When God says "Stay"

I’ve been missing Africa.  I’ve been missing it a LOT lately.

I miss ‘my Africa’ nestled in the south central part of the continent.  I miss the ‘care free’ life. The slow and steady pace of a culture that taught me what it truly means to invest into the lives of those around you.  To be still and to be present where you are.  I miss not always having to ‘go’ somewhere all the time and to simply sit for the sake of sitting.  I miss my frappe like drinks and freshly prepared sandwiches from The Mint every Saturday.  Gelato, I cannot forget the African Gelato place.  Nothing compares to fresh gelato on a hot African day. I even miss rides into town; rides that should take only 10 minutes but take upwards 45 due to potholes, traffic jams or simply another accident.  I miss goofing off with local taxi drivers, bartering for the best price to get us home, as locals chuckle as they pass by. 

More importantly;

I miss the feet of those who walk on a small acreage of land, tucked just outside the busy, growing city of Ndola.  I miss the arms wrapped around my neck in the biggest, bestest hugs that there are.  There isn’t a price I wouldn’t pay to simply get just ONE of those hugs. I miss their beautiful, bright smiles up against their gorgeous dark skin tones.  I miss the laughter that reaches to the Heavens; from the songs of praise on a Sunday morning, to the school hallways Monday-Friday and everything in between.  I miss waking up each morning and hearing their voices right outside my door.  Sunday photo-shoots followed by evening movies and board games.  I miss sitting in the Insaka’s; getting my hair braided by 10 little hands, or listening to another gut-wrenching story of hopelessness, abuse, abandonment, neglect, pain and betrayal, turn into a miracle story of hope, healing, rescue, redemption, friendship and love.  I miss learning about scripture through the eyes of a child/teen each and every Sunday morning in a child led church service. I miss the countless hours of Frisbee throwing and giggles that accompanied it.

I miss spending time with my 3 sponsor children.  One a toddler that I just happened to be in the van, the day his teen brother brought him to us through social welfare.  Crying, scrawny and incredibly thirsty he was.  A year later, he’s healthy, eats more than I ever could, and is developing a personality uniquely his own. My first child I ‘took’ as a sponsor, an elementary aged girl who came broken, burned and lost, to Grace Academy a month before my first trip in 2011.  I saw God truly working in her life during my time with her in 2012 and 2015.  What an honour that God chose me to be a part of her story in a very practical way of child sponsorship!  Finally my newest sponsor ‘child’, no longer a child but a beautiful young lady and a former grade 10 English student of mine.  Quiet and shy at first, I found her one of the hardest to leave last year as she slowly began to open up her life to me.  Together, under the Africa sun, she shared with me about where she came from, the hardships she had endured and who she trying to be.  Ironically enough, she reminded me of a few of my girls here at home and, unknowingly, taught me a lot about life and gave me a new perspective into the lives of my teens. 

Yesterday, my church hosted a dessert fundraiser for Seeds of Hope, for the kids who call it home. 

I debated going.  Not because I’ve heard what was going to be shared time and time again, but because I was scared of how my heart would respond to it.  I was scared of the feelings and emotions tied to what would be shared, of ‘losing my control’ and of the personal embarrassment of the tears, I feared, that would show themselves among friends and peers.  Ultimately, I was scared of that one specific question/statement that I knew would be geared towards me by those around me.

“So Nikki, when are you hoping on a plane and heading back? Where is your next stop?”

What I did NOT expect, was the incredible peace that filled my heart and the strength within my voice as I responded back, “Not for another 2.5 years at least”.  The shock look on their faces was evident as I continued with saying, “God has given me an incredible ministry right here at home that I am honoured to be a part of each and every day.  He continues to allow me to be a part of miracle stories happening right here, right now.  I know without a doubt, that this is where He is calling me to be and I cannot express the amount of joy that it brings to my heart”.

Furthermore, what I did NOT expect where the tears that didn’t appear in my eyes.  Rather, they became tears that flowed out of a, now alumni, youth girl who I’ve grown to know, cherish and love throughout her 4 years in high school.  I could feel the praise in my heart go up towards God, as I simply wrapped her in a huge hug, as her tears flowed. Each tear a symbol of a beautiful, compassionate heart that God has given her, a heart that I KNOW He will continue to work miracles in, and through.  The simple words "Thank you" that she whispered into my ear, provided further confirmation of God being alive and moving here in a small Mennonite town.  I knew that, she knew I knew full well what her tears were for.  She knew that I understood 110% in a way that very few locally do. What a blessing, what an honour to continue to walk alongside her (and many others) as they continue their walks with Jesus. 

I’ve heard the saying once, “Save the world one life at a time”.

I have yet to fully understand it, but day by day I am finding myself gaining an even greater understanding behind that simple statement. 

Truth is.  I miss Africa and I always will.  I miss my kids in Zambia something fierce, with every breath that I take.  That will never leave the core of who I am...

