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Connection, Compassion, and Community in Zambia—
October 23, 2005
A Lay Led Service
LIGHTING OF THE CHALICE Charlie Watts
Leader: We light this chalice to connect.
People: We light this chalice to connect with a world filled with hardship, hope, and the promise of possibility.
Leader: We light this chalice to celebrate.
People: We light this chalice to celebrate the mysterious marriage of grace and chaos and the gift of being witness to the small and the grand.
Leader: We light this chalice to remember.
People: We light this chalice to remember that we are bound together by the unceasing echoes of everything that we do, that we see, and that we dream.
OPENING REMARKS Dick Bail
Eighteen of us including nine teenagers visited Zambia for 18 days this August. We visited seven desperately impoverished urban squatter compounds in Lusaka and two very rural villages afflicted by drought in Southern Province. We spent most of our time working in these communities.
We saw things that were heart-wrenching and even brought some of us to tears. We saw indignities that made us angry, and, we saw things that were truly inspirational and an affirmation of the human spirit that we so often talk about at FUSN.
We agreed before leaving that we would have 3 objectives: to make friends and we certainly did that!, to bear witness to what we saw, and we are doing that today, and, thirdly, to create some tangible useful projects for our Zambian friends, and we succeeded in that as well
The trip was arranged in connection with Communities Without Borders, a non profit corporation founded by Pete Smith, Peter Lloyd, Al Jacobson and myself. Through CWB, FUSN has been supporting educational costs for 30 AIDS orphans as well as other supplementary programs in the Chawama Family Support Home for fours years now. In addition, this year we built a new latrine, provided a sewing machine and material, provided a small library and taught English as a second language to the children.
After you hear our stories, we invite you to come to the coffee hour and see some pictures and videos and to meet some of our new Zambian friends!
I would also like to extend another invitation to you. Think about the different communities in which you live in your work or school or neighborhood. Could any of these become partners for a community in Zambia? Would you like to champion such an initiative with our support?
JOYS AND SORROWS IN ZAMBIA Ine Andrew Andrew Dick Bail
Please close your eyes, quiet your hearts and create the vision as you receive this story. We are in the middle of Kalingalinga- 250,000 people cramped into a few acres of utter poverty. We are visiting an island of tranquility in the midst of the misery. It is called the Hospice of Our Lady.
This is my story…this is my song…
It is called Ine Andrew Andrew.
I…am…Andrew Andrew.
Just a very small, wasted body lying on the cot. Tiny, frail limbs. Effort just to breathe. Heavy chest. Big lump in the neck. Grotesquely curved spine and deformed ribs. He is in terrible pain whenever he moves. This is Chibwe Andrew.
Chibwe Andrew has HIV-AIDS. He is “positive”, living positively. Tuberculosis of the spine and chest and a tumor in the neck. He is on treatment for all of these, but is failing.
Chibwe Andrew was “not well looked after” when he came to Our Lady. He was cared for by an uncle and his wife as Andrew is an orphan. He has no brothers or sisters. In the morning the uncle would put him outside the door on a mat, and the door was locked. Uncle was away all day and took Andrew back in at night. No family has ever come to visit Andrew since he has come to Our Lady. Andrew was poorly fed and malnourished when he arrived.
Chibwe Andrew’s body changes dramatically when Andrew Iniki enters. The little, thin face turns into a beaming smile! His thin, little body relaxes, the breathing becomes easier. And, look, Andrew Iniki has an even bigger smile. For just an instant I forget that this poor little boy is dying of AIDS.
Then, we are introduced, and I kneel down and take Chibwe Andrerw’s small hand in mine, and I look into his eyes, which are so deep. “Muile Bwanji, Chibwe Andrew,” I say. “Bwino bwanji,” comes the reply. Then, Lily is beside me, and she touches his hand and makes a funny face, and they laugh together, and, again, just for an instant Andrew’s body changes…when he laughs in this moment of human contact coming from 8000 miles away, he is briefly transformed, and I see that Lily is transformed as well.
