Part 1 of Through Canaan's Eyes

Who knew that two semesters ago when I attempted to write a glimpse into the life of a young woman going to Zimbabwe with a missions team to feed hungry children that I would write it to the music of where I would one day live? God is so awesome. His ways are higher than my ways. So much higher. Habib Koite’s music is so rhythmic and soothes my spirit. I can hardly believe it is the music of my new home in just six short months. I just want to sit here and weep silently happy tears. Tears that run down the face of a young woman so unworthy of God’s grace and provision. But I can't cry right now. My tear ducts are dried up for now. Even the ones reserved for happy tears, for I've used them so much lately. But a person unworthy of God's grace is allowed to, eh? He is so good to me, even in the times when I least deserve anything at all. Why, after years of not opening my whole heart to Him, why was it He was still there knocking? The only answer I have is His faithfulness and loving grace. That is it. That’s who He is. He is faithful. Oh, so faithful. And His mercies are new every morning.

He makes beauty out of ashes. That is what He has done with me. I was too worried about the world and what they would think. I didn’t take into consideration that I was failing Him, and that was the big issue I should be concerned with. Now I know. Now I have taken the steps to fix that. And boy has my life become a cup that runneth over. And ever so freely.

This has been the best year of my life. Hands down. There is no comparison. None whatsoever. Before, I was chained and bound. Now, I’m free. Free to live for Him and no one else. Sure, I was saved before, but I didn’t realize the full extent of what that meant and how I truly must trust Him with my life. I’ve awakened inside. It was my prayer, and I can honestly say it was answered. So faithfully.

I have left everything and followed Him. Follow Me, He says. What I’ve shown you, GO. I am so ready. I trust You with everything. My life, my health, my love, my safety, my finances…
Leaving everything behind has not been easy, by any means. But it’s been so worth it. I have seen and experienced His power like never before. And the best thing is, there’s more.
I’m so ready. This year it is like I have noticed the cleaner me. The one Jesus is in constant care of cleaning. The one He says He’s not finished with yet.

I mentioned a story in the beginning of this post. Well here it is. It’s almost a year old. Africa was awakening in my soul. I couldn’t get away from it. Every time an assignment came by in one of my creative writing classes, I almost always wrote on Africa. Different places all centered around one thing. A passion for a people that I had never met, and still haven’t ‘til this day. These people are in me. I can’t really explain it. I’ve never been on a missions trip to anywhere, but somehow they are there. And I love them. And I love Him who has placed them within me. Africa is my heart. God has shown me Mali specifically, but all of Africa will forever be a part of me. Here is the story. Part one of it – since it would make for a rather long post. I’ll post part two if people are interested. Again, this is just to show how He has shaped my heart for a people I’ve never known.


Through Canaan's Eyes

January 3, 2009
Sometimes I wonder if what I want is what I am supposed to do. Supposed to be. Supposed to follow through with until the end. Sometimes I’m not exactly sure, but then I think about the circumstances that brought me to where I am now in my life and then I know that what I want is exactly right in sync with what I am supposed to do. Three years ago I would never have wanted to do this, ever… Fast forward to the present, and I am a completely, polar opposite of what I once had been. I try not to be selfish, to have a servant’s heart for others. This is one of these unselfish journeys. I pray that I can somehow overcome the ever-changing obstacles in front of me. They always say that you have to deal the hand you were dealt, yet sometimes I almost think it’s not a matter of dealing it yourself, that you’re helped along the way by others and the hands they were dealt. Maybe this will be the one journey that changes me somehow – through the eyes of the Zimbabwean.

Relaxed in her cramped seat onboard the airplane as she finished reading her journal entry from two weeks ago, Hadassah closed her eyes. She could still smell the dirt of the village streets, see the beautiful backdrop red-orange fire at sunset behind the sparse trees. She was there again, immersed in the culture, hearing Shonan words being spoken at the marketplace between vendors and Zimbabweans. Hadassah was there again. It was like she never left.



The clanging cups hitting against the dangling, crudely-fashioned spoons of various sizes woke her up, its echo rushing Hadassah back to reality of the Zimbabwean heat. Back to the dirt packed streets of the small village just outside Ngezi – where she had come to know just yesterday afternoon after arriving with the rest of the mission’s team. Back to the gazillion reverberations and sounds around the makeshift Relief-Aid station where everyone for miles around seemed to gather. The sounds of small children crying, begging for relief pierced her ears as she searched for Graham, the team leader of the group. There he was, over by the second feeding station.

Looking at her with a relieved smile, he motioned her over his way. “There you are. I need someone to cover this station until they run out of beans. You think you and Jacoline can handle it?” he asked, wiping his brow with a swipe of his forearm, placing his hat back on his head firmly before walking off.

“Sure,” was all Hadassah could get out before he was gone.
Graham turned back to yell something, “I’ll take over in a couple of hours,” he hurriedly said, rushing over to meet with the other relief effort group’s leader.

“Anything to help,” she whispered into the air.

