Life loves.

I am having a terrible tangled of a time trying to figure out what's next. So far my life has not been one smooth road. The lord has taken me on many a path that i never dreamt would come my way. I have so many passions and loves. At the moment two are very prevalent, photography and people. I am not sure what this means, or where the Lord is directing me. Some days i want to throw everything out the window and take pictures forever, then others i see the Lords hand guiding me to graduate school, to study counseling. I know in the end it will all work out, that He will lead me where i should go. But i just don't know how to figure out these loves of my life and how they fit into what i should do with my life. I'm glad He knows, even if i don't.

Soundtracks to our lives.

I was on the train the other day, listening to my new favourite movie soundtrack. This soundtrack is peaceful, quiet and sometimes slightly daunting. It helps me think and process all that is going on around me. To be honest it makes things come alive; makes things jump out at me. It may make me a little more dramatic than i usually am, and may also make me feel like i am living my own move, but i like it. It takes me at least an hour to do my regular travels on saturday, so i usually play the soundtrack twice. This time the music bothered me slightly. Often the songs don't end because they are designed for a movie. When you are watching the movie you don't notice that the songs don't end, but when you are simply listening you do. Then my mind wandered to this movie that the music comes from and i realised i don't like the ending to the movie. It is sad and depressing; not the usual happy-go-lucky ending we like.

Why is this all important. Well, as the music continued to lull me on the train, my mind continued to wander. We as humans don't like things that don't complete themselves. We like things to come full circle, a beginning and and ending. It makes us feel stable and balanced. Most of the time, we don't like movies with sad, abrupt, or even strange endings. Things must end in a somewhat level ground. Why do we do this? Our lives are never perfect, they often don't end in a complete perfect circle. Things are messy, painful, strange and unclear.

I couldn't help but think that it is because we were not originally designed for this imperfect world. Often people are annoyed at romantic comedies because they are too "perfect", yet we all long for that "perfect" life. Why? Because we were supposed to have that "perfect" life. We were meant to live in a stunning garden, eat fruit all day, love our spouses with an unconditional love and never be ashamed of our bodies. We were meant to walk in perfect union with our maker and have a relationship with Him that never fails.

One day, in heaven, we will have this perfection. I think it is natural to long for it in this world; for our songs to have a great start and a wonderful ending. We may not always get it in this life-time. But i for one, am grateful that one day my circle will come to a full complete; perfect end.

Colourful promises.

So Today i saw my first double rainbow. I must say it was somewhat of a supernatural feeling. I've seen my fair share of rainbows, but not like this, it was the kind that takes your breathe away. Where you know the God is whispering down His promises. I have been having a rough time lately, knowing i am going into another time of great transition. My thoughts have been muddled, my heart jumbled and my spirit low. Living a normal day, i happened to glance outside and see this beautiful sight. My heart lifted in an instant, knowing that the God i trust makes promises He keeps. He is constant, He is loving and He will never leave me. This i know. I was so encouraged to be reminded of this. This God i serve is one who makes covenants with His people, these oaths are stronger than anything man can imagine. Looking at that rainbow, i can only imagine what Noah felt, a promise that God would never flood the earth like that again. A promise that they were safe and protected, a promise that has lived to this day and will for an eternity longer. I am so thankful i serve a God like that!

Water drops

I haven't had much inspiration lately; so i haven't written. It's funny how life gets mundane, how the things you were once excited about become boring, how the beauty around you becomes mundane, how the blessings of life become reality and you don't notice them anymore. This morning my husband and i were up early and on our way to our internships. It's been a rainy gloomy day today, but when we arrived at the church our surroundings were stunning. I couldn't help but stand and stare. The sun was shining through the clouds just enough to light up the splendor of green earth around us. The church (where we work) is on a hill. So we were up above the little town of South Fork looking down on God's creation.

I have seen this view endless times and when i come to Colorado i am often amazed by the beauty, but it quickly becomes old news. Whenever i face a new faze of life i get all excited--or terrified--about what is to come. When i face the new "challenge" I am always amazed at God's provision, or at the blessings He has bestowed, or at the beauty of what i am engulfed in. Yet every time, just like clockwork, i get bored, or used to my predicament. I forget what is around me, even if it's punching me in the face.

I sit here with rain pouring outside my window. I stop. Pause. Breathe. That scent of freshness, of clean air. It's funny to me this thing called rain, in the city when it rains everything is crisp after. The city dirt and grim, washed away. Yet today even in rural Colorado the rain clears out the cobwebs in the air. The already pristine environment is cleansed further.The mountains are a more stunning blue, the already pure oxygen hits your lungs with an unusual oomph, the leaves on the trees are a sparkling green and they looked refreshed, they enjoyed the long drink!

I see myself as the renewed piece of Colorado. Restored, even though i thought i was already clean and pure. I had been missing all the goodness God had around me. The oxygen tastes almost sweet as i breathe it in, i stop, pause, breath. This is the life He has given me today and i will rejoice in it!

deep thinking

So i am sitting right next to my husband. I am blogging and he is doing a systematic theology paper. I have already taken three theology courses in my time at Bible College and have one more to take. I must say this before i continue to write, i am not a theologian. In fact i really struggled in those classes, it was hard for me to grasp all the theories and theologies of those that have come before me. The tests were always very painful for me, i never ever did well. That is partly my dyslexia and partly, i just didn't get it. Don't misunderstand me, i think theology is very important, especially correct theology. However, there are many things i cannot remember and could not tell you which theology is which. So it has got me thinking, what in the world are Adam and i doing to ourselves. We are both doing internships right now in a small church in Colorado and all these theologies don't really seem to have a place in our ministry right now. When you try to discuss them with the average lay person you end up sounding like a smart aleck. So where is their place? I guess personally they have helped me see God in a better light, to understand this great God just a little bit better. I will never grasp them all and will probably not use them in everyday jargon but if they have brought me even one step closer to my God, then how amazing. So my attitude has changed from one of dissatisfaction to one of understanding. I may not understand all the theologies that are out there, but i have a deeper understanding of God. For that i am thankful.

