A Challenge

Hello Friends!

Wow, it’s been quite a while since my last (real) update. A lot has happened since last spring. For those of you haven’t heard from me since then, I am very sorry. I’m most definitely one of the worst people when it comes to staying in contact over long distances. I hope to do a better job of it in the coming days. For now I hope this will suffice!

A lot certainly has happened, not least of which is my graduation from the University of South Florida. In the summer of 2012 I moved from dear Michigan to the sunshine state to pursue a master’s in jazz performance. A big deal! Two years, many concerts, countless rehearsals and a trip to Italy later and I now have a very nice piece of paper saying that I am a master of jazz performance, or something like that. It’s fun to say (and even MORE fun to put on a resume) but the whole affair ends up being a bit underwhelming once it’s over. My last act as a student was having one of my professors sign a piece of paper; so ended my second college career. That was they very beginning of May. The rest of the month saw me scrambling for cash and lodging as my housemates and I left our apartment for who knows where, and I made ready for a trip home to Michigan.

In June I loaded up my brave little saturn and drove the 20 hours to the Mitten. The drive was mostly uneventful, save when I got myself stranded at a truck stop in rural Kentucky at 4:30am. Let’s just say Kentucky didn’t leave a very good impression after that. Soon enough I found myself on the familiar streets of Grand Rapids, finding a bed at Randy’s Tavern, my dear friend Garrett Stier’s apartment/studio/workshop/greenhouse. June of 2014 was what that summer month meant to be, packed with weddings, beach runs, beer quests and many reunions. What really defined June, however, was an idea and ambition Garrett, Lucas Taylor, Tyler Stitt and had been working over since the previous November. First and Last was/is a dream come true of sorts, one Garrett and I had been scheming since a fateful meeting one night in Nasheville. The actual release was nothing mind-boggling or spectacular; we played three shows with small audiences, but man it was good, good for the heart, good to have something worked and dreamed and cared for over many months come to life. You can check it out at welldiggermusic.bandcamp.com. We’d love for you to hear it!

The months since then have been quiet, easy. I moved into a house with 5 guys in July, living fully and cheap as dirt, working myself up as a barista at a local Tampa brew company. If I’m honest, music has taken a back seat in my doings since June. It’s been time to rest, to recharge, to build the slightest semblance of financial security. Fall was most of those things most of the time, but I never shook this need to make, to get out and get going. Where? I have no idea. My bones have itched for it, and I’m slowly, carefully starting to make it happen, to begin realizing what it is I am meant to do. In truth, I was burned out after graduating. I had just run out of the structured, organized progression of training that comes with schooling; I didn’t know what I really wanted to do. In truth, I still don’t. All I know for sure is that I need to write, I need to make music happen. Somehow.  That brings us to today! Having resolved to record an EP by May 26th, my birthday, I’ve been working on arrangements for songs that I’ve previously written. Thanks to a friend’s post on Facebook, I’ve accepted another challenge on top of this one.

The challenge, called the RPM Challenge, is to write and record an album in 28 days. 10 songs and/or 35 minutes of music. I can’t really express how much I’ve needed this, how I’ve secretly ached for it. Who knows how the ‘good’ the results will be? This is the kind of start, the kind of creative motion I’ve needed for a long while. I have a measly five days left, and a great deal more to do, but I am hoping to make this album, to triumph over this challenge. Friends, please pray for me. Whatever happens with these songs, they are for you. You can check out my progress HERE. See you at the finish line.

Kindness

In light of late tragedies and further tragedies they enable:


Oh to love kindness
to breath with sighs
that ease the pains of life
and yearn for another's good.

Is it not a blessing to speak grace into another, to ache for
them, dream for them? In a
world bent on hatred,
doesn't mercy win the day?

Oh to love kindness
To breath words of life
and speak them to another
that they might know it well

To know the one who first
was kind, who brought it as a gift,
to bleed it, bleed it all.

What would happen if we learned to stop hating each other?

Oh to love kindness, to know it at its source.
To receive more than we could ever give, this
is the promise give; this is the gospel known.

To know it is to know freedom, true, right, and real. To know it is to know life in your bones and love in your chest, to beat with a heart of hot blood, of fire at smolder. It is to look at the world with wonder for how such a thing could be, to rejoice in its magnificence and yearn for its mending. For to yearn for the world's mending, in its proper place, is to yearn for our own. For health and grace and love.