I learn that Andrew Iniki has recently adopted Chibwe Andrew. Andrew Iniki is a winsome young man of 28 years. He has been a volunteer at Our Lady for some time, and he is the “go-to” person for computer problems. Andrew Iniki tells me about the moment the priest hung the cross around his neck and declared that the adoption was consummated. It made him feel deeply happy.
“Wasn’t it very difficult to be in the presence of such a small and helpless little boy with such a terrible and painful affliction,” I ask. “No,” says Andrew Iniki. It is enough just to be a father to Chibwe Andrew. “I buy him candy all the time in the market, and it makes him so happy.” “When he is lonesome and isolated, I bring loving, human contact.” When he feels down, I bring hope.”
“But, what about the future,” I persist. There is no fear apparent from either Andrew. They are in the moment, from moment to moment. They are not distracted or distractable. They are here and now.
ME… I take in a deep, slow breath, and I breathe in Chibwe Andrew’s pain and suffering, I breathe in that all this is preventable, that there are one million other orphans like Andrew in Zambia alone. I breathe in the pain of the world, slowly and deliberately. Then, I slowly exhale as I emit energy of loving-kindness, for relief of pain, for human presence, for Andrew Iniki’s compassion and for all manner of healing, for forgiveness to this world which has allowed all this to happen and forgiveness to myself, who let the world let this happen. So, be it. I am Andrew-Andrew. Zikomo.
Please now open your eyes and look into the eyes of someone sitting nearby. We are but searchers. We are but pilgrims in this instant of the grand space-time continuum, together but for a moment on this our tiny spaceship, Earth. In each moment we choose how we use this priceless gift of life we have received.
SPEAKER Reflections on Our Trip Sharon Ellis
Before we left the States, I had serious doubts about what our group of nine teenagers and 9 adults could accomplish in just over two weeks. To my surprise, I believe we made a meaningful contribution.
In five slum districts in Lusaka, we worked closely with small groups of community-based women who are part of SWAAZ (Society of Women Against Aids in Zambia) or similar NGOs. These groups hold classes for orphaned and vulnerable children and their caretakers, providing feeding programs and the like. The squalor and difficult living in these compounds was heartbreaking. In at least one Compound, people cannot afford the containers of water sold by a private corporation from an industrialized country, so the residents dig their own water holes that have no protection from the dust, dirt, and sewage residue. The compounds are awash in plastic trash because there is no garbage collection.
At Garden Compound we installed a security gate, secured doorways and windows, painted the school building, and financed a simple pipe system for access to water. At Chawama Compound, we made an excellent start on digging a latrine, and at Linda Compound we launched construction of a shelter for their feeding program. We also purchased two, foot-powered sewing machines so the women could learn to sew and make a little income.
In several compounds we worked with small classes of young children—teaching them some basic English. We made the lessons fun—singing the alphabet song, and “head, shoulders, knees and toes,” much to their delight. I will never forget these children. Not only were they beautiful, they were also totally focused, never squirming or losing their concentration. They sat on concrete floors in rooms with no blackboard or materials. This was satisfying work for us because in the classrooms, we were no longer exotic visitors, just teachers.
An added bonus to the lessons was that the volunteers who help tutor vulnerable kids, observed us so they could begin to vary their own teaching techniques, which mainly involved having the children recite in unison from rote memory.
Our group also spent time in a remote rural village in the Southern Province where we slept on the school floor. The Province has been suffering a bad drought and in some instances, people and animals were literally starving. We contributed five goats to this community.
Though this sounds completely desperate, we did meet some extraordinary people who gave us reason to hope, such as the wonderful women of SWAAZ and ZANCOB who work so hard to help each other, the children, and themselves.
One memory I will always have with me from my trip is the Zambian people. Not only are they beautiful but they are, perhaps, the warmest and most gracious people in the world with a genuine gift for friendship. They touched me deeply, and I can’t believe I won’t find a way to go back.