Dzimba dza mabwe: The House of Stone

I can sing my national anthem in three languages. The government changed the national anthem when I was eight. They wanted a new anthem that truly reflected the nation—they claimed the original one was not indigenous enough—so they changed it. One line always bothered me in the new anthem, “Mwari ropafadzai nyika yeZimbabwe” which means blessed be the land of Zimbabwe. The country would sing this national Anthem with pride and gusto not knowing the changes that would come with it.

“Oh lift high the banner, the flag of Zimbabwe. The symbol of freedom proclaiming victory, we praise our heroes' sacrifice...

I have always been proud of my country. Zimbabweans are a very prideful people. They have nothing left to hold onto so they hold onto their pride. I was one of those. I have always been proudly Zimbabwean. I have wanted to fly the flag of my country everywhere I went and let the world know that I was Zimbabwean. I have often wondered why I wanted to fly the flag of a broken land. Why I have wanted to hold onto a crumbling nation with all that I can; why I have wanted everyone to know I am Zimbabwean when the land that I call “Zim” no longer exists? We have a flag. Its colours are black, red, yellow and green. I would not say that this flag could be flown showing victory, or heroics. It is more a symbol of a country disintegrating, and in devastation.

There are these ruins in Zim called the “Great Zimbabwe Ruins.” The history of Zimbabwe is so corrupt that no one really knows the true history of these ruins. I will always remember what they look like. They are these great, giant walls of grey brick, with one main grand wall surrounding the possible “village” that was once there. However, these grey bricks are crumbling—as most ancient buildings do—the country Zimbabwe derived its name from these ruins, Dzimba dza Mambwe, “the House of Stone.” I have wondered, looking back on those ruins, if the name Zimbabwe itself is a prediction of what was to come for the nation: the house of stone that will crumble. Yet most Zimbabweans will still hold their flags high, and cling to what is left of the degenerating land, if there is anything left.

My family once went to visit these ruins; I think I was thirteen, the age where you think you know everything. I was very disappointed in the history of the ruins. The tour guides claimed that these ruins were Shona ruins (the Shona are one of the main African peoples in Zimbabwe). However, I knew that the historical evidence of these ruins was not clear. They are so old it’s most likely that they are true African ruins, but the structure and style of the ruins are unlike anything else African. Basically my thirteen-year-old mind was convinced the history of the ruins was warped. I believed the government has changed the history –they have changed history books before—and made it sound like their ancestors had built the ruins. I knew I was right—there is no evidence that I was right—and there was no doubt about it. Needless-to-say my family was very sick of me after that trip. Every wall, every broken down brick, every crumbling mud hut, I would say, “Don’t tell anyone, but its all lies.” I felt I lived in a world of conspiracy, and I did to some extent.

…And vow to keep our land from foes;

And may the Almighty protect and bless our land.

When a one nation or piece of land is taken over by another, the flag is often the symbol used to claim that land. In the year 2000, war veterans staked their claim and took the land they thought belonged to them. A war veteran in Zim was someone who had supposedly fought in the liberation war from 1964 to 1979—they should have been at least 45 years old—most of the claimed “war vets” were 19-25 (so it was a lie, they were just normal people taking over land). President Robert Gabriel Mugabe wanted to redistribute all commercially owned, white farmland and give it to the war vets (basically he took most farms owned by white people and gave them to back people, with no compensation to the previous farm owners). There was much violence (if the people refused to leave there farms they would be tortured until they left, or died), and when the seizing of land stopped, a total of 110,000 square kilometres had been taken; the country only had 112,000 square kilometres in commercial land. Most of the white farmers left the country. This began a mass exodus of whites in Zimbabwe; even non-farmers were migrating to other nations around the world. The crumbling had begun; the land that once was the breadbasket of Africa was dying fast. The fields that once produced wheat, barley and maize now sat desolate, dry and damaged.

How could the Almighty protect this land that man was certain to destroy? I have often asked the question, why is there suffering, especially in African nations? One of the small insights I have had from this journey is that when man sins there are huge consequences. Sin was brought into this world through the fall and ever since then man has been power-hungry. We see these consequences sometimes in small ways, but I have seen them destroy a whole country. One man, Mugabe, managed to single-handedly destroy a growing nation. He chose power and it affected and entire nation.

…Oh lovely Zimbabwe, so wondrously adorned

With mountains, and rivers cascading, flowing free;

May rain abound, and fertile fields;

I spent many hours of my life enjoying the beauty of Zimbabwe. I enjoyed the natural wild-life, riding horses to see some of the great African animals. On the horse I felt part of the animal, like I was part of nature; the horse would take me as close as two metres away from giraffe, wildebeest, impala, and more. The dry high-grassland was a beauty in itself. However, there were times Zim was bursting with green, especially in December the warm-rainy month. My grandparents lived in the Eastern-Highlands, otherwise known as Inyanga. Those were the mountains of Zim; it wouldn’t snow but it would still get pretty chilly. My brother, sisters and I would spend hours running around the botanical gardens, building forts out of pine-needles, and swimming in the icy-cold streams of the Tsanga River. Childhood was blissful adventures of nature and all that she had to offer.

