Letters from Africa - Day 5

Thursday, June 21st, 2012

Today was a day entirely devoted to teaching at the academy, the last of its kind, a day of work and rest. Wednesday brought bombshell after emotional bombshell, and we were all a bit haggard by the time we made it to our beds. Returning to the routine and steady work at the academy was a welcome reprieve. The students are advancing more and more as time passes; already we are becoming fast friends with them.

This day was the kind of day when we remember God's steady blessing, his regular faithfulness. In this day we rest, running with the flow of what feel like well-rehearsed rhythms as they bolster our spirits and lull us into peace.

For more information about Poetice International, its ministry in Zambia, and updates on this trip be sure to check www.poetice.com and follow @livepoetice on twitter.


Photo collage courtesy of Jared Trudel

Letters from Africa - Day 4

Today I didn't go teach at the academy with the IWU team. Instead I woke up early with Micah, Abby, Jared, and Rachel, two of Poetice's staff and interns. We woke up to witness the drilling of a well, a well that will bring clean water to Siamabele, a village of 200 households. Before this well, the people of siamabele would use water from a nearby dam (loaded with microbes and dangerous to drink) or hike 2 miles to a mission for clean well-water. In Zambia, water is life, and today we had the honor of witnessing water being brought to this village.

Upon arriving at Siamabele we could see the drill, a small tower attached to a truck. Greeted warmly in the Zambia way, we were soon ushered into the house of Stanley, the head man of Shenga, a cluster of 18 or so households where the well was being dug.  We made conversation in his small house before heading back to the drill as it bored long pipes into the ground.  A crowd had gathered, and before long beauty seized the moment: water began shooting out from the drill-hole, fountaining as high as the tower. The Zambians of Siamabele cheered and danced, faces as bright as the morning sun. I have never seen such joy. This was the joy of salvation.  Today the people of Siamabele were given the opportunity to find clean water—to find life—on their own land, near their own homes. This was the hand of God.

And just as God worked through Poetice and Fortress Vision to bring Siamabele life, his presence was revealed in his people. In a service commemorating the digging of the well, a former pastor in Siamabele prayed over our team, praying that "God would open the heavens and rain down blessings greater than this. More blessings." We indeed were blessed as they welcomed us to their food, shared their stories, and sang us on our way when we finally departed. Their joy was our joy, a hum in the handsom silence of Siamabele.

If water is life in Zambia, then family is blood. From the village we drove to Children's Nest in Choma, a place for children who have been bleed dry. In the orphanage, we were not visitors, we were aunties and uncles. Family. We played. We sang. We spoke. We held. For much less time than they deserved, we became love for these children, showing them that they are not abandoned. They are not alone. Money can buy a lot for these kids, but it cannot buy love. What they truly need is more family, more arms to hold them, more people to simply show up and be for them. This love is priceless. It cannot be bought. What you can buy is a plane ticket.

For more information about Poetice International, its ministry in Zambia, and updates on this trip be sure to check www.poetice.com and follow @livepoetice on twitter.

Letters from Africa - Day 3

Tuesday June 19th, 2012

Tuesday. It's that in-between day that doesn't quite merit the same mentions as its six other siblings.  It's that time when we've gotten past the mondays but still have hump-day to deal with.  For us here in Zambia, it's a bit different.

If Monday was a bonfire, then today has been a bed of hot coals. The excitement and chaos of learning what exactly we're supposed to be doing has burned itself down as we've begun to establish new rhythms. Morning fruit and toast precedes warm greetings from Petronella, the program director and office manager at Fortress Vision, and a bus ride to the academy. The students, having tasted what we hope to teach, are insatiable. We've found ourselves surprised at their progress at every turn, and already we can tell that we need more, since what we've seen is far more than we had imagined or hoped for.

With this has come the realization that there is real need here at the academy. They lack some of the most basic materials that no school in the States would be without. Whether it is a collection of etudes or a simple repair kit, Choma Music Academy has needs that can be solved very feasibly.

Even so, the work we are doing is making a difference. This carries an important lesson. The way this academy is run may be different than what we have in the states, but that doesn't mean it can't produce fruit. This place is alive and growing, and we are simply catalysts for that growth. We are here not to create a new ministry or a new way of thinking. Rather, we are simply trying to further the change that has already begun to take place.