Yet my heart remains at peace knowing that perhaps one day God will lead me back there again, maybe even for my toddler's graduation!?!?! (How cool would that be!!?!). However for now, with a trusting head and a knowing heart, I know God is taking care of my 'kids' in Zambia, the way He took care of my youth girls while I was at Grace Academy.  I've learned time and time again, that no matter where I am, whether in Africa or Altona, my 'kids' are ultimately in God’s hands whether I am there with them or not.  Thank the LORD for that!!  I know the best thing I can do for them, is pray and guess what…physical location doesn’t matter when it comes to prayer!!

God is beyond borders and customs, oceans and skies, politics and personal hardships and everything in between.  

Our God is a God who knows no bounds.  Who has required 3 things of us and whose love is never ending, whose faithfulness reaches to the skies. 

"Your steadfast love, O Lord, extends to the heavens, your faithfulness to the clouds". Psalm 36:5

 

“He has shown you, O mortal, what is GOOD.  And what does the LORD require of you? To ACT justly.  To LOVE Mercy. To WALK humbly with the LORD your God” (Micah 6:8)

Jesus, Heal our Nations

My head is spinning, my heart is hurting.

My head struggles with reason, with a countless number of questions regarding the pointless loss of life that seemed to rock America, a Nation less than 15 miles from my very home, this past week.  As an American friend and I struggle through the questions, one text aroused within our conversation that captured my attention the most.  It is a question that has been on repeat on my mind, it is “Really though, how do we fix this?” Even from thousands of miles away, I can hear the pain in her heart for her country and for all the lives lost.  From there, the conversation continued as we debated/questioned/wrestled together, with the thought of how one country (America) is so very different than its neighbour to the North (Canada).  Especially when we, Canada, are literally like a ‘hop, skip and a jump’ away.  Do I have an answer?  My brain wants to give one.  My instinct is to mention the difference in policy, governments and even the mentality of the people themselves, but my heart is quiet.  It is truly weeping for the lives lost regardless of age, nationality, gender, and skin colour.  

I saw a series of post on Instagram recently by a white humanitarian photographer whom I follow.  The posts were simple.  Each post had a black background with one simple word in white making up one of the most popular, current hashtags. BLACK LIVES MATTER.  His message was clear, but as I read the caption below it, tears began to flow from my eyes.  I could relate, somewhat, on a personal level.  He talked about disliking his white skin colour, to the point where he was even ashamed of it and how he wanted to ‘rip it off’.  

I get it.  I do.  I get it in a very personal way.

I cannot even begin to explain to you the number of times I have been approached throughout my travels, by someone of a different skin colour, who simply wanted to ‘touch my skin and absorb the ‘purity’ within it’.  What about the number of times street kids have singled me (or the group of friends I was with) out?  Begging for money or anything else we had to offer, simply because of the skin colour we bore.  I’ve been to African markets with national friends of mine and without national friends of mine and I am tired of being taken advantage of simple because of my skin.  More so, I am tired of how local vendors were completely rude and obscene to my friends but yet ‘as respectful and helpful’ towards me simply cause they wanted to make a sale (needless to say, that vendor did not get any business from us).

What about that time in a Thailand pharmacy when I almost bought a SKIN WHITENING shampoo/lotion?  Seriously, what would have to be IN something like that to physically lightening the skin? The sight of rows upon rows of products like those; further broke my heart. Or that time in India when a gang of men on motorbikes, showed up screaming at the store owner of the small tailor shop we were picking our Punjab’s up at.  The men on bikes were threatening the store owner simply because he was doing business with people of white skin colour (us).  On our way back home, we were caught in a riot of protestors and forced to walk over fire (literally) that was burning across the street.  

Africa is the hardest for me though.  I’ve heard story upon story from those of coloured who have lived through racial tensions.  I recall a conversation I had with Oma, my host grandma during my time in Capetown.  If anyone understood racial tension, it was this sweet, 80+ year old lady.  She had personally lived through the Mandala era and experienced much more in a single life time than anyone should.  Yet here she was, sharing her heart with me, saying how she wouldn’t ever change her skin colour for anything.  How she is proud to be a lady of colour and everything that comes/came with it.  Her dream is that her two young grandchildren could grow up in a world where fear ceased to exist when it came to skin colour and racial tension.  

The single hardest conversation in regards to skin colour, which I have ever had was with one of my grade 10 female students in Zambia in 2015.  A year later, and it still brings tears to my eyes as I think about how her body physically trembled as the pain beside me and how the pain in her voice came through as she shared her one wish with me.  She wishes that she would have been born white instead of black, born North American instead of Zambian.  I could hear how the distaste she had for herself simply because of her skin colour.  This young, beautiful 16 year old, ashamed of who she was simply because of her skin, unaware of the power that her life really held.  As I sat next to her, I prayed for words to encourage her with.  None came.  Instead, we simply cried together.  Black and white.  White and black.  

I didn’t write this post to ‘stir anything up’.  Rather, as a way for myself to process current events, along with past situations both global and personally. 

In parting, I would like to leave it with two simple quotes that have been challenging me lately.  My prayer is that they will challenge you as well and together, we can be unified voices in a world that is crying out for something more, BEFORE another life is lost.

“We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented” – Elie Wiesel; survivor of a WW2 Nazi concentration camp and author of the autobiography “NIGHT”

“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor” by Desmond Tutu, a black South African social rights activist.