It had been about ten years since I had been to this particular campsite we spent many family vacations at, Vumba National Park—now Bvumba—known for its misty mornings and botanical paradise. When I was little my family would set up camp there for 6 weeks, it was our temporary home. I remember one distinct holiday when we had terrible storms for days. We had set our tent up—this tent was huge with two separate “bedrooms” on both ends and a middle “lounge/dining room” area—on a hill. After two straight days of freezing rain, our tent flooded. We had a foot of water on the floor of the tent. Us kids thought it was such an adventure—our own personal swimming pool—Mom and Dad didn’t quite agree. I remember after the rains stopped other campers were hanging out their carpets, and airing out blankets and sheets. We were shocked to see carpets, but when Zimbabweans camp, they camp for months at a time. It really was a short-term home.

When I returned to this temporary home, as a teen, it was nothing like I remembered. The campsite was over-grown with weeds, and patches of dead earth. Most of the trees had been ripped out of the ground, leaving gapping wholes and mounds of dirt. The pool that we spent days in as kids was empty, cracked, and useless; the little rivers that once had all kinds of colorful fish in them, dried up. It wasn’t returned to its natural state as they had wanted it to, but it rather look like a tornado had been through it. No one cared about these campsites anymore, they weren’t taken care of. The trees were taken out because most of them were pine trees. Pine trees are not indigenous to Zim they are exotic. Therefore, the government wanted all the trees to be indigenous again, so they ripped out all the pine trees with the intention of growing trees that originally came from Zimbabwe. I never saw new growth, only the demolition and devastation. Even the natural, beautiful, Zimbabwe was falling to pieces.

…May we be fed, our labour blessed;

I was in grade three when a program demanding that all children must eat porridge at break time, was implemented. So when 10 a.m. would roll round, all the children would line up and file into a large dining area. I hated it, but I am not a porridge fan. It lasted about two months. It was mielie-meal porridge made out of maize. It was, I am sure, aided by foreign aid, a way to easily feed starving children in Africa. As I said, it didn’t last long, either the money ran out, or the government decided to keep some for themselves, a very normal practice. They must have been hungry.

The land that once produced food for its people and for exportation produced nothing of its own. All food had to be imported from neighbouring countries. This meant that if there was food on the grocery store shelves it was expensive. The average rural family could not afford this food. Therefore whatever they farmed in their backyard would be what they ate. Most of the indigenous people had no knowledge of farming, and so the land went untilled. The war vets were in the same situation, farming just enough to feed their families. The land was slowly returning to its original state. Where the land was no longer commercial, it was simply used for personal use. Therefore large amounts of crops weren’t being produced anymore and it was slowly starving the country.

The biggest fight I remember my parents having was over bread. My mom had been at the grocery store for three hours waiting for the bread to come out. The usual procedure would be that the women (and sometimes men) would wait in a line for hours. Then whatever bread was made for that day would be put out and it was first come first serve. My mom came home that day with probably twenty-five loaves of bread. My dad told her she had to take them back. They were all terribly stale. She didn’t want to, she had waited for hours, and she didn’t know if she could get more. It was a silly little experience, but it’s etched in my mind, the fight for bread.

…And may the Almighty protect and bless our land.

Oh God, we beseech Thee to bless our native land;

The land of our fathers bestowed upon us all;

The land of our fathers: who are the fathers? That is the true question. If you are white, then your idea of “fathers” is most likely from Britain. If you are black your fathers have been in Zimbabwe possibly since the beginning of time.

I was eleven when this was made very clear to me. I was in grade six and my teacher, Mr. Nyangombe, was teaching our class the history of colonisation in Zimbabwe. “It’s your fault! It’s YOUR fault!” he said, pointing. I was one of two white girls in my class. Somehow the fact that the white people took over Zimbabwe made it my fault. Instead of looking back and saying both sides made wrong decisions, it became evident that my teacher blamed the whites, and therefore blamed me. I remember being so angry with him. I knew it wasn’t even slightly my fault, and my ancestors were Scottish anyway; the English took over Zim. I didn’t say anything to him; words just didn’t come. What could I say to this man, years older than me, with a warped view of race? This same teacher had beaten a boy with a belt once in front of the entire class so I was too afraid to speak up. So I never did. My parents knew about it and the school board was informed, but nothing ever happened to Mr. Nyangombe. I remember I just had to let it go; we lived in a world where things like that happened everyday. No one was in danger because of it; I just had to deal with it. Injustice was what it was, but that was what our country was full of.

White people were no longer friends, but enemies of long ago. My fathers had not bestowed land, they had apparently stolen it and now the other fathers—the black ones—wanted their land back. So maybe God would bless the native land, the land that used to be, not the land that the whites polluted. Would he bless that land? I knew that God couldn’t bless that land; not one full of hate and animosity. If the nationals were asking God to bless their native land, it seemed He was. God was giving them what they wanted, a nation returned to mostly a black nation, a nation that was full of racists, a nation that had nothing to offer the world at large. If that was what it meant to bless the native land, then it was blessed in abundance.

…From Zambezi to Limpopo

May leaders be exemplary;

I could never sing this line. “May the leaders be exemplary….” The leaders were not exemplary. Robert Mugabe has been ranked the seventh worst dictator in 2007, and then went up to first place in 2009. In 1980 the average annual income for Zimbabwe was US $950, and a Zimbabwean Dollar was worth more than the American by one. Inflation then hit beginning at 623% in 2004 and eventually reaching 14,840.5% in 2007. It continued into hyperinflation and went to 10,500,000% in June 2008 it kept rising until the currency collapsed. Now the country works mainly in U.S. dollars.

