I Never Thought...

I never thought I’d find myself bargain shopping for diabetic supplies, but I found myself doing just that today. That’s when it hit me. My life just changed.

I was admitted to Lynchburg General Hospital on Saturday for high blood sugar. I went to the hospital after finally realizing I couldn’t ignore my constant thirst or the fact that I had to pee all the time. So late Saturday night I sucked it up and went to the ER. Turns out it was a good decision – my blood sugar was 802. With normal blood sugar being between 80-140 I felt somewhat proud of my accomplishment. My friend and I joked that I set the diabetes high score. After getting an IV of insulin and being transferred to the diabetic/renal floor (don’t let the name fool you, this floor is a madhouse of fun…you get all the diet soda you want AND graham crackers), I started to settle in for my stay.

Sunday and Monday were full of visits from friends, my new endocrinologist, pastors, and my favorite professor. Now it’s Tuesday and I find myself anxious to get the heck out of here. As I began packing up I finally realized that my life just changed. It started after I ordered a medical alert bracelet that says “DIABETES!” on it and fully sunk in after I put a nifty card that says “If I’m acting weird I’m not drunk I’m diabetic…and dying so help me!” in my wallet.

In the midst of all this change it would be easy to ask the question “why me?” But honestly, the thought hasn’t really crossed my mind. Perhaps it’s too soon and I’ll cross that theologically perilous bridge when I get to it; but maybe I won’t for one simple reason: grace.

Easily one of the most overused, misunderstood words in the world, grace is all we’ve got. Simply put, it’s unearnable kindness. God is just kind because…there’s no reason for it except that is just who He is; and I have seen a lot of grace this week. I saw grace when I walked into the ER and saw my nurse friend in triage who quickly processed, checked, and started treatment within an hour. I saw grace when I found out that I should have been in a coma on Saturday night but was somehow alert and in a pretty good mood. I saw grace when I first suspected I had diabetes and my friend Joel let me borrow his blood sugar testing kit to check – the ultimate reason I went to the ER. I saw grace in the fact that I’m wired to love running and if I hadn’t been training for a marathon I would likely be dead from high blood sugar. I saw grace in friends who spent the night in the hospital, prayed for me, brought me diet coke and clothes and even homework. I saw grace in the fact that I am not nearly as sick as those around me. A few patients here can’t eat or drink anything -  a few people are both diabetic and cancer patients.

John Piper says “the life that I have left is all grace.” Simply put, the only thing that will sustain me from here until eternity is grace. Grace upon grace. Don’t misread this as if I’m really happy I have type I diabetes – nope, not even close. Going to bed alone in a hospital is not fun for many reasons, one of which being the solitude that forces you to realize that you have to relearn how to live in many ways (I had a snickers, mocha, and three musketeers bar on Saturday for a snack…probably shouldn’t do that too often anymore). But in the midst of that, grace abounds, and life, though different, continues on in the goodness given to us. Difficulties, trials, and trouble have and will come; they will be overcome not by blind perseverance or a naïve refusal to acknowledge the pain, but in grace upon grace upon grace until the end of the age. All glory, honor, and praise to God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ, for they are gracious beyond measure.

Just Another Day

            I woke up today, got dressed, ate breakfast, and left for work at the nutrition center. My mind wandered over numerous things – no profound revelations on the 20 minute walk to work – just thinking about ordinary things. As I walked into  the clinic/nutrition compound I was greeted by women pumping water from our well. At Tessa Grace mothers, grandmothers, and young brothers and sisters waited with their babies for the day to start. It was a normal day – devotions at 9:00am with the mothers, nutrition consultations from 9:15-10:30am, email and sponsorship work at 11:00am. Nothing fantastic, or even noteworthy.

            Just another day. Routine, ordinary, familiar. Yet in the midst of regularity, I became keenly aware of the miraculous. In a country where 1 in 5 children die before their 5^th birthday, I saw dozens of babies who were healthy, happy, and growing. My mere presence in Mozambique is nothing short of miraculous given my status as a graduate student who doesn’t have time to work during the school year. A 3-year old boy I know just started walking a few days ago – most children who don’t start walking by 2 here will be lame because of lack of specialized care.