For kindness to be shown.

A Letter

To friends far off:

My friends, how I long for you. How I am for you and wish to be with you. I think of you and hope for you in earnest. From afar I see little pieces, bits of light in the expanse of your life, and I am joyful. If I'm honest, being so far from you sucks. The distance is right and good and for a purpose, but it still sucks.

I ache for days shared, for loud nights and quiet mornings, for the sun shining in your eyes, making the moments light as the breaking dawn. I miss our feet tramping through snow and ice and grass and sand, those 'ventures with no goal in sight save the next bend, the next dune, the next crag in the icy wasteland. I miss your hands, stained with paint and ink and care, calloused with much making, eager to grab hold of whatever joy awaits on the horizon.

And I miss your voices. I miss the shouts over a winning match at the gaming table or an insane disc toss. I miss having my ears ring with your laughter, with the songs we would sing together. I miss those conversations over coffee or craft brews when we'd wrestle truth into each other's souls with the best words we could muster.

Mostly, I just miss you, you in all your vibrance. I long for the day when we can simply take in the morning light together. May it come soon.

-Zach

A Word to a Friend

Hey folks. Sorry it's been ages since my last post. Suffice it to say that life in sunny Florida isn't half bad. I might get to a proper post later, but for now I want to give you something else. This is an email between a friend and I. A couple months ago I lent her the book Lost in Transition, a stark depiction of life for teens and tweens of 18 to 24 years. I decided to post this because, well, I say things in it that I don't often enough say to myself, let alone to others. They are the words of our hope.


"I read this today:
"They had difficulty seeing the possible distinction between objective moral truth and relative human invention. That is not because they are dumb. It seems rather that they simply cannot, for whatever reason, believe in - or sometimes even conceive of - a given, objective truth, fact, reality, or nature of the world that is independent of their subjective experience and in relation to which they or others might learn or be persuaded to change." - page 222

And this as well:
"The mind of sinful man is death, but the mind controlled by the Spirit is life and peace; the sinful mind is hostile to God. It does not submit to God's law, nor can it do so."  -Romans 8:6-7

They seem eerily similar, don't they?  Is it possible that words like "citizenship", "moral responsibility", or "helping others" don't show up in their vocabulary because they aren't able to truly understand it based on the "laws" (or lack of) they have chosen to submit to? You don't see them as hopeless, do you - Zach? Have you thrown your hands up in the air toward them?"

My response
They seem eerily similar because, in fact, they are the same.

1 Corinthians 1:

¹⁸ For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. ¹⁹ For it is written,

“I will destroy the wisdom of the wise,
    and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart.”

1 Corinthians 2:

¹⁴ Those who are unspiritual^[e] do not receive the gifts of God’s Spirit, for they are foolishness to them, and they are unable to understand them because they are spiritually discerned.

1 Corinthians 3:

¹⁸ Do not deceive yourselves. If you think that you are wise in this age, you should become fools so that you may become wise. ¹⁹ For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written,

“He catches the wise in their craftiness,”

²⁰ and again,

“The Lord knows the thoughts of the wise,
    that they are futile.”

Perhaps a darker image from Ecclesiastes 10:

^"5 There is an evil that I have seen under the sun, as great an error as if it proceeded from the ruler: ⁶ folly is set in many high places, and the rich sit in a low place. ⁷ I have seen slaves on horseback, and princes walking on foot like slaves."

My using the last bit from Ecclesiastes is more for imagery than anything, yet, doesn't it bear a striking resemblance to our culture today? We worship foolishness, the idea of a carefree society where we can and should do anything we please just for the hell of it. YOLO! (I cringe every time I hear that). We treat the slightest notion of authority as despotism, and liming oneself as weakness. Privilege has been warped to inalienable right, unless it is extreme (in the cases of the rich), where it is a result of some societal disparity, rather than hard work, discipline, and ingenuity. A friend of mine put up a post recently on facebook that sums things up pretty well, I think. (I linked it to your wall.)