Mugabe has been called Hitler before, and even grew the little toothbrush mustache known as the Hitler mustache. This was Mugabe’s response to this accusation, “This Hitler has only one objective: justice for his people, sovereignty for his people, recognition of the independence of his people and their rights over their resources. If that is Hitler, then let me be a Hitler tenfold". Oh, Mugabe never massacred millions of Jews, but he has massacred hundreds of Ndebele people (the other African people group in Zim, a minority to the Shona). However, no one knows about that, or can prove it. He’s a very smart man. Wonderful at covering his tracks, and making himself look good. For example, when he first started taking over the farms, he offered a million Zimbabwean dollars for each farm. To the rest of the world this sounded fair. What the world didn’t know was that a million Zimbabwean dollars was, at the time, equivalent to possibly twenty U.S dollars. Who would sell their huge commercial farm for twenty dollars? He was (and still is) a man who makes Zimbabwe’s problems sound minor and nothing compared to the rest of the world.

We would often drive past Mugabe’s house in the capital Harare. You could only drive past there from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., or the guards that lined the outside walls would shoot at you. The car could not slow down drastically or definitely not stop, or you would be shot. They would, of course, aim for your tires, but if they missed, oh well. It was one of the first times I felt hate. I would stare out the window and stare down the armed guards placed all around the walls. I thought if they could at least see the anger in my eyes, the pain, the hurt, the torment, then maybe they would care. They never flinched, or even blinked. I mattered not to them. I wondered what would happen to me if I grabbed one of their guns and shot the president. He actually was never home, unbeknownst to me. He has other secret homes he lived in. I wish someone would just pop him off; then maybe it would all be over. He wasn’t the only corrupt one; it wouldn’t all be over. The man was Prime Minister in 1980. Then in 1987 he changed the constitution and made himself President. He has been changing the constitution ever since to remain in power.

Sanctions, war-veterans, land-redistribution, operation Murambatsiva, Xenophobia, Alien, Refugee, immigrant—all words I never thought would be a part of my everyday vocabulary. On my passport it says; “The government of Zimbabwe requests and requires all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance and to afford the bearer such assistance and protection as may be necessary.” I have never been able to pass freely into any land, not into foreign lands and even traveling back to Zimbabwe has never been easy. The passport I own might as well be the tree it came from it does nothing. Just as my passport is a vapour, the country is the same. It was one a house made of stone and is now a mound of rubble. The land I called home is hardly recognisable and the pieces will never be able to be put back.

And may the Almighty protect and bless our land.”

We as a country end our anthem with this line. We have repeated it over and over throughout the national hymn. Man often does this, he does whatever he wants, and then asks God to bless it. Black and white Zimbabweans long for their land back, they long for it to be restored, to be blessed. This verse has often come to my mind when pondering Zimbabwe, “If my people, who are called by name, with humble themselves and pray, and turn from their wicked ways. THEN I will hear from heaven, I will hear and HEAL their land,” Chronicles 7:14. The wicked government is still in power and the country is not turning to the Lord for healing, so can he really heal it? I doubt it. The land will be restored when it can turn to the Lord, it can only be healed when the wicked ways are turned from. Until then my crumbling nation will continue to crumble.

heavy heart.

My heart has been heavy lately. So heavy the normal things of life have been painful, breathing, sleeping, eating. I have done a great job of distracting my brain, with cooking (i just can't eat what i cook), cleaning, art, and t.v. My brain loves me for this constant exercise. I keep it occupied and it thanks me by not thinking about what weighs on my heart. I have become so good at this distraction tactic that i look back on my days and wonder where they went. I am distracting myself out of living. On the outside i look fine, and perhaps even feel fine inside. But my heart tells me otherwise.

I have done everything i can to please this brain that wants to punish me with it's thoughts. But in doing so i have neglected my little heart. I have realised that i actually don't know how to distract my heart, in fact it's impossible. So i ignore it. This doesn't work. I cannot make my heart be peaceful.

There is a reason for this. In my human capacity i can distract the brain, confuse it even, make it think it's happy. But my heart, well it's God's and only He can heal it. Somehow i forgot He could. I have not just ignored my heart but ignored the one who holds it in His hand.

I have never struggled so much with grasping His peace. Sometimes it takes me a day or two. This time I have to wake up each day, and remind myself minute by minute that I have His peace. A peace that passes all understanding.

This takes work, I can not trick my heart into thinking it's happy. Even if I have to do it minute by minute i will continue to grasp His peace. Why? Because it is the only thing that can distract me, that can fulfill my soul, that can make me content.

I think the human body is ingenious. It knows how to cope when the heart does not. I will keep doing the things i enjoy, but not to distract me, but rather just to enjoy them. His peace is what sustains.

It's about that time

It was the fifth of December, 2005, at 2:50p.m. and flight 6268 from Harare to Johannesburg was about to take off. As the plane rose higher and higher I physically felt the distance grow between me and my family, the scene of goodbye playing over and over in my head.

“O.K, it’s about that time,” I mustered up. Everyone surrounded me in a claustrophobic circle; it seemed we couldn’t get close enough. I swallowed over and over, blinked over and over; breathed deep— all to keep those dreaded watery eyes away. My sisters were the worst, crying so much I had to be strong for them. I had to be strong for Mom too. “I’ll be back soon,” I told her, not knowing if it was true. They say you often leave the best for last; I definitely left the worst for last. It was Dad’s turn. Deep hug—there was that deep pain that seems to rise from your toes, punch you in your stomach, and then pour out your eyes. I looked up into his face full of pride, love, and fear; it mirrored my own. It was about that time.