MEDITATION Brita Gill-Austern
With so much happening for each of us, internally and externally, many of us found our morning time of meditation a grounding for our day. Most mornings, when schedule would allow, a group of us gathered for a time of meditation, a time as Howard Thurman used to say, when we could center down in the spirit. We met in a circle outside and began with a brief period of silent meditation. Most days we would then read a text together, a poem, a reading, a scripture, readings from the Jewish, Christian, Hindu, Buddhist and Islamic traditions. We meditated on these texts using a method called group lectio divinia that is also very much in the style of an African Bible study.
We read the text through and then we would ask people to listen for the word that addressed them and to repeat it silently to themselves. They would then say the word aloud. After reading the text again we would ask “How is my life touched by this word?”
People would speak a simple sentence beginning with I hear, I see, I sense. After the third reading people would respond to the question, “Is there an invitation here for you?
When everyone had spoken who wanted to we would lift up prayers for the whole group related to the reading for that day. As we drew closer together and to the spirit that brought us to Zambia we experienced, I think, a deeper understanding of our time there.
I would like to share one of the readings we used and to ask you to listen for a short phrase that resonates with you and to ask yourself in the brief time of silence where that word touches your life right now.
The Guest House (from The Illuminated Rumi)
This being human is a guesthouse
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
Some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor
Welcome and attend them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
Who violently sweep your house
Empty of its furniture, still,
Treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
For some new delight
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
Meet them at the door laughing
And invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
Because each has been sent
As a guide from beyond.
Welcome difficulty.
Learn the alchemy True Human
Beings know:
The moment you accept what troubles
You’ve been given, the door opens
Welcome difficulty as a familiar
Comrade. Joke with torment
Brought by the Friend.
Sorrows are the rags of old clothes
And jackets that serve to cover,
And then are taken off.
That undressing
And the beautiful
Naked body
Underneath is the sweetness
That comes after grief.
OFFERTORY African Dance by OrigiNation
SPEAKER Hope Gabe Verzino
I would like to invite you to try to picture a small ten-year-old Zambian boy in your mind. Imagine this child is HIV positive, has lost his father, tends daily to his sick mother, and bares the primary responsibility of caring for his younger siblings, which in Zambia is a daunting undertaking. In addition to such responsibilities, this boy has the additional burden of experiencing hunger daily, deep within his being. On top of all of this, consider that his personal life is subjugated to constant poverty and disease. When I spoke with this young boy, Joshua Phiri, one day on a hot bus outside of his two-room school, I was astounded that he was smiling and laughing. “How could he be so happy?” I asked myself. His resilience was evident, but how could he display such deep joy, some innate grace that I could not understand given his tragic circumstances. Using the bus driver as a translator, I asked Joshua what was making him so happy. When he understood what I had asked him, he laughed briefly and looked downwards at his feet. Then after a moment, he turned his head up and looked directly into my eyes, replying with three simple words, “I am hopeful”. Despite how difficult his life was in every way, and how bleak his future already looked as a ten-year-old, without hesitation, he genuinely told me that he had hope.
After a few last questions, we ended our conversation. I told Joshua that I enjoyed talking with him. We shook hands, which made his whole face smile, and then he ran off the bus onto the streets to tell his patiently waiting friends of his unusual experience. Standing quietly for some time in the exact spot where I had shook Joshua’s hand, I searched for a reason. I kept asking myself, did Joshua honestly believe that his future would be better? Did this belief come from the teachings of his faith, was it something his mother had said to him while lying on her death bed, or was he simply hoping that one day, someone would care enough to help him. At the time, I was not sure, but I realized that in order for someone to believe something so solidly and absolutely, it would have to come from deep within one’s heart. Although his young heart had experienced such deep sorrow, maybe Joshua sought some kind of reconciliation with the poverty that had killed his father, was killing his mother, and was threatening to kill his siblings. I then realized that Joshua’s life affirming determination and perseverance was the most powerful example of hope itself. This was not the same type of optimistic hope you feel when you “hope” something will turn out well. The incentive to work for something that will obviously become successful is definitely not being “hopeful” either. Hope is either something you feel or you do not feel. There can be no shades of gray with such a dimension of the soul. It is the resilience to keep trying, even as everything else is failing. I have realized that despite how difficult it may be, hope is the effort for justice, regardless of how it may turn out, in the most discouraging and hopeless of circumstances.