Do I see these people has hopeless? Have I thrown up my hands at them? At times, yes. I am frustrated and angry at the depravity of what I read in Lost in Transition. It is why I despair when I stumble, or when I see my friends, true Christians to the core, buy into the empty pleasures this world has to offer. It makes me ache, because the kind of selfishness that worldly logic, which can seem so innocent and inconsequential in some situations, is the same logic that leads to all the travesties we see in the world: slavery, prostitution, rape, murder, etc etc etc etc etc. Perhaps my reactions are extreme; I'm sure one can find it easy to point me out as a judgmental person. I very well could be! I catch myself leaning away from grace once in a while.

Perhaps it's because I don't like the image of cheap grace. This grace that is extended to humanity came at a cost, after all. It cost Jesus, the very son of God, his life. Even more, his life was taken in one of the most disgraceful of ways. He bore the cross of shame, whipped beyond human recognition, and died as the lowliest of criminals. When I sin, I stand with the crowd that watched him die, that mocked him, that spat at his agony. I am equal with those quoted in Lost in Transition. In this event humanity is unified; we all stand under that tree, watching the son of God bleed.

Yet, there on that hill rests our hope. Out of an unmarked hole in the rock walked our strength. Do I see those in Lost in Transition as hopeless? No, because the hope they might have is the same hope that we have. The grace extended to us is one in the same with the grace extended to them. To say that they have no hope is to mark myself as hopeless. It is in this that we find the beauty of the Gospel:

^"10 And as he sat at dinner^[a] in the house, many tax collectors and sinners came and were sitting^[b] with him and his disciples. ¹¹ When the Pharisees saw this, they said to his disciples, “Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” ¹² But when he heard this, he said, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. ¹³ Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.” -Matthew 9

It is for these people, the Lost in Transition, that Jesus came! It is why He is here! It is why He died! How glorious will it be when people such as these come to faith?! How gut-wrenchingly beautiful will it be when they might know the truth of these words?

^"3 Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places, ⁴ just as he chose us in Christ^[b] before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless before him in love. ⁵ He destined us for adoption as his children through Jesus Christ, according to the good pleasure of his will, ⁶ to the praise of his glorious grace that he freely bestowed on us in the Beloved. ⁷ In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace ⁸ that he lavished on us. With all wisdom and insight ⁹ he has made known to us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ, ¹⁰ as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth. ¹¹ In Christ we have also obtained an inheritance,^[c] having been destined according to the purpose of him who accomplishes all things according to his counsel and will, ¹² so that we, who were the first to set our hope on Christ, might live for the praise of his glory. ¹³ In him you also, when you had heard the word of truth, the gospel of your salvation, and had believed in him, were marked with the seal of the promised Holy Spirit; ¹⁴ this^[d] is the pledge of our inheritance toward redemption as God’s own people, to the praise of his glory.

-Ephesians 1

This truth, this promise (which is making me want to weep in Starbucks as I read it) is why we proclaim the Truth. Because for some who are lost, the word of Truth will be to them like the breaking of the dawn in their hearts, and the Spirit of God will stir in their guts and rattle their bones and free them, at last, from their chains of slavery to sin and self.

There is hope. Even for me. Even for you. Even for them. To God be the glory. Amen.

From Storms and Palms

I am a fan of thunderstorms. I love the boom that fills the house after a good crack of lightning and the clamor of rain when it falls in buckets. It washes away the dust and grime of the everyday just as it drown out the noise of cars and air-conditioners, a blanket of sound. Once in a while I get to wake up to one of these storms.  It's the sort of thing that makes you want to sit by a window, read a book, and hold your friends close. When I watch the rain pound the brick from the back porch as I did a few days ago, book and pencil in hand, those desires come keen. Have there been any good storms in Holland, I wonder?

Leaving is a funny thing.  June saw me acting like a fidgety six-year-old at a doctor's office, stuffing as many animal crackers into his pockets before having to go. I was safeguarding those last moments, as if I was planting a flag so that no other place or circumstance might claim them. I treated every farewell as my last, should circumstances not allow another meeting. The truly final farewell was the best. A bunch of our crew (some I had thought I wouldn't see again) were sprawled across a living room on a friday night like so many times before, talking, snacking, and watching the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. With that image in my mind my parents and I packed up books, clothes, and a beastly dresser into a U-haul, stopped by LJ's for a farewell coffee from my sister, and began the long, long drive to Tampa, Florida. I became one of the Hope grads, scattered or soon-to-be. The gravity of the thing came as slowly as the passing of the miles. I was leaving my home, a place of such grace and goodness, for a place of utter mystery.

