'Merica

I love America and Americans for far too many reasons to list. I am proud and grateful to have been born here. People who complain about America, but are unwilling to make it better, should just move elsewhere. 

You want to sit around and talk about how other countries are so great, their healthcare is better, their lifestyle, yada yada yada - pack your bags. See ya. Because you know what? There is a wide, wide, wiiiiide world out there, packed full of people literally dying to make it to America. 

During my time with Teach For America, I learned firsthand that there are many people willing to sacrifice just about everything for a chance to be American. Most of my students were first generation Americans, families uprooted from Nigeria, Mexico, Guatamala, you name it. 

This week I'm in Africa, and I find myself incredibly convicted about my own complaining. We complain a lot in America. We actually get together with friends and gripe about our jobs, our stress, our boyfriends-or lackthereof, and we call it "happy hour." In reality, compared with 98% of the rest of the population, we have the golden ticket: we are fat. Rich. Happy. 

It is a compliment in Zambia to call someone fat - here, it means that you are rich, because you have enough money that you actually have excess food. These kids often eat once a day. Excess food is absolutely unheard of, as is excess body weight. 

Listen people, they called Meg Carrigan fat. Have you ever seen her in a swimsuit? I have. Sister is smokin'. Therefore, all Americans are fat. Yea, I'm looking at you, size two pinny pincher. You are both rich. And fat. (ahhh, that felt good.)

I vow to complain less. We sit around and try to one up each other with how hard our jobs are and how stressed we are and in reality, we should give thanks to God because we were born in what is arguably the best country on the planet. We are American, and we did nothing to deserve it. We should direct our energy and our focus not at negativity,but something productive: Let's talk about how are we going to be better at the job we have. How thankful are we for what our jobs provide us? I vow to dwell in gratitude. 

In Lusaka, Zambia, the university gets full, fast. They don't really have "dream jobs" over there. You dream of being a teacher, but the education school is full your year? Well, you become something else. 

In the US of good ol' A, the majority, especially anyone who is not impoverished, choose their jobs. We choose our situations. We choose our joy. If we are miserable, we likely made that misery. In America, we have too much to be happy about, and if a door is closed, we have windows upon windows of opportunity to go through. 

Will you pray this with me? Seriously. I don't write prayers on here much, or ever. Pray with me. 

Gracious God, 

Give me a heart of gratitude for all you have given me. My citizenship alone is worthy of a thousand thanks. 

You are a God of all nations and you love all your people. Clean my heart of negativity, create in me through your grace a heart of joy, contentment, and thanksgiving. 

All glory and praise to you, O God, my rock and my redeemer. 

In Christ's Name, AMEN

Camp Life: Day One

Eleven hundred children stood in lines of 10 or 11 each, stretching the length of a football field, tightly packed together, awaiting the muzungu (white man.) Though most of them had never been to camp before, they knew, somehow, that the muzungu would love on them and care for them this week. They were ready. 

Each of the Americans were partnered with a local Zambian, someone who spoke the language, understood the culture and communities from where our kids were coming, someone who loved Christ and actively went to church. They would help us counsel the children and translate for us. I honestly can't remember if they're paid, my mom and I heard differently, she thinks they strictly volunteer, I thought they were paid at least some kind of wage. Regardless, it's not much, and these people are incredible - delight in the Lord, speak His truth, pray with a passion rarely seen. They are intelligent, multilingual, hardworking, and exceptional with children. What grace that they found their way to Family Legacy.

Finally, we were off the bus and found our group - I say we because I was paired with Lauren Carrigan Allen, Amy's oldest sister. She had left two young daughters behind in Houston to be here for the dedication of Tom's house. Five years ago she and her husband came together to Camp Life. Since she was leaving two days early at the end of the week, we were paired together to share a group of 11 girls. 

I felt guilty thinking for a moment: "This must be what concentration camps looked like." Thousands of skinny, bone thin, malnourished children, with hair matted or missing in patches, their bodies full of cuts and scrapes, clothes merely rags and mismatched, shoes broken or missing altogether, dirt EVERYWHERE. The smell, oh the smell! Even in open air, outside, a strong stench hovered around the crowd. 

But their was a giant difference here: these children had joy. Smiles. They hugged us like I've never seen anyone hug a stranger. They were desperate for affection. 

The children were begging to be touched, held, loved. How overjoyed they were to be at camp! Whatever these first timers had hear, it must have amazed them, because they were more excited than a group of American children who had been told they could spend the night at Disney world, with no lines, unlimited candy, and no parents. It. Was. Nuts. 

We entered a big building on the hilltop, the "Family Legacy Center" for praise and worship and fun songs. If you forced me to describe it one sentence or less: Vacation Bible School - ON CRACK. 

I loved the rhythm of Grier, the founder of Family Legacy, and Uncle Teddy, his Zambian partner who translated each sentence. They are both thin men, Teddy a bit taller, with long arms and legs. Teddy moves with the grace of a dancer and has a voice like deep, calm water - calming, soothing, powerful. 

I told Teddy that he should record audio books - "Americans would pay a lot of money to have your voice on tape." I don't think my message translated well. He just smiled at me, and I was able to detect a tiny bit of "This American girl is talking crazy." 