Hundreds of Zimbabweans, women with children mostly – holding the hands of small children, balancing infants in a sling on their backs – stood in a single line a half-mile long. One woman, Hadassah guessed no older than her early twenties, sat with her four small children, the oldest no more than five or six. Hadassah stared intently at her son, who sat motionless, his big brown eyes asking once more for something to eat. Still. Unmoving. It seemed nothing the young mother cooed to him broke the stare; only blinks seemed to relieve him, long brown lashes following in sync momentarily stealing the grasp hunger had won.

Or maybe he’s daydreaming? Hadassah asked herself, dipping the ladle into the beans and pouring them into the wooden bowl, handing it off. Daydreaming of a world better than this, than the one he knows to be his own. There has to be more for him than this, than merely existing in a world ravaged of peace and unforgiving.

A small, light blue shirt was the only thing to keep off the chills that would soon come with the night air. Luckily the excruciatingly cold nights had yet to come this rainy season; else he wouldn’t wake after closing his eyes to the melody and rhythm of his mother’s song.

His eyes were not as bright as they were meant to be. Against the beautiful make of his mahogany skin, they were meant to shine like the sun, like jewels, like sheer joy. Yet they didn’t anymore.

Hadassah ladled another bowlful, handed it off to another hungry Zimbabwean, and dipped the ladle back into the pot.

This little boy has a story beyond anything I’ve experienced.

This enchanting little boy wasn’t far from the beginning of the line, maybe fifteen or twenty feet perhaps. Beside him sat a crying toddler, mercilessly tugging at her mother’s skirt as she shoved a fist full of dirt into her tiny mouth, wanting relief. Her face was caked with a layer of dust, her lips cracked and painted with dried blood in places. Her eyes pleaded for sustenance – sustenance for the day, for her days to come.

Hadassah wondered if mhuri yakadini? Should I ask how the family is. Or… maybe not? But, I don’t want to just stand here dishing out beans and not say a word to anyone. I care about these people, I want to know about them and their lives. I need to know.

Turning towards Jacoline, the Shano-speaking translator, purposefully clearing her throat just a little, Hadassah cheerfully said, “Mhoro.”

A beautiful smile played upon Jacoline’s dark lips and into her bright eyes, “Mhoro.”

“Uh… can I ask you a question, Jacoline?” Hadassah quietly, asked, handling another bowl before filling it.

Moving within speaking distance, to be able to hear her above the cries and many voices, Jacoline answered with a kind smile, “Yes. What’s your question?” her native tongue giving a beautiful flair to her English.

“I was wondering if we, the volunteers, could speak, uh, converse with the families?” Hadassah waited for the expected no, but was unexpectedly surprised when Jacoline wrapped her arms around her tightly, the ladle still in her hand, luckily empty at that moment.

Gently letting go, Jacoline whispered into Hadassah’s ear with exuberant happiness, “You are the first to ask today. We’ve been serving since seven o’clock, and it took someone five hours to ask me that.”

“Well, I’m glad I asked, then. I was about to chicken out; I wasn’t sure we could and didn’t want to be disappointed.”

“Who should I thank for asking me, dear girl?”

“Hadassah. Hadassah Zachary. And I already know your name, Ms. Jacoline.” Hadassah smiled, ladling the contents into a bowl.

“Oh no, no, no. Just Jacoline, my dear.”

Hadassah thanked her with a smile.

The line was growing longer and longer it seemed, and the sparse breeze dryer and dryer, and packed with a punch of smells that nearly took your breath away. Smells telling of the lack of deodorizers and clean water to wash one’s self with. Everything was considered a luxury here in the Zimbabwean savannah.

There he was. The little guy she couldn’t keep her eyes off of a few minutes ago had now come next in line for his meal, standing straight in front of her. The brown-eyed boy whose eyes didn’t shine, whose eyes grasped hers, pulling her in, into his world, into his disease-stricken family, into his hunger.

He had yet to become malnutritioned. But he would soon be in that very place, very soon.

Thank you, Jesus, for sparing him, she silently prayed.

She decided to do it, to take the plunge. “Mhoro, wakadini?”

Hadassah looked at him, right into this set of eyes that implored her to ask again. To make sure she actually cared. “Mhoro, wakadini?”

“Ungandibatsirewo?” the little guy answered.

It surprised her – he spoke to her. Hadassah hadn’t expected him to understand her. And now she didn’t understand his answer. Quickly she whispered to Jacoline, “What did he say?”

“He wants to know if you can help him.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. She swallowed hard, “I don’t know.” Hadassah looked at Jacoline again. “Tell him, tell him I don’t know.”

“He- here. Here’s your beans, little guy.” Her lip quivered, two tears running down her cheeks.

And there the young boy took his beans, as did his mother and his sister that could carry hers. He was gone, he was eating his beans. They had what they came for.

Handing her two more servings of beans, Jacoline nudged her head in the direction of the little boy. “Go, give these to the mother for her other two children.”

When Hadassah was about five steps away from the serving station, she heard, “And stay with him, help him.” She smiled at Jacoline in return. “And don’t worry, I’ll manage while you’re gone.”

Hadassah took the longest steps in all her life, each step it seemed bringing another thought of what she should say, if she should even say anything at all, or even if she should just turn around. She remembered she had the thin Shona pocket translator in her back pocket. She had to talk to to him, so she continued.

Excuses bombarding her mind, she then saw them again. There they were, the boy and his family were nestled in the grass by a group of small children...