Yet God has proven his faithfulness. There are heaps and heaps of goodness waiting to be found here. When my housing plans fell through and I had no other options, He provided not only a better place to live, but lovely hosts who opened there home to me until I can move in. I have found a church, and (thank heaven!) they have offered me the chance to play in their worship. More and more every day I am seeing that it is good for me to be here. All this and the adventure has only just begun.

Even so, I miss Holland, and I miss Hope. I miss LJ's and 8th street and the smell of Dimnent in September. I miss the parades of students in the pine grove those first weeks of school and the thousand-strong voices singing to God. I miss you, my friends, my family, my people of Hope. I do not doubt that I have met and will continue to meet new people to call my people here in Tampa, but it is because of you, your leadership, your friendship, and your faithfulness to God that I have become who I am today. I eagerly look forward to the day when we can meet again as student and pastor, mentee and mentor, brother and sister, geeks and goons, singers of songs, people of Hope. Until then, know that I love you and miss you so, so dearly.

Letters from Africa - Day 12: Epilogue

Thursday, June 28th, 2012

To me, today is the beginning of an epilogue, the last moments of a story before the book finally runs out of pages. We didn't do anything groundbreaking or exciting; today was simply an ending of things. After packing all of our gera, clothes, and newly-acquired swag, we made our way to the Academy for one last visit. There was no music or teaching today. We simply sat with the students, Maxwell, and Richmond, saying our thank-yous, telling stories, and praying blessings over the team, the students, and the academy. It was the epitome of the long goodbye, with hundreds of pictures being taken and hugs given.

Needless to say it was a long time before we loaded into the min van-bus to begin the four hour drive to Lusaka, our last adventure in Zambia. We made a few stops along the way.  Once we stopped at a roadside produce market. We had hardly stopped moving when the bus was bombarded by banana venders whose marketing strategy is to shove fruit in each and every open window of the vehicle.  Another time we hit an especially large bump and had to rescue a suitcase that had flown off the trailer. Our final stop was in Lusaka, arguably the most urban place we've visited in Zambia. We stopped at a grocery store to grab some Zambian foodstuffs before dinner at Food Fayre, our last meal in the country. It seemed like we had just loaded the van-bus for the last time when we got out in front of the airport, grabbed our stuff, and said our final farewells to our drivers, Moses and Rogers, and Petronellah, probably the best hostess one could ask for. The next hour or so was a blur. Check-in. Security. Gate. Tarmac. Safety procedures. Full thrust. Pull on the yoke. Farewell, Zambia.

It's a little strange, heading back to the States. I think Michael Flanagin said it best: "We're happy to go home, but sad that we have to leave." No more Zambian time. No more rides in the jank van-bus-whatever. No more "Ga Mwamba"s for introductions. No more morning greetings from Petronellah. No more bream carcasses or nshima-hands. No more lessons at the academy. We're leaving a lot behind.

Even so, we're bringing a lot home with us as well. We came to Choma to teach, but we were students just as much as everyone else who came to the academy.  We taught music, but these Zambians taught us the power of determination and the ability to accomplish great things even with so little. They taught us that a broken spirit is not a dead one, that joy is not dependent on wealth or status, and that good hospitality can be practiced no matter what you have to offer a guest. They taught us what it means to be wholly dependent on God.

It is for this reason that I think everyone needs to experience this kind of trip. There is so much to learn beyond the familiar, beyond our own understanding of how life works and how it ought to be. If we as people are willing to go, to reach out beyond the familiar with open hearts and minds, to fill needs on the terms of the needy, then we will be far better people for it. This I think is the hidden second half of Poetice's mission: that we might learn through these short-term missions how to be better servants for the long-term.