So that day, in Zambia I found courageous hope in a place where I did not expect to find it. In Joshua’s powerful and life affirming smile my heavy heart found the most important reason for not despairing. Meeting my friend Joshua gave me every reason to continue to work for social justice wherever I journey throughout my life. Thank you Joshua for your gift of hope and perseverance. I will never forget you.
SPEAKER Chawama Blues Naomi Olson
Our time in Zambia was full of joy. The satisfaction of good work, the pleasure of each others’ kindness, humor and support, the delight of having connected so easily with the gentle, loving, resilient Zambian people. Yet like most of us, I find my words for you today touch on hard things.
I was pretty vague when we left for Zambia about the Communities Without Borders partnership between FUSN and the SWAAZ family support home in Chawama compound. And as the trip drew to a close, I realized my only contact with Chawama had been in helping Grace teach ESL to a bunch of perky Fourth Graders and talking a bit with Senge, the volunteer who tutors kids there aspiring to get or keep a place in school.
So when Judy, Martin, Bethany and I returned to Chawama on our last full working day in Zambia, I was intent on collecting memories that might bring it to life for you on our return. I’m sorry to say that though most of our days in Zambia made my heart sing, this day left it feeling heavy.
We began our visit by inspecting the pit latrine excavation already underway out back, took down a pen-pal letter from two of the caretakers to women in the U.S., checked in about their plans for the sewing machine Judy had purchased for them, and gave Senge a collection of teachers’ texts I had assembled at his request. We also decided to pay for boards and cinder block bookshelves for the cartons of books we had delivered, and a lock for the door to keep them and the new sewing machine safe.
But our major task for the day was to inspect the local government school, and to deliver a gift of books for its library to the school manager, reinforcing his sense of a connection to the orphans we sponsor there.
So off we trudged, four heavy boxes of books in tow. It was a typical dry season day, bright and hot, and the compound was dusty. We lugged our cargo, between tiny houses, a minor spectacle especially to the little kids who hailed us: “Muzungus! White people! Hahaha!”
It was easy to imagine why the British colonialists had not settled this low-lying area, now a city of squatters, or why, muddy and flooded by the rains, it is recurrently hit with cholera. In fact, the school was closed for five months last year so that it could be used instead as a clinic during a cholera outbreak. We walked for perhaps 45 minutes, gradually taking in the dust and sour smells that must accompany our little charges on their trek between a bowl of cornmeal and their faraway school.
Our destination was almost more discouraging: one cannot romanticize the promise offered by a school with no running water (check), few desks, and no textbooks or supplies that haven’t eluded thieves (other than a mysteriously well-stocked library and the school manager’s locked office).
Here the headmaster’s solution to the outrageous overcrowding he found when he took the job -- classrooms of 100 -- had been to accept only 40% of the children seeking places. Truly the school was grim, but surely it would be worse to be told that your child is one of the 60% who may not enroll in First Grade. This when the IMF had been instructing Zambia that it couldn’t afford to hire 8000 plus unemployed teachers, though in 2004 the IMF received more in debt repayment from Zambia than the country spent on education. At this school, the staff were palpably demoralized by the indignity and impossibility of their task.
This day took some wind out of the mysterious wings of joy that had kept me hovering aloft during most of our time in Zambia. I keep it alive for you so that together we help each other not to be complacent about these things.
SPEAKER Portrait of Mary Judy Friedman
I have always liked faces. Faces are fascinating to me, and the faces in Zambia were no exception. For the first few nights after I returned from our trip, the beautiful sad/happy faces of the Zambian people kept appearing regularly in my dreams. I suspect I know why that happened: as we were getting back on the bus after our last visit to Ng’ombe compound, to return to our comfortable villa, one woman looked me straight in the eye and said pleadingly, “Please don’t forget us.”
I want to tell you about one of the faces, Mary Tembo. I have a picture of her playing Frisbee, grinning. And another of her painting a wall in the school. Mary is a 45 y.o. widow who has two children and is caring for her sister’s child, an orphan. Taking in orphans is the norm in Zambia. We saw women who typically have 5 children or more and often have taken in additional children who have been orphaned by AIDS.
