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| Monkeys at Victoria Falls, Zambia. Right after I took this picture, they stole our lunch! |
"Well, here I am," I thought as the plane took off from the Detroit airport. The last several months were now a blur of letter-writing, car washes, getting shots, and overall just psyching myself up for this. Now, the time had come. I was with my three teammates, leaving the United States behind. My feelings were a mix of delightful anticipation, uncertain fear, and devastating weariness from our recently completed two-week training. "Keep your chin up," I whispered to myself. "Everyone's counting on you." Everyone, meaning my family, friends, and church back home. They all loved me and believed in me. That love, mostly based in Riverside, California, would have to reach me halfway around the world, and carry me through a place where no one loved me. This was before the Internet was widely accessible (even many of my friends in the US didn't use it, and it was virtually nonexistent in Zambia then. Also, no telephones of any kind).
A few posts ago, I referred to my 2000 mission trip to Zambia (see the post Journey of Forgiveness). I only touched on a very small aspect of that trip. I want to share more about my craziest adventure ever!
Backing up a little, I was a local summer missionary with Child Evangelism Fellowship's Christian Youth in Action (CYIA) program in 1997, 1998 and 1999. Some of my happiest high school memories were my times with CYIA. I made good Christian friends, learned skills in evangelism and teaching, and saw many children receive Christ as their Savior. I will probably share specific stories from my CYIA years in a later post. By 1999, I was a senior, among the oldest students. I didn't know what the next summer would hold. Our state director's wife gave me a brochure for the Overseas Summer Mission (OSM) program. It was Child Evangelism Fellowship's program for college students. It was very similar to what I had already been doing, but I would get to go overseas! Exciting!
I readily applied and was accepted. I was originally placed on the South Africa team, but a month later, found out I was going to Zambia instead. As I completed my senior year, my focus was more on preparing for the trip than anything else. My church was very supportive of me, as I have said. They treated me as something of a hero.
Four days after my high school graduation, I boarded a plane at Los Angeles International Airport. This was the first of eight planes I would board that summer. This first one would take me to St. Louis, Missouri, where I would be trained. I was very excited. I fully expected it to be like my times at CYIA, only a bit more mature. I wasn't prepared for how mature.
I could write a book about my two weeks of training in Missouri. There were twenty-nine young adults, going to a total of eleven countries. They came from all over the United States. Most were very nice and godly. A few, though, made me wonder about the screening process. I am sure legalities were covered, because this was a professional ministry, but I still wonder how much prayer and discernment was used. One difficult was one of my teammates (whom I call Tasha). Another was a young man I'll call Herb. He was twenty-two, four years older than me. He seemed captivated by me immediately, and basically stalked me the whole two weeks. This weird behavior included following me into a phone booth, sitting beside me at all times, following me, spying on me, touching me in any way he could, and talking to me in strange voices. I was really uncomfortable, but everyone said I was overreacting and that it was just a joke. Some joke. The last night we were there, Herb made a clumsy advance that, while foolish, was still a very deep stumbling block to me. When I declined, he had a royal fit. Everyone was on his side and acted like I had the problem. I felt really crazy inside. I was also the victim of some gossip about the situation. It was like we had our own bizarre little soap opera.
By the time all the different teams flew out to their countries, I was already emotionally exhausted and depressed. I felt humiliated by how I had been treated. I just wanted to go home. Our team flew from St. Louis to Detroit. We barely spoke. I think all four of us were exhausted. From Detroit, we were to fly to London. We would be there for almost 24 hours. I was excited about this! Looking forward to that kept me going.
Upon boarding our flight, I was sort of accosted by a British couple saying I was taking the wife's seat. They were kind of angry and aggressive about it, and a flight attendant had to get involved. I had to prove my seat was my seat (which I did by showing my boarding pass). Upon being proven wrong, the couple chuckled happily and said, "Oops. Sorry about that!" I might have been able to laugh too, had I not been so weary. But the last fortnight's drama in my life certainly wasn't their fault, so I forgave them on the spot. I tried to relax into my seat, very thankful I wasn't next to Tasha (or even my nice other teammates). I needed to be alone...but alas that wasn't to happen. A happily drunk British man ended up sitting beside me. His silly but harmless babbling kept me awake all through the flight. He mostly wanted to ask me about rattlesnakes (since I'm an American, he naturally assumed I'm an expert on such things).