            Certainly these things aren’t miraculous in terms of God changing the fabric of the universe, altering the set laws of physics, chemistry, and biology. From my experience God doesn’t work that way a lot – in fact if He did, we’d probably question His wisdom – why didn’t He set the laws of the universe differently so He didn’t have to constantly alter the fabric of the cosmos to get things done? These things are miraculous in a different way. In the midst of overwhelming odds, over 100 children are growing, thriving, and enjoying life in our small corner of Africa. In spite of my very selfish, sinful heart, God has brought me here to teach me how to love and serve the poor, for whom He has a special place in His heart.

            While not miraculous in the sense of monumental, drastic interventions, I think we experience the miraculous every day. Indeed, Christ is the One in whom “we live and move and have our being.” His blessings and our involvement in His plan are miraculous. The miraculous abounds when strong opposition exists – be it an impoverished nation or a selfish heart – God’s daily, miraculous intervention in spite of so many things ensures that no day for any believer could ever be said to be just another day.

The Beat

            Africa and music. To a lot of people these words can become synonymous. In fact most people when they go home after visiting Africa usually have something to say about the indescribable music that permeates life here. Whether a soft children’s song or a hymn of praise or funeral chant, music plays an integral part of life here. I myself am musically challenged and it’s taken me a little time to understand how vital it is to life here. Friday nights are spent with friends around a small fire singing songs – often with no instruments save a small drum made of a tree stump and animal skin.

            At church on Sunday night the music was more engaging than normal. It wasn’t the lyrics that caught my attention – it was the beat. We were singing a popular song (I call it “Wakaviyaya” but I don’t know what the real name is) and when we got to the chorus the entire congregation erupted into an unbelievable and indescribable rhythm of clapping. Some clapped every beat. Others clapped four times per beat. Still others at an irregular cadence. And some every other beat. I joined the fast clappers and enjoyed the song. When we sang the verse again everyone resumed a normal rhythm, only to erupt afresh when we hit the chorus again. My friend Leome sat on one side, and Mario across the aisle. None of us were clapping to the same beat. As worship closed and our Pastor began to deliver his message, I was keenly aware of a growing sense of contentment.

            In Africa, you could truly say that life is music. To be alive is to sing, clap, and dance. To die is to leave the land of earthly song and dance. As I reflect on that night of worship I think about all the different beats. My beat was different than Leome’s, and neither of us had the same beat as Mario. As I look at that I can’t help but smile. Just as in African song every person has a unique beat, so it is in life. The beauty of the song is not an individual beat, but the collaboration of dozens of different beats – each sharing and revealing a small bit of the person behind it. The beauty of life is not uniformity, but diversity. As I type in Africa, some of you are working to pay for schools, others serving in ministry roles, and others embarking on new journeys with a new bride. The beauty of life is not in one single story, but in the collaboration of the stories of those we cross paths with. In Africa, no song worth listening to has one beat – they are made of dozens. So in life, we embrace this beautiful gift of God – our beat is our own, unique, unrepeatable; but it is part of something much larger than ourselves, a song made by the people we know and love, a song that praises the beauty and diversity of our Maker.

Wishing and Knowing

To a friend who lives and works on the streets of Beira, and spent his birthday there today:

I wish I could tell you how much your friendship means to me and others,

            I know I can’t speak Portuguese that well.

I wish you had a home to celebrate your birthday in today.

            I know you spent it working for a few dollars to feed yourself.

I wish you had a warm place to sleep tonight.

            I know you are sleeping in a slum in the middle of the winter.

I wish you had a father who loved and mentored you.

I know that most men in your life have abandoned you.

I wish you knew how much spending time with you encourages me,

            I know you have days when you want to quit.

I wish I could articulate how deeply and desperately God loves you,

            I know you feel alone and unwanted at times.

I wish we could switch places.

            I know we can’t.

I wish you could meet my friends from school.