I got lost staring out the window; lost in the pallid downiness surrounding the aircraft. I had always dreamed of soaring and slicing through the billows of clouds; I couldn’t quite believe it. I was put out by the fact that I sat above the wing, my view slightly obstructed. It would catch the corner of my eye and I thought it was a car trying to overtake us; I had to keep reminding myself I was in a plane. My eyes were riveted on the big grey wing, with all its movable flaps and specific design, the end of it edging upward just perfectly to create the right framework. My nose was pressed up against the glass like a little one seeing it all for the first time. My eyes traveled inward to the double panes in front of me—if I pushed really hard would they break? There were tiny little snowflakes on the windows. I had never seen a snowflake before. I was intimidated yet valiant, enthralled yet perplexed.

“Are you flying alone?” Gordon Robb asked me; I nodded. I knew his name from seeing his ticket when he sat down next to me. I never asked him his name, even though I knew what it was.
“Have you flown before, a young girl traveling by herself?” Gordon asked.
“Not since I was two,” I replied, “so no, not really.”
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Ummmm, Los Angeleeeese,” I pronounced.
“How old are you?” he asked, surprise etched in the lines of his face.
“Nineteen, tomorrow…” I trailed off.

My eyes moved out the little hole again, wandering through the blue and white expanse, a storm of clouds on my left and blue skies on the other side of the plane (I tried to glance out both windows at the same time). It was my first birthday without them all, my family, my home, and my friends. How would I do it? I wished the endless sky would answer me.
He asked me a few more questions; which I enjoyed—it helped distract me. Eventually he must have realised I was in a world of my own, so he stopped talking. Leaving home at nineteen to go and live with distant relatives was not something I had ever imagined for myself. I left with nothing to my name, one tiny suitcase with hardly anything in it besides pictures of family, some books, and one or two items of clothing. I was going to college; I was going to make something of myself—little did I know it was community college, everyone is accepted into community college—but I knew this was what the Lord wanted for my life. Countless doors had opened for this journey of my life to happen; doors opened that we could never have physically pushed open.

I wanted to go to university; this was the only way my family could afford it. Getting a visa in Zimbabwe is close to impossible—especially if you are a young white female who could potentially get married—but I got mine, in a day! Paying for the flights would never be able to come out of my parents’ pockets, but the tickets were fully paid for. I had someone to live with; they would pay for a car and the beginnings of school. It was close to miraculous, so why was it so hard?

I knew my Dad hadn’t wanted me to go, but I also knew he knew that I had to go, that this was what I needed to do. He was proud of his eldest daughter but couldn’t imagine a world without me in it; I couldn’t imagine a world without him and all of them. So we all put on that face, the one that pretends to disguise the fear, an almost smile and a glistening eye, the face that I held the entire trip.

The short flight ended. As soon as the fasten seatbelt sign turned off, everyone unbuckled and stood, grabbing their stuff from overhead compartments, even though we wouldn’t deplane for another ten minutes. Eventually, I followed the crowd down the long hallway into the airport. All of a sudden I was gripped with something—I just stood still—staring but this time not out the window; hundreds of people rushed around and they all knew exactly where they were going. I did not. I am not sure how long I stood there, wishing I had Dad to show me where to go (He didn’t always know where to go, but he always figured it out).
Dad had decided to never tell me about this American Dream. In the beginning he believed it was not for me, but over time the Lord softened his heart. Amazing Americans were brought across his path that opened his eyes to a country he thought was full of divorce, immorality and materialism—of course it is a country like that, but so are many other countries—slowly but surely his mind was changed. It became apparent he had to let me go, he needed to let me go.

Never knowing when I would return, it was done: I was let go.
Eventually, I made it to my terminal; somehow I had missed the fact that bigger airports have more than two gates, and beyond that more than one terminal. There was hardly anyone at my gate and I realized I had a good 6-hour wait before my next flight left. So with bravery renewed, I decided to explore. The Johannesburg airport was a bustle of activity and it was all mine to

conquer.

I aimlessly wandered through many different stores, looking at all the touristy African trinkets, examining each one with great detail, knowing it would be a long time till I saw anything like that again. I bought a pair of earrings—I thought I got them for a steal—twenty dollars, that was so cheap, right? I was used to paying twenty thousand Zimbabwean dollars for an ice cream (probably equivalent to fifty American cents) so I thought I had a great bargain.

I was excited to be on my own. It was a strange excitement; one mixed with apprehension too. I assume I looked somewhat like babies do sometimes; their faces go bright red and you can’t tell whether they will laugh or cry; you just have to wait and find out which response you will get. I think I chose the laugh, or was it the cry? Possibly both at the same time?

I began to grow weary as the adrenaline wore off, so I trailed back towards my gate. This time there were lots of people there. No seat for me so I sat on the floor with my back to the wall, observing people. I heard many different languages—nearly everything but English. Whole families—especially Indian families—were waiting. Moms jostling crying babies, Dads running after the stray two-year-olds. Business men were typing with furry, others at the ticket counter begging for a flight, and other poor exhausted folk sitting and watching others as I was. At least they all had each other, someone to talk to, I thought. It’s amazing how alone I felt when I was surrounded by so many people.

I had no one to talk to, no one to share all these emotions with. I had no idea if I would have anyone to share with for a long time. Dad was always the one I could take my big, philosophical or biblical questions to. Like, “Dad it there such a thing as being slain in the spirit with laughter?” Or “Daddy, how do you really tell the difference between a leopard and a cheetah?” Mom was always the one I shared emotions with; broken hearts and tears were often with her and yet I could always make her laugh. We would often burst out into hysterics of laughter at the smallest things. I had finally reached a place where I was becoming her friend, not just her daughter; now I had lost that. Late at night I would often sit on mom and dad’s bed sharing my thoughts, dreams, fears, problems; but not anymore.