The most profound experience for me today had little to do with the academy itself, however. It was a conversation with Petronella. After teaching a lesson I had some free time, and we talked as we took in the afternoon sun. We talked about family, about church, and about children as her daughter Malele came and went. At one point Petronella said "Malele, why don't you sing for uncle Zach?" I was shocked at being given the title "uncle." As the day wore into the night, the profundity of such a simple gesture made itself fully known. In calling me uncle, she was calling me, a 22-year-old American she has know for 2 days, her brother. As I write I begin to realize that perhaps I shouldn't be surprised. This is the embodiment of the brotherhood that Christ has called us to. We are all of us brothers and sisters, regardless of nationality, race, or background.

I wonder, how often do we think this way wen discussing missions? Do we think of those we are reaching out to as wayward people needing our own special brand of salvation, or as our own flesh and blood who need to be lifted up and supported in their own situations?

For more information about Poetice International, its ministry in Zambia, and updates on this trip be sure to check www.poetice.com and follow @livepoetice on twitter.

Letters from Africa

This is one of what is going to be a series of letters (to no one in particular) describing the things done, the things learned, and the hopes hoped during my two-weeks work in Zambia with Poetice International.  More to come!



June 18th, 2012
Day 2

C'mon C'mon, a song by Switchfoot, has a line that reads "We will rise on the wings of the dawn, when everything's new."  Well, this morning spread itself wide, full and lean and looking skyward. Today we began our real work.

To begin we loaded up the can that wished it was a bus and trekked out to Fortress Vision's offices. There we toured, there we prayed, there we sang. There the dawn was crowned with blessing, and from there we took flight to our true destination: Choma Music Academy.

In the states, school is either competitive or boring. We spend our thousands going to college and yet we still groan at the prospect of going to class. Both are completely and utterly the opposite in Choma, Zambia. From the very beginning, we could see that these students, who have so little, were incredibly eager for knowledge. The simplest concepts, the tiniest grains of knowledge, every nugget of learning is invaluable to them. They took what we had to give them and ran like the wind, showing improvements at a mind-boggling pace. They don't have spectacular facilities or state-of-the-art equipment. They don't have professors with doctorates. What they have is heart, the kind that groans as the land groans for its final redemption. That, a short-term smattering of college students, and stalwart staff (and by stalwart I mean super-hero material). And yet, they blow us out of the water. Why don't we see this in places like America? The answer: Hope.

I have learned that every grain, every nugget, each last drop of knowledge is hope, hope for a future, hope for excellence, hope for something more than what life has given these students. They need not live with the weight of a shafted existence crushing them in the mud. Music is beauty, and not one that has to be carted in by smiley Westerners. They have it in themselves. God has gifted them in ways that no tragedy can erase. For us, it is miraculous and awe-inspiring. We are not teachers here to instruct through imposition and domination. We are well-diggers. Where life has battered many, tainting the surface waters, we are digging shafts down deep, past the disease, past the deaths, past the oppression and into a deep aquifer of clean water. There our students can draw cool drink, life in the knowledge that they are more than orphans, or refugees, or infected persons; they are children of God, more precious than anything we might hope to gain in this world.

Only one day as passed. We have barely begun, and there is far more waiting to be revealed. We rest now, eager to take up our shovels and buckets as we rise with the flight of the waking light.

For more information about Poetice International, its ministry in Zambia, and updates on this trip be sure to check www.poetice.com and follow @livepoetice on twitter.

Coke and Bitters

Six months have come and gone since my last post.  Months seem to be flying by all the more quickly as I move further into my twenties.  I can't imagine what it'll be like in my forties.  Still, a lot can happen in six months.  A lot has happened, and my tardiness weighs on me.  I have left the wagon neglected in the corner since winter's dark.  It is long overdue for a ride through the hills.  So if you find yourself thinking "finally!" as you read this, I apologize for the delay.

These six months have brought me back to the beginning in many ways.  The sun has thrown off the blankets and drowsiness of winter, shining as a generous friend once again.  The trees stand full and green and proud.  Like every year in the beginning of May, it is Tulip Time in Holland.  The tulips, however, confused by a bipolar winter, were a bit too eager for spring.  They bloomed full-force a week and a half before the festivities, leaving Holland's favorite floral celebration a bit naked.  But the spirit remains.  Venders still sell the fatted-fat to patrons decked out in various degrees of Dutchiness.  Eighth street stands closed to traffic, transforming downtown into a long open market.  Elderly couples, skateboarding high-schoolers, and baby-strolling soccer-moms roam the pavement with impunity.  Occasionally the masses part to allow processions of dutch dancers and street-sweeps, well-to-dos in sports cars, countless marching bands, and various rolling floats, everything from a giant duplo house to a mobile, human-propelled bar from the Brewery.  Everywhere there is the CLONK of wood-shod feet.  A lone balloon floats away into a flawless blue sky to the dismay of an unknown child.  It is all so familiar.  Just the day before we sat in the apartment window above what used to be Treehouse Bookstore; we watched the parade with our feet dangling out the sill, just as we had a year before.