Our day in London was a blast. I really enjoyed myself. We went to Buckingham Palace. On the train through the city, I had a fun conversation with a little boy and his grandfather. The little boy told me he was "four, but near five." He said his birthday was "September the seventh." I loved his perfect accent. Of course, I was really the one with the accent there. When I told the grandfather I was from the United States, he laughed and said, "You didn't have to tell me that, Yank! As soon as you started talking, I knew you were from the States. You have an American accent." An American accent. What a concept!
So, before I go further, I had three teammates. I'll call the two nice ones Mary and Rachel. I had different things in common with each of them. The three of us got along well, and could have been a wonderful team that summer. We were all in it for the Lord. Our fourth teammate was Tasha. She had something of a split personality, and had major boundary problems. When we had been at training in Missouri, she had been quiet, dull, and slow. She didn't say much, and what she did say was harmless enough. But in any given situation where she felt she could gain control, she seized it in shocking ways. She was extremely manipulative when she could get away with it. Long story, but she had already destroyed some of my personal property while at training. In a passive-aggressive way, she had helped the loud-mouth spread rumors about me. I hate to say it, but I knew early on that I did not like her.
Arriving in Africa, a little alarm must have gone off in Tasha's mind: "Hey, nobody here knows American culture. You can get the upper hand and control everyone!"
She spent every moment criticizing me. Literally. No matter what I said or did, she had to contradict. She twisted everything so our host missionaries (Zambian nationals) liked her and disliked me. It got to the point that I had to be silent almost all the time. I got the reputation of being unfriendly, and as such, didn't really bond with people in Zambia. I deeply resent that. There is one exception to this. I'll get to that in a few minutes.
Tasha would criticize everything I said, even when I was teaching the kids. If I set my Bible down, she would move the bookmarks in it so I would use the verses she thought I should use. I had to keep my hands on my Bible at all times to avoid this.
One time, our host asked me to peel potatoes. They didn't have a potato peeler, so I had to use a knife. Tasha came into the room and saw me doing it. "You're doing it wrong! Hold you wrist this way, so you're not scraping off half the potato along with the peel!" she ordered.
"Thanks for the advice," I told her, continuing to do it as I had.
"Aren't you going to change and do it the way I just said?"
"No, but if it's that important to you, you can peel the potatoes."
"No!" she shot at me. "I want you to do it, and I want you to do it the way I say!"
"Look!" I stood up, raising to my full height (three inches taller that Tasha).
Tasha ran out of the room screaming bloody murder. She later claimed she thought I was going to stab her! Of all things! Really?
At the moment, I was so furious I ran out the door and wandered around town all afternoon. I cried and prayed. I felt like I would lose my mind. On this and many other occasions, God became my lifeline like never before.
Another time, Mary and I were talking about our churches back home. She shared her church was large and had several services every Sunday. I told her that my church was pretty small (maybe 120 at the time). I said we had Sunday school hour and one church service on Sundays. I added that we had a Sunday night Bible study as well, but that I didn't usually go to that. Tasha, who hadn't even been a part of the conversation, had a colossal fit about this, how it's a sin to miss Sunday night services. She said I wasn't right with the Lord, and how the President could make it illegal to hold Sunday night services any day now, and I didn't go while I could. I couldn't believe anyone could be this stupid. First, the President doesn't have that kind of power to just make Sunday evening services illegal. Presidents aren't dictators. Secondly, our government could never disallow Sunday evening services because the Bill of Rights grants American citizens the freedom of Worship and Assembly. But I don't think Tasha really cared about this. She just wanted to start a fight with me. In a moment of "weakness" I had tried to have a pleasant conversation with another teammate. Whoops. Couldn't do that anymore. Back to silence. For the record, I did challenge Tasha in this instance, and she cried like a baby. She told me I had better not write bad things about her in my diary. I challenged this too, and she said she didn't want my heirs to read it a hundred years in the future and have a bad opinion of her. I told her she had a choice about it by the way she treated me.
