snowy sunday

The white remnants of a snowy weekend fill the streets, and it's winter—a sharp turn from Zim, a land of hot temperatures and almost daily rainfall this time of year. I sit by candlelight and think again of the country where electricity is luxury.

Christmas is on our doorstep, and the approaching holiday wasn’t a reality days ago until we landed in D.C., where twenty-five glowing Christmas trees and ads at every turn reminded us of a bearded chimney dropper who brings gifts to children and eats an enormous stash of cookies, instead of the birth of the world’s Savior. I remember asking the guys about Christmas in Zim—it doesn’t exist like it does here—there is nothing to consume, let alone indulge in.

But the people celebrate Christ daily, for He is their everything.

At church tonight we held a giant feast instead of a service, all eating more than we should. I left early, still feeling jet-lagged and overwhelmed and frustrated there isn’t more I could tell people. I’m still digesting.

A week ago, we went to the “Christmas party” at the Alaska Feeding Centre in Zim, where an incredible woman named Annie started to feed and teach rural children, and now takes care of nearly seventy.

At that party, there weren’t tables full of exotic food choices. There was Sudza, a thick, salty Cream of Wheat type concoction that is keeping the country alive, and meat, a rare Christmas special.

Yesterday, I visited the local grocery store and left without buying food. It’s been over three days, and I still haven’t had to buy groceries. I’ve been well fed by friends, and I know I can go to the store and buy whatever I need, whenever I want. With even the dry food in my cupboard and freezer, I could eat well for weeks.

Jeremy and Julie went to Zim nine months ago had me over for breakfast this morning. We talked about our experiences and the potential and difficulties and perspectives of what we can take away, changes we can make, what believers can learn from each other. I found it equally frustrating and exciting, like white water rafting on the Zambezi was both terrifying and a great adventure.

An African brother sent me a series of strange text messages with pleas to text him back, but I can't text. He wants desperately to be friends, and I failed to connect with him while I was there. It made my heart sink, like I’ve fallen short as a “missionary.”

There are so many needs, and no way to fill them all.

Everyone knows people are starving around the world, but we often overlook the spiritual riches many facing difficulties or oppression possess. I’m still trying to find the words or medium to express the worship habits of these people.

Our amazement with their worship atmosphere is not an emotional response, or a heightened sensitivity to a different language and culture; it’s much more than mere music and singing and dancing.

Worship for these people is a lifestyle, a choice made daily, despite seemingly insurmountable odds, to “take up their cross and follow Him” to “offer their bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God.”

Their lives are spiritual acts of worship.