As I sit on the curb watching and thinking over all of this, I am struck by a sense of timelessness.  I wonder how much this festival has changed over the years, if the reasons for celebrating remain the same.  Perhaps it doesn't matter.  Perhaps Tulip Time is a manifestation of a hidden need, a need for some things to simply remain in a world that is increasingly mobile and amorphous, one that calls for compromise and cost-effectiveness.

I am a fresh graduate; I feel that need.  These last six months have seen the end of many things,  some that began four years ago when I first set foot on Hope's campus, and some that had just been coming into the light. Whether in newfound affections or in the steady beat of the well-worn rhythms, joy has filled these months. Yet with that joy there has been the knowledge of what's to come.  Every song sung, every message heard, every moment shared and adventure dared has had a pinch of that knowledge laced within it.  On the evening of May 6th we raised our glasses, lit up our sparklers, said our farewells, and drank in every last moment we could, sweetness with a hint of bitters.

I was ready to give up some of these moments, but others I was not.  Some of them I wanted to remain, to be timeless.  Sometimes the tulip blooms when you don't expect, and though you rejoice at its blooming, it is too soon for the festivities to begin.  You might pluck it, put it in a vase and set it on the dining room table where it is easy to marvel at its beauty, but flowers don't grow in water and glass.  You might will and hope and pray for it to remain long enough for the parade, but it is going to wilt.  Hold too long and it will rot, the beauty you might have hoped for long gone.  My table is not without its vases.

At my core I am a diehard. A special brand of stubbornness runs in the Pedigo blood. I long to see things persevere; I would see them last for the goodness that I see in them. When I truly care about something I will fight for it tooth and nail. Nothing grieves me more than to see goodness fade or die when it seems there might be more life ahead of it.  In those moments I feel like a failure. It is a hard lesson for me, and I am learning oh so slowly, that these things we are given in life, these flowers that bloom, they do not grow or remain of our own volition.  We may plant the bulbs and tend the soil, but we cannot will the stems to grow or the petals to open.  When they do, we can rejoice at the gifts they are.  When they die we may grieve at the loss, but in the end all we can do is wait, plant the bulbs, and tend the soil.  Perhaps flowers will bloom again with the bulbs already planted; perhaps not. Perhaps new bulbs will yield greater beauty of their own, but our hope is not in flowers.

Our hope lies in what is timeless, islands of rock in a relentless tide, a steady diet of faithfulness and goodness. Dining rooms are for dining. If we sit long enough, we might smell good things being prepared in the kitchen. The tulips may bloom early, but we still celebrate Tulip Time. We still don our wooden shoes and buy our fat balls. We hope in such things because they remain. They are beyond our influence. They simply are. The wind passes over the flowers and they are gone; their place knows them no more, but our hope is in the everlasting, in the God who remains and whose kingdom rules over all.  Oh that we might not forget all his benefits, stepping out of the night of what has been and boldly into the new dawn, out of the shock and color of Spring and into the steady green of Summer.  There we may put bitterness to rest. There the sun dries our tears.  There in the waking light stands new goodness: new songs to be written and sung, new words to be heard, new moments to be shared and new adventures to be dared.  There on that horizon we are made like the eagles: truly free.

Golden Ground

Over two months it has been since the school year started, and we're riding the coattails of fall.  The last of the trees are blushing as they take of their clothes, the air is dry and crispy as the leaves, and the people of Holland are sporting their flannel with newfound gusto.  Everything is golden, from the leaves to the drinks to the smiles on familiar faces.  Nature celebrates the end of a good year with fireworks and harvest before the coming cold.