One night at dinner, Tasha told our Zambian host family all about Herb, my "stalker" back at training. I kept asking her to stop, but she would't. Pretty soon, everyone was laughing and joking about my most humiliating moment. I wanted to crawl under a rock and die.
The final big blow-up (and there were many others that I didn't share here) came when Tasha made a mean comment about California one evening (she was from the East Coast herself). I politely told her she was mistaken in her information. She began screaming like a lunatic. At the moment, we were listening to a Christian cassette, and she was holding the box it came in. She slammed it down and it broke into a dozen pieces. She kept screaming and screaming until our hosts (the husband and wife) came running. Then Tasha turned on the water words. She made me out to be the proverbial "bad guy". They hugged her and told her to forgive me. If I could ever have committed a crime, it could have been that moment! I wanted to scream, "Forgive me for what!?" I literally hated everyone in the room right then. I hated Tasha for the obvious . I hated our hosts for choosing her over me. I hated Mary and Rachel for being cowards. If they had backed me up, it could have put her back in her place. The whole summer, it was like they resented my very existence for Tasha's behavior...instead of resenting Tasha for Tasha's behavior. Any time I tried to stand up for myself, Rachel would look at me in resentment, and often, Mary would whisper, "Can't you let it go?" As if the problem was all mine. Why couldn't Tasha knock it off? Why was it all my fault? I had just about nobody on my side, nobody to talk to. Only God. I had been eighteen for a few months, but that summer, I became an adult in every sense of the word. I lost some innocence and idealism, but I found completeness in Christ. Jesus was once in a foreign land too (Earth!), away from His Father. Nobody completely understood how He felt. He was constantly misjudged by others. I identified with Jesus in a new way that summer of 2000. I believe I shared in Christ's sufferings.
All was not bad. Remember my one exception? My interpreter was wonderful. Her name was Joyce (that was her real name). She was a wonderful person. I felt I needed to be careful talking about Tasha with her, but I could still talk! She was the only person I could speak to all summer for longer than a couple minutes. I would go to her home after we had finished ministry for the day (my teammates went back to our host house to watch the black and white TV set). Joyce would fix us some tea and scones, and we would talk about the Lord. She was an angel of mercy to me. We are still in touch today. I love her so much, I may never see her again in person until Heaven, but when we do meet up again, I am going to give her the biggest hug. God used her so much in my life. We taught so many Bible clubs together, and saw Christ work in hearts and lives.
The national language in Zambia is English, so people generally could understand us. However, most people speak it as a second or even third language. There are more than 70 tribal languages spoken in different regions of the country. I met one man that summer who spoke fourteen different languages fluently! The English they know is generally British, so our heavy American accents were a little harder for them to understand. The more educated people there sounded like Londoners. Most TV shows were British. The few white people we ran into there were British. I got to the point that summer where I had a hard time telling the difference between American and British accents on TV! That's how bombarded we were with it.
One Sunday, we visited a church. The pastor was a white missionary. He greeted us at the door and began chatting with us. I couldn't quite pinpoint his accent. It was beautiful, and sounded sophisticated. At first, I was convinced he was from England. Then, after a minute, I thought he must be from Australia or New Zealand. After about five minutes, I couldn't hear the accent anymore. I asked him where he was from, and he said, "Long Beach, California, United States." Less than an hour from my hometown! That must be how my accent sounds to British ears. I loved it! Just a fun little quirk of travel.
Most of our Bible clubs were taught in schools. Public schools are open to Christianity there. School principals (they called the headmasters and headmistresses) were thrilled to have the American Christians come and share the Lord with the student body. At every club we taught, children would make professions of faith. Unfortunately, we weren't able to do a lot of personal one-on-one counseling with them, so only God knows the results. Joyce and others did follow up after the summer was over. Our statistic (for what it's worth) was that about thirty-five hundred children received Christ. As I said, only God truly knows. I did have a few personal encounters with children we had shared with, and they really showed understanding at having trusted Christ for salvation. That was a good feeling. Some of these children were orphans. Many of their parents had died of AIDS. Some of these children's only clothes were the school uniforms they wore. Two little orphan sisters made me cry. Here, I was alone in a foreign country, but they were alone in the world without family (except each other). This was a reality. Yet, they received Jesus, and came to know that hope that comes from Him.