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

Letters from Africa - Day 11.5

Wednesday, June 27th, 2012

16:00-23:00

We left Livingstone in a hurry, doing some last-minute haggling and scarfing fast-food chicken and fries in the bus-van. Since our concert at the Sun Hotel was cancelled the night before, Richmond scheduled another concert for 18:00 today in Choma. None of us were really looking forward to it. We were all tired from the game drive, the falls, and the market, having gone non-stop since 7 in the morning. The fact that we were late didn't help our nerves either. By the time we made it to Choma Secondary School, we were behind schedule by over half an hour. Even in Zambian time, our tardiness made us feel rushed and agitated. To add to the tension, the power had gone out at the school; our only light came from a bunch of LED lanters that Richmond had strung up, barely enough for the musicians to read their music. After quickly cobbling together a concert order, we began our concert.

This could have been the beginning of a bad night, but things have a wonderful way of simply working out on this trip.  By the end of the frist song all of the tension and anxiety had melted away. The time didn't matter anymore; the music had taken over.  Even the lighting situation, which was a hassle at first, lent a feeling of beauty and intimacy, as if this were a concert by candlelight. Everyone from both the team and the academy performed well, I for one playing one of the best sax solos of my life. By the end, the audience was eager to give a standing ovation, and many thanked us personally once it had all concluded. What we had begun as a stressful evening became the most joyous of our stay in Zambia, and there could have been no better way to spend our last one here. We spent the last hours of the night debriefing as a team, reflecting on what we had seen, done, and what we are to do once we arrive home.

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 11.0

Wednesday, June 27th, 2012

07:00-16:00

"Ascribe to the Lord, O heavenly beings, ascribe to the Lord glory and strength. Ascribe to the Lord the glory of his name; worship the Lord in holy spendor. The voice of the Lord is over the waters; the God of glory thunders, the Lord, over mighty waters. The voice of the Lord is powerful; the vocie of the Lord is full of majesty" -Psalm 29:1-4

There are many things to do in Livingstone, Zambia, and we did many. We took our van/bus hybrid through the game park, checked out some crocs and deadly snakes at the crocodile farm, and haggled our way into some Zambian swag at the open market. We all had a good time at each, but none of these compared to Victoria Falls

Every now and again we get to experience something that screams of God's glory. Familiar things for me are flawless night skies, the mountains in Montana, and the sunsets over Lake Michigan and the Pacific. Seeing Victoria Falls trumps everything I've experienced so far. There is a moment on those stone paths past the guard post and trees when the world suddenly drops away and there is the sound of thunder. This first glimpse of the falls is incredible. To the right you see the Zambezi's waters roaring past slabs of rock and falling hundreds of feet into the gorge, the distant pools visible at the bottom. On the left are cliffs, great walls like dark slate made glassy as they are bathed in water forced skyward by the sheer force of the falls. The path to the right takes you to the top of the falls. There the river turns to rapids before hurling itself over the brink. I lost a sandal while dipping my feet into the rushing waters and watched it disappear, a bit of America lost to the Falls.

The other path winds along the cliffs opposing the falls, the trees breaking at various points to offer a better view. Here along the tops of onyx-dark rock one begins to grasp—or rather lose their grasp—of how vast the falls really are. At a couple of points I left the safety of the stone path and guard rails to stand a few feet away from the edge.With no rail to hold or safety net, a bottomless void yawning in front of me, drenched by mist and rain forced up the cliff face, and hundreds of feet of thundering water filling my vision, Victoria Falls boomed out "majesty!" and "magnificence!" The sheer vastness and power of this spectacle can't be fathomed as a whole when one stands right in front of it; on can only take in parts of it at a time. There at the brink I caught a glimpse of God's glory, his incomprehensible vastness and majesty. We all left the falls in the same way, soaked through with water and awe.

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 10

Tuesday, June 26th, 2012

As I've been writing these letters I've realized that the majority of them have been a bit heavy. Much of this trip has been dealing with much of the heaviness found here in Zambia, so I've been trying to identify and describe those moments. Thankfully, this is not all that Zambia is, far from it in fact. As crushing as the weight of the disease and poverty is, Zambia is also a place of great joy and laughter. There have been plenty of both on this trip, especially today. So for now, I'll touch a bit on the lighter side of our trip.

