“I was a well-trained American doctor who had come to help the helpless, and now I was helpless. That reversal of roles is a common experience among people who enter another culture to help. It is so common—and so important for developing a sane view of ourselves as helpers—that new relief and development workers need worry only if they never faint or get lost or sick or have their feet washed.”
—Raymond Downing, on his work in Africa

Yesterday my new host sister Eunice volunteered to help me wash my feet. One and a half months of dust was embedded in my cracked calluses—my dry skin resembled an elephant’s more than my own. The dead part took half an hour to remove, but it was so nice to rid my soul of it. Following one of the loneliest weeks of my life that culminated in a breakdown, I realized how much I needed someone to just sit and help me with my pumice stone.

The Njovu household I moved into this week is the community I was hoping to find in Zambia. At last count there were 12 toothbrushes next to the sink of their three-bedroom house.

A dull moment is the only thing unwelcome in this home. Allow me to introduce you to a few of my family members:

Grandma is a bundle of grooving sticks. She literally shakes that thing (the small amount of thing she still has) when Aggie, 20, and I harmonize to Bemba songs. She then proceeds to tell me not to slouch.

The six of us girls aged 15 to 24 make the living room feel like a close-knit college floor. We sit around until 11 PM comparing photos and skin types and cultural norms and almost laughing loud enough to drown out the cooings emanating from the bad South African soap opera on TV.

Eager-to-learn preteen Piyo begs me to give him spelling tests, causing the nerdy little English teacher inside me to jump up and down.

Mrs. Njovu, employed by the prison system here, is anything but a hardnosed prison worker. She took my hand in the first ten minutes after I moved in and called me her daughter. After work, she asks me about my day in the “I’m-actually-interested” way every wonderful mother should.

Yesterday Mr. Njovu, a UN Volunteer, drove me to distribute 100 avocado trees to HIV/AIDS patients and their caretakers in nearby communities—our organizations are working for the same causes. We then discussed the region’s politics around dinner in the evening.

In short, there’s been some “Serving And Learning Together” going on with the new fam. And in case you didn’t read the policy handbook, that’s what SALT should be all about. Awww.

The house itself is close to town, so I now have a five-minute walk to work and lots of amenities. While there are still a few of what Westerners might dub “inconveniences”—i.e. my baths are still via bucket, electricity will be erratic during the rainy season, and I still have a rodent roommate (who greeted me with even more boldness than Jabba the Hut Mouse)—I feel like I’ve moved into all the conveniences of an American home. Part of me, the hardcore semi-masochistic part, will miss the challenge of grass hut life. But most of me is just fine with the location and relieved to not have to exist in “camping mode” for a year.

And what of my recent intense loneliness? As much as I hate to admit it, it was probably great for me. For one, I now appreciate the blessing of a loving Zambian family all the more. The few weeks also brought out some realness between me and God—in the form of both normal prayers and yell-prayers. I feel him next to me now as I walk down the African paths, whether I’m walking by myself or with a host sister or brother.

Thank you for your e-mails, texts, calls, and prayers. They encouraged me lots! If you think of it, pray this week that the workshop I’m helping to facilitate would go well.

In upcoming blogs, I’ll give you more details on my day job, as well as some about the tantalizing nature of Zambian cuisine. Mmmm . . .

The other night I awoke at 2 AM to something hitting my face. I internally cursed whatever pest had infiltrated my mosquito net, but soon realized, half-dazed, that this was no living creature. A freak rainstorm in the dry season was pummeling my grass roof to test its strength and my face was experiencing my roof’s failure, drop by drop. When I remembered the books out on my desk, I leapt from my bed to come to their rescue; thankfully, The Screwtape Letters was the only casualty of the assault (highly recommend it btw). I thanked Jesus then and there that I’d left my digital camera inside my dresser, dry and fully-functioning.

I’m lonely much of the time here—a deep loneliness that hits me in the face, catching me unprepared like these freak rainstorms. It’s a new loneliness to even me, one I’ve never felt in my previous time living abroad. I have so much time here to myself—walks to and from work alone, hours every evening after dinner alone with candlelight. I even eat lunch alone at a restaurant—my favorite coworker stopped accompanying me because she was hounded so badly by men (friends, acquaintances, strangers) who wanted the phone number of her new white friend. She told me in a roundabout way that she would prefer not to be seen in public with me . . . and I can’t really blame her.

I’m moving to a new host family in the next two weeks, so staying with my current host family has been lonely—they haven’t yet been informed of my upcoming relocation. My MCC country reps and I decided it would be best for my safety/well-being to find a new home. Just this week my three-year-old brother started taking my arm and putting it around his shoulders when he plops down beside me, so I feel torn of course . . . part of me wants to stay, and another transition now seems so daunting. Please pray for the move as it will be difficult for everyone involved.

Church this Sunday was probably my lowest point. The pastor spoke of the woman who touched Jesus’ garment and was healed, and I could relate to her so much—I wanted more than anything to bring my weaknesses to him. Everyone started filing forward to take Communion and the sacrament seemed so beautiful to me then, so necessary. As I was about to stand, a man in a tie slid towards me on the bench.

“I notice you’re a visitor. Have you been baptized into this church?”

“I’m a Christian,” I said, “I’ve been baptized into the Body of Christ.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “You can’t receive Communion.”

This church was neither Catholic nor Orthodox, but it was decided—I was an outsider. I left before the service’s conclusion and cried in a nearby field to Jesus. If his Body here was denying him to me, I’d go to him myself this Sunday. Once again, alone.

So now that I’ve used the word “lonely” about 15 times, you should know that I actually don’t sit around and mope all day long. Last week three of us (a UN volunteer, my supervisor and I) facilitated a workshop for community leaders on the psychosocial support of orphans. Five full days of sharing about everything from gender issues (most of them had no idea what those were) to traditional practices that help spread HIV/AIDS (I had no idea what those were) to disclosing information about sicknesses to children. It went exceptionally well.

And even in my ridiculous amount of free time after work hours, I shield myself from my loneliness by going for runs, by drawing, by teaching the neighborhood kids to play Frisbee, by reading, by writing some of you letters and of course, by praying. Like my grass roof, these activities help some—and they’re definitely better than nothing.

I hope as much as you do that my next blog will sound more like my usual optimistic, well-adjusted self again. This loneliness seems selfish and pathetic to me, which frustrates me all the more. But since my prayer life has improved, I want to make sure you have someone to pray for too. And please keep sending updates on your lives . . . I need them more than you know.