We spent time in small groups with our 11 Zambian girls, ages 8 to 12. We talked about the songs we had just sung and Jesus' word and Uncle Grier's message. We learned about the word of God together: First, hear. Then, understand. Then, believe. Then, speak it. 

The girls were receptive to talk about God, and they sang impromptu songs about how God is good to them as we walked through camp. 

Have I mentioned the bathrooms at camp? On the first day, these kids are mesmerized by the bathrooms. Guess what? They're red and blue port o potties, something we stay away from as much as possible in the US. But these kids are fascinated! Can you imagine, and American child, even a very poor one, being fascinated by a port-o-potty, because what they have at home is far worse? 

I am thankful for the immense privilege of being born an American. I am also so very unaware of it. 

Shame on me. 

Thanks be to God for my cushy, plush living conditions that I have always known. 

I thought I was here to teach these kids. I wonder what else they'll teach me as the week goes on...

Camp Life: Day One

Children sprinted alongside our bus today, huge smiles, feet moving so fast you could barely see them, waving their arms like mad and shouting the Zambian word for white man: "Muzungu! Muzungu!" (mah-zoon-goo)

Their excitement was contagious and I waved my hand through the open window of our blue bus, as if I were some celebrity and there was a reason they should cheer for me. I couldn't stop smiling looking at their sweet faces.

This morning we went on a 2.5 hour tour of Lusaka, the capitol of Zambia. The streets are busy and from the road you see two things, mostly: slums, or walls of the middle class, that hide their small houses built from cinder block behind them. Our tour guide said you start to learn how to tell if someone is wealthy by looking at how nice their gate is, and if they have a guard at the gate, they must be really up there. The slums, well, you see things like trash bags hung up to become makeshift walls surrounding a deep hole in the ground: the bathroom for numerous houses to share.

There are too many cultural differences to count. People don't walk on sidewalks here, they just balance on the edge of the road as cars honk at them. Dozens, hundreds of people, walk alongside the highway. Cars drive on the wrong side of the road. People balance stacks of hay on their back as they ride their bike. My brother enjoyed reading the signs for "Penis Cream" aloud for all on our bus to hear, as my mother shook her head in embarrassment. There is a dust in the air that layers itself on your skin before you even notice. Later, I will wipe my face and neck with a make-up remover wipe and it will turn dark brown.

Crime is low here, and poverty high. I asked Gentry why it didn't seem more violent. "Zambia is a peaceful country," he explained. "They don't have a history of tribal warfare. They are known for being very friendly."

Though they have grocery stores and shopping malls like our American cities, this morning bus tour brings new definition to the word poor - a word the locals toss around that does not seem to have the same negative connotation as it does in the US. It's just said in a way that's matter of fact: "poor."

They told us from our comfy seat on the bus that the kids we'd have in our groups this week would come from these communities. I was nervous and thrilled to hear their stories, give them hugs, see their faces.

Around lunchtime, our buses pulled up the hill at the Family Legacy center, and there they were: 1,100 children, of various heights and ages, all with dark skin and matted, dirty hair, bright smiles lighting up their faces. They were jumping and giving shouts of joy to meet their "muzungu." I held my breath a second, wondering which of the 113 lines of 10 children would be "mine" for the week. Wondering if I could handle hearing their heartbreak. Wondering how'd I'd have the energy to last five days with them.

Here I am, Lord. Give me your heart. Show me your children and love them through me.

I stepped off the bus behind my mom. Their cheers and chanting of songs was deafening. It felt like the start of a NCAA national championship game, there was so much excitement and anticipation rushing through so many people.

It's day one. Kick-off time.
Here. we. go.

And so we went to Africa

So, we went to Africa. On a mission trip. To an orphanage. 

Yep, while there is much need and poverty on our own soil, we spent thousands of dollars to spend a week taking care of orphans on another continent, taking cute pictures with the filthy African children, talking about instagrammig all of it. 

Are you one of those people who sees friends' pictures on Facebook, holding an African child, blue sky in the background, smiles all around, and you scoff at them? ME TOO! I never had it on my mind to go to Africa. I've always felt more "called" to focus on our own country's needs. But my sister in law convinced us and raised the money for a home to be built in my dad's name, where 12 orphans would sleep in a warm bed for the very first time and take a shower for likely the first time and use a toilet instead of a hole in the ground and eat three meals a day for the FIRST time and go to school for likely the FIRST time. These things we do daily, without even blinking, they had never done before. 

It sounds pretty good, right? An excellent way to grieve for my dad: breathe life into someone else's life. Answer the helpless' cry for help with a smile and a warm bed. 

So we got our vaccinations and we got on a plane and took three flights and we went to Africa. 

I never planned to go. 

I never would have picked this. 

This is our story. This is their story. This is God's story. 

*I'll be posting here for the next few days or weeks. As fast as my fingers will type, I long to tell you what we saw, what we learned, what we cried over, how we sang to God under the trees, how we danced for his glory and how we laughed through our tears. Thank you, as always, for reading. Feel free to pass along.