The only communication I had with home was writing postal letters. Writing helped keep me sane and battle culture shock. I would write to my family and friends. We had been warned that it wasn't safe for us to lick the postal stamps. Too many germs. So I would affix stamps to envelopes using toothpaste. It worked every time. All letters I mailed were received. I found out upon returning to the States that people in my church had enjoyed my letters a lot, and had shared them in the congregation. That made me happy.
We were also warned to be careful about dairy, because a lot of their cows are unhealthy and carry disease. So we pretty much avoided any dairy products all summer. By the time I flew back to Los Angeles in August, I was craving a large strawberry milkshake from Burger King! I made my parents take me there posthaste! Best milkshake I ever had!
The last thing we did before flying back to the US was to visit Victoria Falls. That is the biggest waterfall on earth, supposedly one of the seven wonders of the world. It is on the border of Zambia and Zimbabwe. It was across the country from where we were. It should have been an eight hour drive, but was more like twenty-four hours, due to the flat tires we received on the primitive road. I used to complain that they're always tearing up the roads and making improvements. After that summer, I realized why they did it, and stopped complaining. The Zambian roads were covered with potholes. They had been paved many years earlier, and pretty much left alone since.
The ride to Victoria Falls (then following this, up to the airport) was a blast. I barely had to be near Tasha. She and my other teammates sat in the back of the trunk. I chose to sit inside with Joyce and other other Zambians. I felt some of them actually got to know the real me at that time, which was a blessing. One of the men said that when I had come to Zambia, I had a very small heart, but by the end, it had grown. I think this is his perception because I had been unable to speak when Tasha was around. It saddens me that I wasn't able to truly be myself most of the time. But that trip to Victoria Falls was wonderful (well, aside from having monkeys steal our lunch, then chase me!). That night after seeing the Falls, we stayed in a guest house, and I got to room with Joyce.
We flew back to London. This time, we did not leave the airport. I bought a copy of A Little Princess in the bookstore. I wanted a copy of a British book that said, Printed in the United Kingdom inside. That was my souvenir from England. I read while we waited to board our flight back to the United States. As my teammates slept by our bags, and I sat reading, I asked myself, "Did I pass the test this summer?" I still wonder that at times. I think I did.
Nothing could have prepared me for landing in the US. As the plane came to a landing in Detroit, I saw a giant American flag out the window. My eyes filled with tears, and a lump came to my throat. I was home. I wanted to kiss the ground. I wonder if this is just a small picture of how it will feel to be truly home in Heaven one day?
We had a recap back in Missouri. I just wanted to fly back to California. Herb acted awkward toward me. The recap couldn't have ended soon enough. I was delighted to fly back home!
I was emotionally shaken up from that summer. Returning to church was harder than I imagined. Everyone viewed me as a hero. In fact, the pastor told me I was his hero. That was wonderful. Everyone was so good to me, and I love them all so much. I just didn't feel like a hero. I felt like a wreck. I felt like a POW from a failed mission. Yet here were these enthusiastic people, loving me, excited for me, wanting to hear wonderful stories of my trip. By God's grace, I was able to share the good things He had done. I even was able to make some fun jokes about the difficult moments. But no one ever knew the depths of my suffering. That's okay. It remained between God and me for a long time. He wanted it that way.
Missionaries may seem like heroes, but they are regular people God is using. They struggle, doubt and cry out to God.
Another thing that can be learned is that there is an effective way to deal with bullies. Tasha was a bully, and everyone's passivity basically allowed her to reign sovereign. That wasn't right. She was sinning and should have been corrected. Even someone saying, "That's not right. You shouldn't say that," would have been helpful.
I guess the biggest lesson that can be gleaned from my summer is discernment. Ministries need to be discerning about the people they allow to serve. Tasha should never have been involved. Her support didn't come in, for one thing. This should have been a wake-up call to the people in charge. Sometimes God uses money (or lack of it) to guide us. Herb should never have been there either, or at very least, his weird behavior should have been questioned by leadership. Those in charge shouldn't be looking for warm bodies. They should be looking for surrendered hearts. It may mean less people serving...but it means better service.