“British Airlines flight 56, Johannesburg to Heathrow is now boarding.”
Two hours flew by. But I had ten more to go, and I wouldn’t get any sleep. The flight attendant walked by and asked if I wanted any tea. I giggled to myself; I loved his British accent; who knew that in the future I would be the one people that people would giggle at? I politely declined his offer of tea. That was the last time I was ever offered tea on a flight; it would always be coffee after that.

I did not sleep a wink that night; I watched every episode of Everybody Loves Raymond. I got lost in the essence of family: making fun of the ones you love, fighting, laughing and enjoying family, something I knew I had left behind. When I started to miss home, I would shake it off with false hope of the joy ahead, excitement at the new, being able to do and see things that had never existed in my world before. Things like malls, being able to drive (I couldn’t drive in Zim because there was no petrol in the country), Disney Land, the beach, college, new friends. I created a fantasy list of endless possibilities to dull the ache inside.

When that didn’t work anymore, I began to watch the little map of Africa. It was a surreal experience to watch this little plane move ever so slowly over the map they had on the screen. I felt like I was suspended in time, not moving at all, yet moving at a speed that would have taken years on land. I watched the map for hours; it was something to do, something to get lost in.

The night finally came to an end. We landed in Heathrow. I deplaned again with everyone; I knew to go to the big boards that had all the flights on them. I knew to look for Los Angeleeeese. My confidence quickly dissipated. There were at least ten different Los Angeles’ on the board; I had no clue which one was mine. I froze once again, staring, wondering how I would ever figure out which was mine. I placed my backpack on the floor and just stood there.
I missed having Dad take control. He always knew where to go, or at least was always a strong leader in the family. Where was he when I needed him?

Someone noticed my little lost face and pointed me in the right direction. I found my terminal and had a ten-hour wait. I was sleep-deprived and hadn’t had much food. (They served meals at the strangest times on the plane, 11p.m and around 3 am; I didn’t eat any of them). I meandered around, found a sandwich and magazine and tried to entertain myself. I tried to read, but I started to get sleepy every couple of minutes. I was afraid to fall asleep because I kept hearing, “Please do not leave unattended baggage; if you see any unattended baggage please report it to security.” I thought that meant I couldn’t sleep, otherwise the airport police would take my backpack. So, wait—awake—I had to and I did. Until it was time to go up in the air again.

By the time my ten-hour layover was done, I was in a complete daze. I boarded the next flight and barely remember doing so. My seat this time was twenty-three J. I had a window seat, and no one sat next me this time. I could stretch out and wished that I had had that in my overnight flight. No tea was offered this time by the flight attendants, only sodas—which I call fizzy drinks—and coffee.

The window was my friend again; hours were spent staring out of it, as the same episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond were being played. I watched them all again. It seemed I found comfort in their family. If I could play their family over and over again maybe I would be able to have mine again?

As we got closer to our destination; I saw snow-capped mountains. I was so excited; my first sight of actual snow. I wanted to jump up and tell everyone. However, I quickly realised there was no one to tell. So I turned my inspection back out there, making images out of the fluffiness and imagining how cold snow really was. Lost in my stupor I ignored the anxiety that bubbled up inside of me and let the plane carry me to my next destination. As the plane lowered, I knew it was about that time.

Umbrella

Just having woken up on Saturday morning, still with crusty eyes, we decide to go out for breakfast all in a matter of minutes. It is unusual for the both of us to be out of bed and out the door in such a short amount of time. Pulling on sweats and sweaters, I’m not even brushing my hair; we shrug on waterproof jackets. He grabs my ring, “Just making sure we’re married today.”

“You read my mind.” I said. “Keys?”
“Got ‘em.”
“Wallet? Phone?” I ask again.
“I’ve got everything, Babe.”

Hand-in-hand we head out on this morning adventure, making our way to the bakery. It’s foggy and wet, the clouds opening up now and then to dump their cleanliness upon the grey city of Chicago. Maybe that’s what rain really is, I think to myself, cleanliness. It wipes away the dust and grime, it gives new life. We have a new life, a new life together, only 6 months of marriage behind us.

We arrive at the little bakery; somewhat soggy, we shrug off our watery jackets. After ordering, we lounge in our little booth; we wait for the food to arrive both getting lost in the live movie that we’re watching through a water-stained, steamy window. The Tribune man is out there. He’s smoking and I wonder to myself, How does his cigarette stay lit with the dribble around him? How does he feel about that job? I wish I could read his mind. He walks up and down the damp street, trying desperately to sell papers to moving cars.

We observe other people coming in and out of the bakery. People are different in the city on Sunday mornings, more causal it seems, or maybe just more relaxed. The makeup isn’t as strong the smiles are bigger the hugs are longer or maybe just more caring. Most are dressed like we are, very casual. Lots of conversations are light-hearted; others feeling the same way we do: comfortable and relaxed. The atmosphere is one of a big family meal, it’s as if we all live at the bakery and have come to eat breakfast with everyone who is there.

We break out of the daze. We realize that this is not one big family and we are here with each other. For some reason it’s easier to watch other people chat than actually hold our own conversation, so we mostly sit in silence. We are not mad, angry or even frustrated at one another; it just is work to work at conversation. It seems we think marriage gives us the supernatural ability to read minds. So we sit—reading each other’s minds.

Food arrives and we dig in. Crunching into my bacon and cheese panini, I ask “Is yours good?”
“Really good,” he muffles through bites.
“So are we gonna get it?” I ask the mind reader.
“Get what?” he asks, distracted with his food.