First of all, the food is awesome. We've had chicken, pasta, loads of different greens, goat (some of us), fish, and the ever-present nshima. My favorite would have to be the fish, or a fish, to be more accurate. One of the more popular dishes at restaurants is a whole bream fish on your plate. It's gutted and cooked and perfectly fine to eat, but there's something unnerving about having a wide-eyed, open-mouthed creature lying on your plate with someone telling you to eat it. Once you've finally worked up the gumption to pull a piece of meat off the bone though, all doubt disappears. Bream is delicious, and I don't think any of us have qualms about tearing those fish apart until they're piles of fin and bone. This is all done with your bare hands, by the way. Most Zambian meals are, with the ubiquitous nshima mashed in the hand and used as an edible, makeshift spoon. It's a chance to back to high-chairs and play dough, so I'm not complaining

If there's anything I could complain about, it's this: I could've used more bros on this trip, especially today. I think every guy needs to experience an extended trip with 6 girls for company. You will learn to appreciate your brother, and you will learn both how fun and how maddening (sometimes mostly maddening) it is to be the only male with a crew of she-gigglers.

I was in this situation because Abby and Jared had to head to Lusaka (Jared, our token Australian, lost his green card) for an appointment at the US embassy. That left me and Michael "The Professor" Flanagin as the only males to accompany the rest of our team to Livingstone. Don't get me wrong, these are a lovely bunch of ladies. Once the Hannah Cannon starts firing and the vocal major starts gut-busting, however, you're in for a long, loud, and lasting laughter session. Most of the chuckle-inducing content had a more subdued effect for the male psyche. After a two-hour ride in the struggle-bus and dinner at a public pizza place everyone was a bit loopy, the sessions lasting longer and longer. It was a good time, but I was definitely glad when Jared made it back to the hotel.

We spent the rest of the night relaxing in our room, the benefit concert we were supposed to put on being cancelled. Although disappointing, it was nice to have a reprieve from performances. In the morning we are tourists, venturing out to the game park and Victoria Falls.

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 9

Monday, June 25th, 2012

As it turns out the performance at the funeral made quite an impact. We were informed by Richmond that the family of the deceased had been quite moved, and they wanted us to play at the final viewing of the body. At the last minute, it was decided that that would be the best thing for us to do.

After an abridged session at the academy, we loaded up with the students and made our way to the viewing. Conversation was light and easy in our truck until we turned a corner. Students from Choma Secondary had lined up on both sides of the street.

Once we had made our way inside to where the casket was being presented we were told to join the family of the deceased on stage. Ater the ceremony the band played hymns as hundreds of students, family, and community members filed past the open casket. The wailing of the grieving and the solemn choruses continued until the last of the visitors had passed. We left in silence

As we were leaving, Richmond informed us that although we hadn't seen it, we had just experienced the effects of HIV/AIDS. The deceased man's wife had died only a few months earlier from the disease, and now it had claimed him, leaving his children as double orphans.

In that light, I noticed the interesting contrast that this day held. At this ceremony we found both the death and destruction caused by HIV/AIDS as well as our hope to fight against it. Our students, many of whom know firsthand the devastation this disease brings, were able to give the grieving an honor normally reserved for presidential funerals.

This is what Poetice and Fortress Vision are about. We are here to show those devastated by the disease and the stigma around it that there is hope and purpose in spite of it. We are equipping and encouraging them to make a real, tangible difference in their own lives and in their community. Today, one such difference was made, and we got to witness it firsthand.

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 8

Sunday, June 24th, 2012

Have you ever felt rushed to get to church, or felt the tension while trying to avoid showing up late and being "that family"? Well that doesn't happen in Zambia. Our little family tried tob e ready by 9:20, but our ride didn't who up until 9:45. The "ten minute drive" to Pilgrim Wesleyan Church was closer to half an hour. For Americans, this kind of delay could mind-numbingly frustrating. For Zambians, it's standard procedure, and true to form, the service hadn't even started by the time we showed up (which was well past its supposed starting time).

This is just one of the many ways in which Americans and Zambians are different. At the core we are very similar, but our priorities and passions lie in different places. Zambians may not care much about hard deadlines, but ask them to pray in church and they'll blow the doors off with their zeal. The word thunderous comes to mind when they sing together in worship. Every aspect of the service, from the greeting to the songs to he sermon had an intensity and intentionality that was new to me. The room throbbed with it this desire to meet with God. One especially profound moment occurred when one of the songs went especially long.  As the chorus was repeated again and again, members of the congregation stopped singing and began to pray. Soon the music had completely given way to the clamor of a praying congregation. It wasn't scripted or forced, it just went where it seemed to go naturally. After a time the music began again and the entire congregation was singing once more. No announcement, no suggestion or verbal transition. It just happened. I wonder how many American churches capture this kind of fluidity and spontaneity.

