the school. The children had just finished their lunch and were outside at the pump washing. Their excitement was apparent as we began unloading the loaves of bread from the car. With very little prompting from one of our teachers, Teddy, the children quickly formed lines according to age in front of the building. They waited patiently as the other teachers, Godfridah and Violet, and I sliced and buttered the bread. I could see the children through the window and watched as they alternately cheered and clapped, jumped up and down, and laughed and giggled in joyous anticipation. We covered a large plastic tub with a piece of plastic from the bread bags and stacked the thick slices of bread inside it, as high as we could. Each child passed through, from youngest to oldest, and received their thick slice of bread with lots of creamy butter in the usual manner here – both hands outstretched and a tiny polite curtsey of thanksgiving. And each and every child was wearing a huge smile. I watched as each child savored every morsel – some licking a little of the butter off first, enjoying the creamy texture and rich flavor. It was heartbreaking to realize that something I don’t give a second thought to could bring such joy to these amazing children. Bread and butter – what a treasured gift.

Jehovah Jire

10 July 2008
As we were making the long trek from Lusaka to Ndola yesterday, we were following a small bus with the words “Jehovah Jire” painted on the rear panels. I asked Foster the meaning and his reply was The Lord Will Provide, the name of God first found in Genesis (chapter 22) when, in faith and obedience to God, Abraham was about to sacrifice his son Isaac, but the Lord provided a sacrificial ram instead. When I remarked that I had just read that very passage while on the airplane, Foster, in his wisdom of few words said, “It is God speaking to you. He will provide for you.” And indeed, the Lord has already provided. He has provided the means for us to be in Zambia, He has provided a wonderful friend and mentor in Foster, He has provided the prayer support of so many, and the blessing of His children in our lives. God has revealed Himself to us through all of this, and we have experienced His love and mercy through His provision.
Today, our first day in Zambia, we of course visited the building site and our children. Teddy, our friend and one of the teachers was first out of the house to welcome us with the traditional Zambian handshake and a warm hug. He quickly ushered us inside the house where all classes are now meeting, and the children were anxiously waiting our arrival. There is nothing quite like being welcomed by a child. Their huge smiles, greeting us in unison, many calling us by name, and then of course with their welcoming songs and clapping. And we were reminded once again why we are here. To love His children.
We also visited baby Peter today and delivered food for him and his family. Peter is the child who lives at Baluba and was brought to the OMNI mobile medical clinic in May, where he and his mother both tested positive for HIV/Aids. And this is where the tears began in earnest. I saw a young woman, with a tiny baby held tightly in her arms, much older than he appears. As we approached, Sharon, the mother, smiled and greeted us in the traditional Zambian manner – an extended handshake and a tiny curtsey. But for baby Peter there was no smile. His beautiful big brown eyes, wide and desperate, had a pleading, haunting look. And he looked straight into my eyes, and his tiny hand reached out for me. As I held that sweet little hand in mine I prayed. I prayed for this child Peter and his family, I envisioned our Father’s loving arms embracing him, and I thanked God for the blessing of this tiny life. I looked at their surroundings – their home – a barren looking place, a small mud brick structure, only two blankets with large holes lying in the dust propped against a few weeds to dry – not even a string for a clothes line. And I looked at their clothes – torn and tattered, worn and dusty. And I looked at Peter’s older sister, Gift – petite and beautiful, but no smile, no trace of happiness, and I wondered what will become of her in the days to come. Tonight, the tears continue, as we cry out to God... “The Lord Will Provide.”