“The umbrella,” I reply. My eyes have been roaming out the window and my mind has been wandering. I’ve been thinking about drips, drops, damp, drizzle and being drenched. If we get the umbrella now, we’ll have it for years to come; if we get the umbrella now, I won’t have to think about it any more; if we get the umbrella now, I won’t have to keep asking him. Why I needed the umbrella so much—I’m not sure—but today, I declare that the umbrella is a much-needed addition to our repertoire of possessions.

We finish the conversation without really finishing the conversation. We do, however, finish our meal, pay for our food, and make our way out into the saturated city. Holding hands, we obviously have different plans because we abruptly yank in different directions.
“Where are you going?” I ask, standing in the middle of the street.

“I thought we were getting groceries,” he replies.
“I thought we were getting the umbrella,” I say as I run to catch up to him.
We stand on the corner, both undecided about what to do. All the happy couples with their steaming cups of coffee and big umbrellas mock us as they stream by, established in where they’re going. I thought we were finally just going to get it. I thought he knew I wanted it—almost needed it—why can’t he just know what I’m thinking?

Anger starts to flare rearing its ginormously ugly head. “Fine!” I say. “We’ll never get it!” I know we will never get it; it will be a life-time of me asking him for it and him not realizing my need. I start to head toward the grocery store. I turn and he’s walking the opposite way, heading to the store that holds the essence of our argument.

I stand in the drizzle, expecting him to turn around. He doesn’t. Do I stand here looking stupid, or follow him? I trudge towards the dreaded store. I cannot find him anywhere. I find the umbrella stand and look up; there he is: buying it. Turning and smiling, he expects me to be happy. I am not. I’m fuming about being left in the street. I’m mad because I don’t want to want this silly thing so badly; mostly I’m mad at us for acting like children. I don’t even want it that badly; I just want him to know I want it.

“I didn’t mean for you to just go out and get it,” I say.
“I thought that’s what you wanted… the umbrella,” he says, confused.
“I did want it…but not like this.”

We look into each other’s eyes for the first time since the bakery, trying to read one another but we can’t. Why is it so hard to read minds? I wish I had a giant billboard on my forehead so he would know what I am thinking.

With umbrella in his hand, we decide to take the train home rather than walk. The conversation picks up while we’re on the train; we chat about mindless things. We don’t sit down but stand by the train doors, holding on to the railing. I decide to hang the umbrella on the hand rail, rather than hold it. The train sways back and forth, lulling us into a quiet, peaceful state. The umbrella moves slightly, in rhythm with the train’s motions.

The train slows, noisily braking as it comes to a halt. The doors swoosh open, and we step off the train. Bounding down the stairs with all the other Sunday train-goers, I suddenly realize neither one of us grabbed the umbrella. Turning abruptly I try to make my way up, which is impossible, as the stream of people is going down. I jostle my way to the platform and the train is still there. I dash for the doors as I hear, “Attention passengers, do not attempt to board the train; doors are closing!” The doors slam shut and I watch as the train moves along to its next destination, unfaltering in its movements, unaware that it has our treasure within, unaccustomed to waiting for passengers who leave things aboard.

He is two steps behind me, worry in his eyes, “What’s wrong, Babe?”
“Adam…” I can’t look at him. “I lost it.” I look up. Expecting to see blame and disapproval, I am stunned to see only kindness and sympathy. He might have just finally done it—read my mind—known what I needed in an instant.

“We can just as easily get a new one, Babe,” he assured me. “It’s not your fault at all, Honey. These things happen.” My eyes hold doubt, but he means it. This matters more: his selflessness and sincerity. This was what I needed from him all along, to know that what I felt mattered; that my silly quirks and needs meant a lot to him. The umbrella is gone, but our understanding of one another is greater; maybe one step closer to mind-reading.

Tiny things

Today i was in my editing class and we talked about how often editors want to skimp on the little things. There are easy ways to twist the truth, or make things look different than they truly are. In bigger stories people are expected to get the facts right; but in smaller ones sometimes its easier to fudge things. Then in chapel i was reminded once again that the Lord expects us to be faithful in the small things. Why is it we always care about the big things, we want to ignore the little things, or we think it doesn't matter if we fudge them. Yet we know that the little things are the most important.
I was grateful to be reminded of this,to focus my attention on those tiny things i think don't matter, but make the difference between a faithful heart and one that is not.