            I know they would sacrifice everything they have to help you 

            and show you love.

I wish I could make all your trials and pain go away,

            I know your eternal reward will surpass the hardship you 

            experience now.

Happy Birthday. Know that you are loved by many, even if you haven’t met them yet.

-Zach

Summer

            Growing up I never thought the day would come when I would utter the words, “I hate summer break.” In fact, if a younger version of myself heard me say those words, he would probably disown the lame, older version.

            I guess if I’m honest, I don’t hate summer break. My brain certainly enjoys a break from school projects, research papers, endless debates on what certain words actually mean in Greek, and sifting through debates on what “tongues” really are. Those things are well and good, and the nerd in me actually really enjoys learning about them, but those are not for the summer. Nope, summer is for…well that’s the thing, I don’t really know how to answer that anymore.

            Summer break used to be basketball camp, trips to the swimming pool, barbecues, spending the night at a friends’ house, camping, and no shortage of fireworks on the Fourth of July. Even once I got older and had a job it was still a time to spend with friends and family – even after I went to school in Virginia.

            These past two summers have been different though. By God’s grace, I have been able to work in Dondo, Mozambique with Children’s Relief International. Last year I served as an intern and this year I work on staff as our nutrition sponsorship coordinator (I totally made that title up – I don’t really have a title, but I am responsible for getting our nutrition sponsorship program up and running…no title, sweet job though – and I am on staff). The days are full of activity. I spent the last two weeks shooting and editing video to make a sponsorship video for Tessa Grace Nutrition Center (it’s here if you want to watch it: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?sk=group_13256065628&ap=1) and doing other stuff for sponsorships. In fact if I look at the days, they are pretty identical to the last few summers I’ve had. Granted I worked at a day camp one year and fireworks warehouse the year after that, but nonetheless, during the day I worked.

            The reason summer is hard to define, the reason in my darker moments I think “I hate summer break,” is because of the nights. Unlike the states, nighttime overseas is pretty quiet. Most of our staff are in their houses for the evening by 5:30pm when the sun sets and our relentless enemies, mosquitoes, come out to pester anything or one who goes out at night. After dinner and a shower, a lot of times I don’t know what to do. From 7-10pm can be a pretty long stretch. I often fill it with old episodes of The Office or LOST, or movies, or I read; but inevitably those things get old and I don’t want to do them anymore. So then I turn to facebook and email which probably occupies about 20 minutes of time. I look at the clock, 9:00pm. One more hour until bedtime, unless I pop some Benadryl and just go to bed, which is tempting. In the midst of all the distractions I use to fill my time from 7-10 in the past two months in Africa, I guess I’ve been coming to grips with a simple truth I’ve wanted to avoid: the mission field is lonely. Though surrounded by thousands of people just a stones throw away from my house, and several incredible, godly staff members, at night, the reality of being away from my native culture, from my dearest and deepest friends, and from everything familiar, sets in.

            As I think about my time here, I am happy I came. The work is incredibly rewarding, the people are amazing, and the food is delicious. On a personal level, as I reflect on the reality of loneliness that characterizes the work we do, I am comforted by the words of Christ. After healing the demoniac (Mark 4), Christ gave the newly delivered man an odd request: stay behind. Though the man pleaded to come with Jesus, the Lord told him to stay. It’s such a peculiar command. We always emphasize Christ’s call to follow Him with complete faith and total disregard for all we have – yet we gloss over the times when He says “stay where you are – you may feel far from me and all that you want, but stay there.” For the guy who just had a bunch of demons driven out of him that probably was the most disheartening thing he could have heard. Ironically, for him, and us, following Christ, sometimes means staying behind – feeling far from the things we want the most, an intimate relationship with the Lord and those who understand us most and with whom we most deeply connect.