Mary is a remarkable woman and was an inspiration to me. She volunteers as a hospice worker for which she gets paid only a small stipend.
One day, Mary allowed Brita, myself, and Sharon to accompany her on her hospice rounds in the dusty Garden compound. As we began our trek around the Compound, I remember the ever-present smell of burning rubber and wood. Women in colorful chitenge’s watched us as we walked through their yards. I knew this would be our only glimpse into the home-life of 4 people living with HIV/AIDS, and I was nervous. Not to worry. These people graciously welcomed us into their cramped one-room huts which have no windows because they’re too expensive we were told. One patient told us he didn’t have the $12.00 bus fare for transportation to go to the nearby Hospice to get medications. Therefore, treating people in their homes is vital. The hospice trains people like Mary to be care-givers, which means providing a listening ear and the much needed anti-retroviral drugs that keep them alive. As I sat through the home visits, I felt hot and claustrophobic, yet was astounded at the gentleness with which Mary tended to her patients. And for all her caring, Mary does this work—uncomplaining I might add—as a volunteer. She gets no money.
Mary told us she wants to go to college, but cannot afford it. She has so little in terms of material goods, yet her compassion and spirit fills me with a hope that I might live up to her ideals.
This is what I was left with: the indomitable spirit of the Zambian people, many of whom lack clean water and food, and have little hope of good jobs that could move them to a better place. They struggle. They survive. Their faces stay with me.
SPEAKER Shoulders, Knees & Toes Sam Watts
The children came through the door first. They quickly formed a line and stood, pressing against each other, waiting for their turn, each one looking toward the gray wall as the camera flashed again and again.
“What’s her name? Daniel? No? What was it? Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”
As each child broke away from the line, its bright black eyes would suddenly be lost to the floor. One by one they were guided to a small, green plastic chair where they sat silently, their hands quiet in their laps, waiting for our questions.
“So how old is this one, eight, seven. Ok.”
Many of the children seemed to have dressed up for the occasion. Many of the girls wore, thick, frilly white dresses, like the kind used for dress up games, most of which were torn, and stained from the constant presence of dust rising from the ground. The boys wore simple, dirty clothes, a t-shirt, a pair of shorts, flip-flops. One boy, standing off to the side, watching me from the door had a maroon sweatshirt with the word Harvard running in thick white letters across his chest.
We first asked for their names.
“Elizabeth, Prudence, Jane, Hannah.” They whispered each word to themselves, and then glanced up hopefully into our faces to see if we had heard. We smiled, but their words were often lost, and we struggled to understand, asking again and again.
We then asked how old they were. Most were six, maybe seven years old, and then there were a few older ones, maybe nine or ten years. They were all very small, but they seem strong in thin dark bodies.
Finally we asked what it was they want to be when they grew up.
“Housemaid. Teacher. Housemaid. Bus Driver. Soldier. Teacher. Soldier. Housemaid. Doctor.”
And then the flash of the camera.
After each child was registered, they stood quietly at the edge of the doorway, watching and waiting for something more. We folded up our lists and tucked our cameras into back packs, and then stood, smiling at the children in the doorway, not speaking.
“We should play a game, we have some time, we should do something before we go.”
We waved them back into the room, and again they came tentatively, watching us as they formed a circle. They stood in the circle, and we stood in the center. They watched again, waiting for instruction.
“Head. Shoulders. Knees. And Toes.”
As we began chanting, they looked on at us silently. Then slowly they began to speak. “Head. Shoulders. Knees. And Toes. Head shoulders knees and toes.” The chant grew louder in the small room, and their smiles grew wider, revealing their brilliantly white teeth in the dark room. And I smiled too.
When I walked into that classroom at the beginning of the day we were coming to see them. When I stepped onto the bus that afternoon, we were we. And we really were. It was as simple as “head, shoulders, knees and toes.”
CONGREGATIONAL ACTIVITY Martin Emerson
We went to Zambia partly to make real to ourselves how HIV/AIDS has affected life there.
