Coming Home

As I sit in this cramped, less-than-comfortable airplane seat, I close my eyes for a moment and just listen. I listen to the plane’s muffled roar, I listen to the babies talking and flight attendants offering more water and taking empty trays of food. I can hear lots of new sounds, but what I truly long for is the sounds that we are leaving; the sounds and songs that have been permanently stored away in my heart.
When it comes down to it, it’s actually really hard to ignore the voices of all the little souls that have whispered into mine these last 3 months. There’s some that speak a little louder than others, but as a whole, whether they realize it or not, each one has done a whole lot of amazing work in my life.

I turn to the corner of the time we spent in Amazing Grace Preschool. I hear the most amazing, beautiful chaos of little voices seeking attention and love, and some seeking just the ability to ask an important question like, how to spell “Wednesday.” I hear patience being demanded of my team and me, and I hear songs like “Days of the Week” and “Jesus loves me (yes I know!!)” I hear the sounds of giant kisses and the sounds of kids beating each other’s heads against the concrete walls. (Which is actually louder than you might think!)
I laugh a little to myself and turn to the corner of the afternoon when the heat was close to unbearable, but made the hours that much more of an adventure. I hear the sounds of footsteps running towards the ragtag group of mzungus. (Yes, this is he 5th day in a row I’ve worn these shorts!) I hear hands being grabbed and fought over, and I hear piggy back rides being demanded and occasionally denied.(: I hear bare feet jumping, skipping, running circles…and I hear a dirty, old soccer ball being bounced against the pebbles and dirt down a path of anticipation, towards a large, loud, spirited group of Americans in a dusty, partially green field. This corner of my heart I can tell I’m especially fond of. Actually, it’s a bit overwhelming when the little red light blinks in my mind, repeating and reminding monotonously how much I already miss these sounds. The sounds of excited yells, the sounds of tiny fingers braiding and tangling hair beyond repair. The sounds of little boys fighting over the boundaries of their precious football field, and whether using elbows counts as a “hand ball.” And most of all, the all-consuming sound of love being poured out and into little lives desperate for Jesus.
Tears begin to well in my eyes at this point, and it’s a little embarrassing because I don’t cry much and in some ways I feel like maybe I need to be better at letting these parts of the last 3 months go.
I quickly try remember some of the happiest times spent in Zambia. When I see images of the markets in my mind, I can smell the smell of new chitenges and old, dried fish. I hear people I’ve never met calling me “sister” and I hear grown women and men asking to take photos of us. I turn around and I see my 6 teammates with me. I hear the sounds of bartering and small conversation. I hear misunderstood words and laughter, but most of all, I hear Jesus walking among our group, encouraging us and loving us every moment of every day, and gracefully giving us the words to say in response to tough questions or accusatory remarks.
As I approach another corner, the images in my mind change from the chaos of the market to quiet dinners and get-togethers with the dear friends, the Zambians we came to love so deeply. I hear individuals heading to Food Palace, the sounds of countless selfies being snapped, the sounds of a certain familiar paintbrush being stroked against an off-white canvas, and the voices of countless women trying to teach us the recipe (and technique) for nshima, over, and over, and over again. I hear worship choruses and not-so-silent prayers being poured out to our Father. I hear questions about the book of Matthew and questions about American culture.
I take a deep breath and begin to hear the sounds of beautiful baptisms and the roar of the most wonderful waterfall in the world. I hear old men hitting on us young girls while we mop their rooms. (Mostly just one old man in particular though(: ) I see house worship on Wednesday night, and I just sit for a minute in the splendor of the Spirit that was so evident in those moments. I hear the sounds of screams when cockroaches scuttle near bare toes and the sounds of a tiny, microwave-sized oven blowing up…twice. One of the best sounds has to be the sound of an ice-cold Mirinda being popped open while it sweats and drips down my hand on an especially scorching Livingstone day.
In all of this, I realize how grateful I am to have the memories of this experience to keep with me forever. This place, thousands and thousands and thousands of miles across the earth from home, was definitely not my favorite place within at least the first month when we arrived. But just as God’s timing is perfect, so is His love and faithfulness. The way His glory shone through my team will forever be astounding to me. We truly loved and lived the best we possibly could in Jesus’ name. There is no sound sweeter to the ears than that.