Of all the seasons I think I underestimate Fall the most.  Perhaps it's because the water's too cold to swim and there's no snow to board on.  Yet every year I am surprised by how much I enjoy this season.  Chapel mornings find me waking up before the dawn to play music with the people I love.  The special hatred reserved solely for the morning alarm is short lived, and before long I'm riding down the street and through the sleepy campus.  I find my favorite part of the day over a yellow mug and fresh sunshine as it spills over the horizon, music still swelling in my chest.  I am in the best of company these days.

Yet in the midst of gold and gladness, I am reminded by the falling leaves of the fragility of these times.  Classes are getting harder.  I am learning more and more about who my friends are, their strengths, their foibles.  The giddiness of summer has faded, and some things that seemed so bright and green and alive have turned dry, only to fall to the wayside.  Indeed it is here in this season that we learn what's going to last, what's going to win through to Spring.  Fall teaches a lesson in permanence.  Our days are so precious.  All of Hope grieves yet another tragic loss of one of our own.  An early morning phone call throws me out of bed.  My dad passes out behind the wheel on his way to Holland, veering off the road and into the trees at highway speeds.  What shock!  What pain!  What heartbreak!  How crushing is the weight of grief!  What words can we speak?

I hold to but one hope, one blessed assurance, one unshakeable bastion of strength in the midst of fragility and brokenness.  It is the one who spoke into the silence, and even now speaks into ours.  It is the one who knows and loves.  I remember the words of Paul: "For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." (Ro 8: 38-39).  And this is not the love of some robed geezer looking down from a heavenly cloud.  This is the love of a God rich with thick, raw, incomparable goodness.  This God grieves with us, weeps with us, and longs for the day when we will see him face to face.  It is this God who saw my father safely home.  It is this God who embraces us as we mourn.  It is this God who guides us in the depths of darkness, and it is this God who in time brings us out of darkness and into the glory of a new dawn.  He is the one whose promises are sure and whose faithfulness never wavers.  He is the one who longs to bless us beyond our wildest dreams.

What joy!  What promise!  Frosty air and hot cider!  In these we can celebrate fall.  Goodness wins the day and I am shot through with it, giddy to the bones.

Waking

Holland Michigan has many faces.  In the fall the trees blush as people don hats and flannel.  Winter's drifts of snow promise to turn pulling out of a driveway into a game of chicken and a drive down the block into an adventure.  Parades march along eighth street in spring while the venders proffer various delicious methods of clogging your arteries, all in the name of the rows upon rows of the flowers that line the streets.  I've watched as Holland has worn these different masks for a few years, but the one I had never seen is the one she wears during the summer.  That is, until 2011.

Come June Holland sheds its mobs of tourists and street vendors as the delirium of Tulip Time fades with May, only to come back again with Independence Day.  Thursday sees 8th street closed down as magicians, musicians, and other performers flaunt their respective skills, winning the occasional dollar or fist of change.  Finding a secluded place on the beach (or parking, for that matter) becomes nigh impossible with the masses sporting their skin and swimwear.  Everywhere you look the trees stand full and proud, wrapped in the green of mature leaves.  The smell of the neighbors charcoal grill wafts through my window, a tease.  The sun shows his face with a gladness and generosity reserved only for these middling months.

Amidst these blessings however a profound change takes place.  Hope, this place that I adore, falls asleep.  Many students remain through May and June taking summer classes, some even to July.  Eventually even they leave, and Hope becomes silent.  Buildings dedicated to the arts, sciences, humanities, and even our beloved Dimnent become silent, empty save for the occasional professor or maintenance worker.  As I walked past them I realized that they have ceased to hold great meaning, becoming little more to me than blocks of stone, brick and glass.  This is Hope in slumber, a house whose curtains are drawn and whose family is gone.  There is a lesson in this.  Chapels of stone and groves of pine in and of themselves do not fill the soul.  Vast structures built for knowledge are not sources of learning.  Hope lives and breathes in the lives of its students, of its faculty and staff.  Hope is nothing without its people.

But now another change comes.  I can feel Hope's heartbeat again.  The sores and stiffness of long sleep are being stretched and smoothed away as buildings are readied for the coming year.  Every now and then I see new faces filling dorms, patrolling the sidewalks and sitting in the grove.  Music, fresh, strong, and life-giving rings out from the windows and open doors of Dimnent.  My soul grows eager for the chapel be filled again, to hear the chorus of my people.  There is a richness that God has grown in this place.  I feel it stirring in my guts.  My arms tremble with it, this gladness.  My lungs are full of lion's-breath.  Good is coming, good words and good work and good people.  May it come all the more swiftly.