The virus now infects one in five Zambians. Treatment is starting to become available, but is still inaccessible to most who need it. Death has taken the highest toll on young adults -- teachers, nurses, parents of young children -- and one in ten children has been orphaned by the loss of at least one parent.
Would everyone who has a star sticker on their Order of Service please rise?
One out of every 5 Zambian people are infected with the HIV/AIDS virus. Look around you.
All the beloved ones standing in our midst symbolize those infected by the HIV/AIDS virus in Zambia.
Would everyone sitting in the pews on my left hand side please sit down.
Those now standing symbolize the 1 in 10 orphaned children whose parents' deaths are mostly due to AIDS and related complications.
Let us not forget the inherent worth and dignity of our sisters and brothers around the world suffering from the impact of HIV/AIDS. Thank you----you may now be seated.
SPEAKER Malnutrition Ward Lily Olson
We just got back from the best teaching hospital in Zambia. It was possibly the biggest emotional blow of the trip thus far. Our guide was named Sam and, in his 6th year of medical school, he was one of the most interesting and passionate people I have met. He led us first to the malnutrition ward where I saw the sickest children I had ever seen. The kids were starving, unresponsive and looked to be literally on the verge of death. Sam explained that some of the children carried diseases but that because there bodies were so weak, they could not put up any resistance thus making it impossible for the hospital to detect anything.
There were four sections in the ward and as a child gets better, he or she moves up to the next section. The first section was for kids that had just been admitted and needed to be stabilized in order to keep from dieing. The children, all infants, were miniscule, their ankles maybe about the size of my big toe. Their mothers, all of whom looked no older than 17, held them carefully in their arms, indeed it looked like if they were dropped they would shatter on the floor. Some babies looked strange or mangled, some looked disfigured simply because their heads was much greater then their tiny body’s. All had huge magnificent eyes that started up at me unresponsive, unaware that I was even there. It was hard, really really hard to look at theses babies. I wanted to be back in America were all the infants have the proper amount of body fat, if not a great deal more. I wanted to at least go outside and be sick, be by myself.
Once the infants had been stabilized they moved up to the second section of the ward. Here they were given small amounts of food repeatedly during the day because that was all they could digest. Some of the kids here were crying, which made Sam absolutely gleeful since, he told us, it meant they had the energy to do so. To reach the third section of the ward, a child had to reach the desired weight of the ward. Children here were not only crying but also reacting to their environment. Babies’ heads followed us as we walked by and one mother spoon-fed her daughter. The last section of the ward was for kids very close to being able to leave the hospital. To do this babies had to gain back 80% of their body weight. It was amazing to see the transformation between the children in the first section and the children in the last. They were healthy, crying crawling infants responding to things around them. I stuck my tong out at one girl and reseved a giggle in return before she disappeared behind her mother’s arms. I asked Sam how long this whole process took. “Two weeks,” he told me. That simple. Two weeks and your life had been saved.
We left the ward feeling sick, sad, and at least in my case very aware of the fact that when we got back to the villa we would be able to make or lunches and eat. I think now about the fact that I have often made the joke when people throw out food, “don’t do that, there are starving children in Africa.” Now I’ve seen those children, now they have faces, and I won’t forget.
SPEAKER Through My Eyes Martin Emerson
“Mulibuanji”, accompanied by the traditional three-part Zambian handshake, was how I was greeted minutes after landing in Zambia, by a security guard carrying a loaded AK-47. I was absolutely ecstatic to finally be in Africa, as it gave me an indescribable feeling of happiness. Although, seeing that gun was, I admit, pretty frightening, especially on a woman half my size.
I remember the day we went to Chipego, a school near Linda Compound outside of Lusaka. It was there where I met an orphan boy who I truly connected with. His name is Phillip. Phil is a dream child; he is extraordinarily intelligent, always has a smile on, and has a true heart of gold. Because he is fluent in English, Jon and I tried to get him to teach us foul words in Niyanja. Phil absolutely refused. The best we got out of him was how to say dog. However, he didn’t let us down. Phil appointed one of his friends to teach us.