waves of life

The first time, I felt that gut-wrenching feeling. The first time the tears came streaming down as if a dam wall had broken. The first time I watched them fade into the distance. The first time, I was six. The first time I remember waving. We used to wave and wave and wave, even when we knew they couldn’t see anymore. If I stopped waving, they would be gone, gone forever. A thousand million years was what my young mind thought would be an eternity. I learnt at an early age to say, “See you in a thousand million years.” I never dreamt that this scene would replay over and over in the years to come.
I am seventh generation Anglo-African, my homeland, Zimbabwe, or Zim as we fondly refer to it. I never dreamt I would be saying goodbye to my country. My childhood was fantastic, full of cheerful memories. We didn’t grow up with the finer things of life, but we were blissful. We enjoyed the African weather, which was mostly hot and spent hours, maybe even days, swimming. We had grocery stores and donut shops; ice-cream was sometimes available. We would ride our bikes everywhere with no care in the world. Christmases and holidays were spent with every family member you could possible crowd into one house, grandparents, uncles, aunts, dozens of cousins and often other close family friends. However, with age comes wisdom, or at least awareness of the things going on around you.
As I grew I became more aware of the change in my country, or at least as I grew the change in the country grew. Zim was once known as the bread basket of Africa, a flourishing nation. The president, Robert Gabriel Karigamombe Mugabe, is currently 84 and has been in power for 30 years. He has been labeled one of the 10 worst dictators in the world. His power has been like that of a disease, slowly devouring our bread basket until there was nothing left. The once-thriving nation is now just another statistic of a ruined one.
The old Zim was gone, faded into oblivion, and the new Zim was something I could not identify with. The new Zim was one with lines of cars that would wrap, 5 times around the block to get gas. It was one where the policemen were no longer friendly; but threatening and notorious for violence. The new Zim had what queues in the grocery store where we would wait for hours to get bread, if there was any bread. The new Zim was one where you bought your driver’s license with money, cigarettes or beer. The new Zim had pain on the faces that were once filled with smiles. The new Zim had two distinct cultures, white and black, instead of the old one family of Zimbabweans. It was as if I had moved countries; my little black friends now looked at me with hatred instead of love. Why? The white people suddenly became the enemy. Things that happened years ago visited us again; the ghosts of our ancestors came to visit, and people decided to take it out on our generation. My friends no longer saw themselves as my friends. My country was disintegrating, slowly but surely, and I had no way of changing it.
We had a tradition in my family that when someone would leave, you would stand in the driveway and wave. You would keep waving even when you knew they couldn’t see you anymore. I had to do this over and over. People began to leave Zim in large numbers; it is estimated that over 500,000 left in 15 years, out of a total population of 13,000,000. I felt like I waved goodbye to them all. Standing in driveways, airports, church parking lots, we waved. Our arms surprisingly never grew tired, as if someone waved with us. Somehow we would gain the strength to face the next one, a strength that was not human.
I said goodbye to Bethy, my 13-year-old best friend. We knew intimate details about each other and would spend hours late at night giggling and discussing our deepest passions. I said goodbye to Rosie, the next best friend in line. Her family had to leave because her Dad had no job and had found a new one in New Zealand. I said goodbye to Allison; their farm was re-possessed, taken away; they lost everything they had. I said goodbye to Lauren, Paidamoyo and Mark. I said goodbye to my dearest cousins, who were like siblings to me. Then my grandparents had to leave as their pension become non-existent, had to go and live with my aunt and uncle. Every family member left one by one, and we waved.
It was my turn to leave the next, time to fly, something I had never done before. At the age of 19, travelling in an airplane was a whole new adventure for me. I was in Harare International Airport in terminal A, gate A. There is only one terminal and only two gates. I remember my little family standing in a circle. I had to hug each one, first my youngest sister Emma she was about 14. She was somewhat oblivious to what was going on and hugged in a way that said, “I’ll see you again… soon.” My next little sister was Nicole, who hugged me in utter desperation, clinging to me for dear life and crying hysterically. My mom was next, gaining strength from her body I hugged hard, not urgently but hard enough to be reassured that I was doing the right thing. Finally my Dad; I almost couldn’t do it; I knew the pain and fear he was feeling but there was nothing I could. I hugged him for what felt like hours, but I had to eventually let go, wave one last time and walk away, with fake confidence that I really didn’t possess.
It was a strange occurrence; I had already said goodbye to my homeland. The country I grew up in no longer existed, yet the pain was so raw I could barely breathe. Goodbyes are always hard, but this was different. The wounds had already been trodden over and over and now, all alone, leaving every family member behind, I had to go to a land further away than my mind could obtain. I knew it was for the best, but I always thought I would return to Zim. I assumed I would be one of those students who went back for summer break, or Christmas. Alas, I have never been back.
There is a kind of wave that is easily forgotten: the one that says hello. But we don’t tend to remember every hello wave. It seems the goodbye waves are etched in our memories, dug into our minds with knife-like precision. Wave I must; it will be a lifetime of waving. I will keep waving forever and ever; it is not a goodbye that ever ends. Losing my homeland will never end, it will always be a part of me. I will continue to wave goodbye to all that I’ve known as home. This time I’ll say with anguish, “See you in a thousand million years.”

blown away

I sat on my couch this morning. Staring out into the grey abyss that we now call home... the city. There is a tree outside our window, one that i have watched go through the changes of the seasons.
When we first arrived it was pregnant with green leaves, bursting with life and energy i loved seeing the tree everyday. I felt like i was living in my own personal tree house. As the air started to chill, the leaves started to turn. Stunning shades of oranges and reds, the tree was still a delight to behold. As i would sit on my couch and stare out the orange would sooth me and give some life to the otherwise grey city behind it.
As i sat and stared at the leaves flittering to to the ground i noticed something that i wouldn't have seen had the leaves not been falling. A friend had made its home in my tree, and unnatural friend, one i didn't expect to see in my tree, but it lived there none-the-less.
A little red garment, a t-shirt i supposed. Rugged and worn from its sad little life, having no owner to warm its empty shell, made its home in my tree. My focus now became this little shirt. Chicago, known for its wind, pulled out all the stops in the fall, rain, sleet, wind, hail, and the likes took out their anger on my tree and hence the shirt. The wind robbed the leaves from my tree in literally a day. When i woke up they were there, when i got home... gone.
Surprisingly day after day, as i sat on my couch, the shirt was still there. It had more courage than i did, it faced all the storms the city threw at it and never bugged. I became quite fond of that little shirt, it had no owner, but a steady home that it held onto for dear life. Each day i saw it it gave me a sense of comfort.
Today i sat down with my morning cup of tea, months later, stared out the window, and got slightly lost in my home of concrete, but as i brought my focus in i realized something was missing... my little red garment friend was gone. Somehow the city had won the battle and taken my friend away.
However, today it gave me courage. The shirt had found a new home i supposed on another unsuspecting tree, chimney, or perhaps light post. It had moved on. We have seasons in life and they may blow hard, or be as sweet as spring, but we will move on. There is always a new adventure to be had, and sometimes we must hold fast, other times we can blow in the wind and see where life takes us.