Needless to say we left the church a bit breathless, but we felt ready to perform that evening. Our performance wouldn't be what we had originally expected, however. On Saturday we were informed that the youth rally where we were expected to to play had been cancelled. One of the teachers at Choma Secondary Schoo, a school with ties to Fortress Vision,  had died. Instead of the rally our team and some of the academy students headed to the home of the deceased, where many had already gathered to pay their respects and observe the Zambian tradition of being present for what Richmond called the "funeral period."

The academy band played hymn after hymn, lending a solemn atmosphere until it was simply too dark to read the music. When we turned from our stands we saw that where had once been empty lawn were now hundreds of people, all those who had known or been impacted by the life of this teacher.

It occurred to me then tht we had been a part of a big event, and what we had done for this family was no small thing. Indeed, it was a way for our students to invest and give back to their community in a profound way, even if they have seemingly nothing to offer. For Poetice and Fortress Vision, it is exactly what we hope for.

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 7

Saturday, June 23rd, 2012

Today was a busy day. In the morning the academy was packed, fill with students free from school for the weekend. I met a new bass student, taught a clarinetist scale exercises, and sat in on guitar lessons, all before lunch. After eating we began making our way to Pemba High School in the bus-van for a series of performances (we later learned that it was a talent competition). It was incredibly busy when we arrived; almost every seat in the building was taken for most of the night.

Apart from the uniformed "enforcers" carrying switches and the metal gates the auditorium had for doors it seemed like any other high school in the US. Students cheered for their favorite acts, which ranged from a very confusing soap opera to traditional African dance routines.  Overall it was a great show.


Although we have many students at the academy, some of them our age, this night was the first time we were able to spend time in what felt like a familiar context. Besides the language barrier, I felt no different than I would have at any other school assembly. Again I am reminded of how similar we all are as people, as humans. Indeed we are more alike than we are different. As I think about this I can't help but wonder: where does discrimination come from?


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 6

Friday, June 22nd, 2012

"...'How hard it is for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God! Indeed, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.'" -Luke 18:23-25

There is a side to Zambia that everyone ought to see. It is a side that it shares with many other countries on this earth. Yet even so, it goes unseen to many. I am talking about the Mwapona's of the world.

Poetice and Fortress Vision run a program called the 365 Campaign. This campaign identifies children who are orphans or otherwise vulnerable due to circumstances such as poverty, and then seeks to support them where possible. Today we were able to meet some of these children in their own homes, hear their stories, give them words of encouragement, and pray for them. For those who have so little company is an honor, kind words are treasures, and prayer carries real power.

I don't think there's anything that can adequately prepare a soul for a first trip into the third world. It is utterly foreign for us, a different mode of existence. In America, we live to achieve. Here, they live to survive. For the family of one academy student, it means squatting in an unfinished home that doesn't belong to them. Doorways have no doors, windows no glass. A metal roof, walls, and concrete are all that shelter them. The seats offered were a bucket and a few pieces of cinderblock. Vincent, the father, unemployed, barely manages to scrape enough money together to send his kids to school. It's a miracle even he can't understand. For the grandmother of another supported child, it means running a small produce stand, not knowing where to go once she can't afford rent. For yet another it means not being able to afford the cost of traveling to a hospital to have a tumor checked, let alone a surgery, or school, for that matter. These are the poorest of the poor, the "least of these." But in spite of the conditions,  you will find giants hidden in these humble homes.

We all need Christ. We are all nothing without him. It's easy for us to forget that as Westerners. The question of our own survival is not one that we often have to entertain. But Christians get it here. They understand. Beyond faith in Christ and family they have next to nothing. Literally. They do what they can to survive and trust God to provide what they can't. This kind of faith says "It is enough. I have accepted what I have been given by God in life," as Vincent has. Though we came to meet with the poor, we shared company with royalty.


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 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.