He and I were talking about our interests, and one of his was music. Phil knew all about Michael Jackson and explained to me how he loves to listen to the radio. He asked me if I had one so he could listen to it with his friends. I told him I would help him get one if he promised it would be for the school and that he would share with everyone. He looked directly in my eyes and his response was, “I love you”. Never before have I felt a feeling so powerful as that day I met Phillip. It was so hard to say goodbye leave him. That boy has so much potential to do great things in this world, and all he needs is someone to open the door for him. I wanted to be that person.
This experience overall has changed my views on the world so dramatically. I cannot express how grateful I am to live in such a privileged society where we can go to school and have adequate housing and food. It makes you really think and appreciate what you’ve got.
SPEAKER Community Is Not About Me Charlie Watts
What is a community? A collection of like-minded souls? A neighborhood? A business? A country? A family? A bus-load of Americans traveling down a dusty Zambian highway?
I have always been perplexed by my own relationship to communities. By accident of birth, circumstance, and perhaps temperament, I have generally always felt somewhat disconnected from the communities to which I have been assigned. In Zambia, I think I got a glimpse of what I’ve been missing (and perhaps this is blindingly obvious to all of you): community is not about me! Having lost my luggage on the journey over, and having stumbled into the odd role of trip treasurer æ which essentially meant that I had to wear all our money throughout the day æ I was sufficiently dislocated to have lost all sense of myself. The gift that resulted was the opportunity to see more clearly the heartbreaking beauty of human interaction and connection on the extremely small scale. Like the thousands of digital images we all brought back with us, these sites won’t leave my mind:
I suppose community is the sum total of all these little moments. But for me, I think I’ve been distracted by the work of adding them all up to create some larger meaning. Maybe instead I should just pay attention to every little connection, each of which can be such a brilliant opportunity to create hope.
On the trip I kept thinking of that bumper sticker that says "I'd rather be here now." That's perhaps the community I've been looking for. And the one I hope to stick with.
BENEDICTION: Meanwhile…….. Rodney Lowe
I’m back, with recycling, trash and more.
Meanwhile, plastic bags blow over fields again - each side of Great East Road.
I’m back, complaining ‘bout the weather.
Meanwhile, in each Lusaka street, rains fall, and cholera looms again.
I’m back, showering every morning.
Meanwhile, rains stop, dust blows and crops fail again, around Simukanka.
I’m back, with happy loving families.
Meanwhile, in Kanyama households, uncles rape a virgin niece again.
I’m back, with girls playing schoolyard games.
Meanwhile, small, bent and crippled boys die again, in Our Lady’s Hospice.
I’m back, where boys laugh and shout and sing.
Meanwhile, along the Cairo Road, some pretty girls sell themselves again.
I’m back, and taking church collections.
Meanwhile, hungry children starve to death again, even in N’gombe
I’m back, with cradled babies burbles.
Meanwhile, on Kasisi’s doorstep, new born infants left with AIDS again.
I’m back, where our doctors vaccinate.
Meanwhile, girls with TB smile or cry again, in Chawama Compound.
I’m back, where moms and dads hug children.
Meanwhile, in our Linda Compound, parents die from “sore throats” once again.
I’m back, in my white US suburb.
Meanwhile, white skinned neighbors pay for sex again, right in Mulungushi
I’m back, eating burgers, bread and fries.
Meanwhile, in the Garden Township, a woman’s strength feeds the kids again.
I’m back, watching TV and movies.
Meanwhile, youthful actors teach their peers again, around Mtendere.
I’m back, grumbling and complaining.
Meanwhile, kids laugh, women dance, everyone smiles, all across Zambia.
I’m back, here, now.
Meanwhile, over there?
POSTLUDE African Dance by OrigiNation
Participants in this morning’s service: Dick Bail, Sharon Ellis, Martin Emerson, Judy Friedman, Brita Gill-Austern, Rodney Lowe, Lily Olson, Naomi Olson, Cheryl Rubin Lloyd, Gabe Verzino, Charlie Watts, and Sam Watts
