“I need to get going. I have a lot of people to serve.” –God, played by Morgan Freeman in Evan Almighty.

I love that movie! So its not a real account of the flood story in Gen 6-9 and the Ark of scripture doesn’t exactly end up on Capitol Hill, but, the movie is a great reminder of the faith that is required of us, no matter how insane we might feel about it.

While the Evan Almighty version focuses on an affluent, suburb of Washington D.C., we know that in the story of the flood in scripture, the setting is the entire world.

I think it’s important that no matter where we live, we are aware of just how big our world really is. I believe that Christianity has always been global. The Israelites were the minority called to serve the majority and I don’t things have changed for us today. God always had the whole world in mind throughout all of scripture and history. I believe we are to be global Christians always.

This is Karen. (With the red bandana on). Karen is a 24-year-old woman who volunteers her time to work for an organization called Ministry of Hope. I walked with Karen through a buzzing market place in Chipoka, Malawi only 2 weeks ago. As we walked through the market place, piercing stares from the day’s merchants and consumers made their way towards our path. An entourage of young children yelling out, "Mazungu" (white person) quickly made their presence known close behind as we walked. 

It was a loud, busy market place and amidst the noise, I asked Karen a question that seemed to quiet our surroundings in an instant. "Karen, what is your story?" She immediately launched into her story as if she'd been waiting for me to ask the question from the moment we began our walk. 

 Listen to the voices of 3 sweet teenage girls, singing their national anthem...

I just returned from The Warm Heart of Africa, Malawi. Refer to my previous post Destination Malawi for a mini description of why I went with a team from my church. There are a lot of stories and a lot of statistics I could throw at you as a follow up. However, some of that will fade from my memory as I return to my daily routine in the states. 

The one aspect I hope never dims in my heart is the sound of the voices of the 180 Malawian teenagers I spent 4 days at camp with. These kids love to sing and they have amazing voices. They taught us a few worship songs and we attempted to keep up with their sweet dance moves. Check out this video below where Keren, a local worship leader, taught the teens I Love You Lord. Notice the teens writing. Without any prompting and as a complete surprise to us, they began to write down the lyrics and they all shared pens and paper with friends so that all of them who wanted, had the song. Later that day and into the next, we continued to hear the teens practise this song.

In less than three days I will be congregating with a team of fourteen eager excursionists in a church parking lot at 2:15 a.m. With twenty-eight suitcases among us and with a mental suitcase filled with the unknown and heavy with anticipation of a new adventure, we will launch ourselves willingly into an unforgettable experience.

Our destination: Malawi, Africa.

I’ve heard it said that Malawi is considered the Warm Heart of Africa. I’m ready to experience that warm heart first hand. At the same time, I am not naïve to the reality that creeps its way into the lives of Malawians. Life is not exactly easy going for many who live there. The life expectancy for males is estimated around the age of thirty-five and for the females it’s roughly thirty-nine years old.

Recently I was reminded of a situation I witnessed on a hot summer day in 2003. I was traveling with a group of 17 and we were on our way to visit a Mother Theresa home called House of Peace just miles outside Kinshasa, Congo DRC. 

The House of Peace is an interesting name, considering it serves as both orphanage and hospice. Upon walking through the large iron gates, fully lined on the top with barbed wire and broken glass bottles, I noticed a black top play ground to the left, near a small building. On my right, were a handful of park benches, shaded by a large tree planted at the entrance of another building: this one larger than the one adjacent to it.

There was no one near the larger building to my right at first glance, yet, within seconds of entering through the gates, we heard laughter and the giggles of small children headed towards us coming from the smaller building.

I’m a little behind in my reading. I just finished A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier, by Ishmael Beah.

I’m also a little late in my response to it. I’ve struggled to make sense of the story I read. It’s not that I didn’t know about the overwhelming amount of child soldiers forced into a life of brutality and violence. I’ve known the statistics for years. I’ve read King Leopold’s Ghost, watched Blood Diamond, I read weekly updates from dear friends of mine living in Goma, DRC (listen to them share about their ministries there here), I’ve even been to Congo DRC myself where there are a reported 7,000 child soldiers currently.

I’ve been thinking about the term legacy lately.  

I have a friend. Her name is Laura. Laura takes pictures. We’ve all heard the saying, “A picture is worth a thousand words.” If anyone knows the meaning behind that saying, it’s my friend Laura. Laura has an incredible story. You can read about her story at Photo Legacy Project. 

For those of us who live in the western world, we see thousands of pictures on a daily basis. Most of us are likely to have hundreds or thousands of photos in our own personal collection. Those born in the last  decade or so are likely to have a 3-D, colored photo of himself or herself as the size of a peanut in the womb before they were even born.  

But as Laura and many others know, this is not the case in the majority of the world. Can you imagine how life would be different if you had never seen, let alone owned, a single photo of yourself? I can’t. I have entire albums of photos of me as a baby and a child I pray remain caked in dust in the closet of my parents’ house and yet, there are some who are well into their adult lives who have never seen themselves in photo form and who may never see themselves at all. (Owning a mirror is a luxury as well).  

In only two short months, I will board a plane with a team from my home church and head east, to Malawi, Africa.

Every African country has its startling statistics of poverty, disease, violence and all things injustice. Malawi is without exception.

As my team and I move forward in our trip planning and preparations and get closer to our departure date, I feel more and more compelled to pray. Africa overwhelms me. I have yet to find words to describe most of what I experienced in DRC Congo back in 2003 and now I am going again. If i'm honest here, I'm afraid I won't be able to handle the Malawi scene very well. I'm afraid I will completely lose it and look like a basket case infront of my team and the Malawians or worse, I'll freeze in the chaos and not react at all, which would be a horrible reaction.

When I travel, even if it's to a neighboring state, I often times meet people who sometimes make a point to say, "Remember me!" in parting. Thinking back to school yearbooks, I think of how just about everyone would write some thing like, "You better not forget me!" I spent 2 months in Eastern Europe once with a group of teenage orphaned girls who made me short videos on my digital camera so that I would never forget them. I stood humbly in an AIDS hospice in Congo, Africa with men and women dying all around me and begging me not to forget them. What is it about needing to feel remembered?

I know Mother's Day is on it's way, but I've had Father's Day on the brain lately. Don't worry; I won't forget my lovely mom this Sunday. It's just that, I think of Father's Day often actually, because a couple years ago, I heard the most powerful sermon I've ever heard on Father's Day.

A friend of mine was recently in Egypt. Over Jasmine Pearl Green Tea, she shared with me tales of her time spent there. Traveling as a Christian short-term missionary with a handful of others in a Muslim run country, they were forced to say they were "tourist on holiday" and not "missionaries." Out of all the things my friend and her team saw and did in Egypt, one place she described has stuck with me in daunting fashion.

Outside the city of Cairo sits another city: Garbarge City. It is believed that during the 1950's a powerful Islamic leader, President Nasser, uprooted Cairo's Christian population, known as Coptic Christians, and relocated them to what is now known as Garbage City. Garbage City is massive in size and is home to thousands of families. The city serves as the dumping ground for Cairo's waste. Those living in Garbage City make their livings sorting through heaping piles of trash, looking for anything that can be recycled or salvaged and later sold again. Although Cairo and its surrounding cities are up to date with their standard of living, it is not the case with Garbage City. The city lacks running water which forces its inhabitants to live in sub-human conditions in the midst of thousands of pounds of other people's trash.