ONE MOMENT IN ZAMBIA

2011-Visiting Precious' kids she left behind

I am not sure what my heart needs to tell. For if it tells what it knows, I feel I somehow lose the power of it in my soul. A kind of unspoken secret between God and me. If it tells, I have to use words to share what only my heart can feel. If it tells, will the fullness of it sitting in my chest seep out of me, leaving me with something less? 

I don’t know what my heart needs to tell. Does it need to hold onto the moments that are only for me or pour out the brokenness and emotion the world needs more of? I am not sure my heart is ready to verbalize the harshness of Africa again. What it so easily takes while we stand by and watch. 

I just don’t know…I got back from Zambia about a week and a half ago. I couldn’t write anything. I felt like there was a weight on my heart. I couldn’t shake it. Leading the trip meant my heart had to take a back seat. It must be second. Second to schedules, meetings, recording receipts, thinking about the plan for the next day, and making sure everyone else is ok. My heart was  drowning in pain, the tears were being held under, not allowed to come up to the surface. 

My heart ached to just weep at night in Zambia. I longed to sit out and lie in the dark and cry out to God as I wondered about the stars that He holds up in the sky and yet the people he allows to fall here on earth. People like Precious. 

The name came out of her mouth like a knife to my heart. The pain was immediate, the blow so violent I almost went to my knees. Unbeknownst of course, to the sweet girl who uttered the name, her name, innocently in a small house in Chongwe just 2 weeks ago. The name was a fierce reminder of a person, a life, a mother, a widow, that Africa stole. I don’t feel the need to share the whole story of Precious in 2010, for those that were there, it is understood. Her story is the story of many I have encountered. But the seven years between then and now had only given it time to gather power silently in my soul. It is a story that I never want to be normal. Her story of heartache, pain, hopelessness, widowhood, HIV/AIDS, and the future of her 5 children that would be left with nothing after she died. 

I left the house to gather myself, although I didn’t know if I wanted to. I stood outside, knees weak and tears flowing, lips quaking, chest heaving; so taken aback by this uncontrollable response to a name. I wanted to stay in this with God…

But gather myself I did.  Through the heartbreak and emotion, we must get up and with God, continue the work. I always ask God to break my heart for what breaks His and I am thankful that He answers. When the heart is close to the poor, hurting, and lost, it is close to God. 

I am grateful for the opportunity to be broken again and again in Zambia and be able to hand my broken heart to God as He draws it out of the depths to give the pain and tears, life giving purpose and passion.