just pick one

I have so many stories to tell. Spending a month in Zambia makes it inevitable. I don’t even know where to begin. Which kind would you like?
Maybe a story of a girl named Elizabeth who destroyed me while I stared into her big, sad eyes then, days later, gave me hope as she smiled into mine.
Maybe a story of surviving in a grass hut deep in the wild African bush, dodging hippos and following lions on foot.
Maybe a story about a shunned man who sacrificed his own. Or perhaps I need to add onto that story the way I ignored God’s prompt for me to talk to him and the way I denied this man the opportunity to receive something big from God. But then I’d also have to add that it eats me inside weeks later.
But maybe I could tell a story about two of the most inspirational people I’ve ever met.
Or I could tell a story that one just doesn’t tell home about. Oh right, forget about it.
But then I could tell a story of the way God is revealing so much to me about the power of His Son and the way my heart just leaps when I think of this hope that anchors my soul.
Or I could tell a story of a humbling moment when a widow named Beauty wrapped her shawl around me, looked into my eyes and called me a Mother of this Nation.
Did I mention the story about the wild African bush and the hippo staring at me, his big eyes going “BLINK BLINK?” I think so.
Maybe a story about saying good-bye to 80 weeping and wailing children, getting on the bus only to find something is wrong with the bus and sitting staring for 20 minutes longer at these, let me emphasize, weeping and wailing children.
Or the story about the day I received a big fat bag of Hint of Lime chips. Sigh.
Or a story about my miracle phone. The story is something along the lines of driving deep into the bush, peeing on the side of the road, losing my phone, and then finding it again two days later.
Oh, don’t forget to let me tell you the story about how God is the greatest romance of my life. It’s a good one.

PS - It’s late at night and I find myself missing home terribly but strangely content. Lying on my bed, listening to a Vinyl Café story talk about jock straps, hockey, and Canadian Tire, eating Nerds, looking at a beautifully written letter typed on a sheet ripped out of a magazine, I can’t help but be so thankful for incredible friends.
Thank you.