            The healed man probably had no idea why Christ asked him to stay behind. Yet the Gospel of Mark records that when Christ returned again, the entire region came to meet Him –all because that man stayed behind, despite how personally difficult it was, and provided testimony to God’s goodness. So whether it be a guy newly delivered from a thousand demons or a single missionary in Africa or a college student working his fingers numb to pay for school or a pastor who feels ganged up on, we all can rest in the simple truth that sometimes God calls us to stay behind, work diligently, and wait for Him to make His perfect and good plan known.

Monday

June 13, 2011

6:00am – alarm goes off. Snooze.

6:05am – alarm goes off again – I wonder why my Snooze is only 5 minutes long. Snooze again.

6:08am – alarm goes – time to wake up.

7:30am – Car ride to Beira. I am going with a friend to the hospital for an ultrasound.

8:30am – The Hospital schedules my friend for an appointment later in the week; we call another missionary and decide to run errands with her in the city before returning to Dondo for lunch and work in the afternoon.

9:00am – Robbed while buying vegetables. Two cameras and an iPod touch stolen out of my bag.

9:45am – Police Station. They say we are at the wrong police station and send us across town.

10:30am – Police Station #2. Filling out Police Report. The cops ask for money to pay for gas to hunt down the thieves. I decline…and sense the chances of getting my stuff back decrease.

11:15am – Orange Soda.

12:00pm – Shoprite (think Mozambican Grocery Store)

1:00pm – Lunch back in Dondo. I tell my boss her camera got stolen along with my stuff…she says she’s glad I didn’t get knifed.

2:00pm – Visiting mothers in the nutrition program to pray with them and have Bible Study.

5:00pm – Dinner

6:00pm – Email and Facebook

8:00pm – Exercise in my room while listening to “Mumford & Sons”

10:00pm – Bedtime after some chocolate and an episode of “The Office” on DVD.

3:00am – Wake up to use the restroom…I realize I drink way too much before bed, but I’m grateful for bladder control.

6:30am – Wake up...

The Last Enemy

Gilda Butelho. A name that has no real significance for us when we first hear it. I must confess that as today began I had no idea who Gilda was; by dinner I knew I would never forget her.

I arrived at the morgue this afternoon. I was attending Gilda’s funeral with Hope and Pam, two other American workers. As we waited outside the morgue in the still African heat I was taken aback at how many people were waiting to accompany Gilda’s casket to the cemetery. After a few moments the doors to the morgue opened and the unmistakable sound of wailing overwhelmed the soft conversations of those waiting. A group of women trailed behind a narrow casket that was loaded onto a pick-up truck. A group of about 30 people stood and boarded a flatbed truck while the rest of the people remained seated silently.

I realized then that the majority of people waiting at the morgue were not attending Gilda’s funeral, but numerous others. I watched as family after family came to deliver caskets for their loved ones. In an economy suffering from inflation and under-development it was sadly apparent that the casket-maker and grave-digger need not worry about unemployment.

After about an hour we were ushered into a small room inside the morgue where a simple, narrow black coffin lay on a table. Gilda’s family and friends opened in a soft song. The pastor spoke a few words and prayed. Everyone was quiet. Once Pam moved her pick up to the main door to carry Gilda to the cemetery, the silence was broken by the sobs of young women. Gilda’s mother seemed upon the brink of collapse and was supported by her sisters. After the casket was loaded into the truck we departed for the cemetery.

Gilda’s brothers carried her casket to her grave, about 100 yards from the cemetery entrance. As we weaved our through the innumerable graves I noticed how many had birth and death dates within the same decade – and more than a few within the same year.

After a brief service, Gilda was buried beneath a large palm tree.

I will never forget that funeral. The despair and sadness were tangible – yet one unshakeable reason for hope remained – Gilda was a believer. During the service my mind wandered to 1 Corinthians 15:26, “The last enemy to be destroyed is death.” I felt a measure of hope in this truth: death shall be undone.  We cannot understand why Jesus has not yet destroyed the great enemy of His people and ultimately abolished death itself and so we rest in the knowledge of his grace and lovingkindness, trusting that He will sustain us.  And we hope, knowing that the day comes when all wrongs shall be righted, when faith shall be sight, when sin and temptation shall cease – when death shall be destroyed.