Zura

My first morning in Pemba, I was In the hammock reading quietly and enjoying the sunrise when a parade of beautiful Mozambican mamas came and sat on the edge of my porch.  I greeted them in my limited Emakua. ‘Selama! Mohavo? Kihavo!’ One of the ladies rushed to my side, put her arm around my shoulder and asked my name in Emakua. She smiled, ‘Kaysha y Zura, amigas!’  I don’t know why this made us instant friends, but I was thankful for the quick acceptance as her amiga.

Zura is one of 12 ladies at our base hired to do laundry for the staff here. This is an amazing opportunity for these women to have jobs as it is extremely difficult for Mozambican women who don’t speak English to find work in the city.    They meet at my porch every morning to gather the laundry and wash and sing, a true highlight to my day as I’m journaling and reading above.

Every chance she could get, Zura would come to my side and chat in mixed Emakua and Portugese even though I could not understand most of what she was saying, I felt her hunger to understand and relate. I would read verses from the Bible to her in English as well, knowing she couldn’t understand. But it didn’t matter. We were amigas.

One day we happened to cross paths outside the gate. Yay! It was her day off from work! She grabbed my hand and took off for the village. I assumed she wanted me to meet her family she had described to me briefly.

Approaching her house she was greeted by three beautiful daughters. Gloria, Narzesa, and Jesuina. Zura spread a mat outside in the dirt and motioned for me to sit.

The girls scrambled on top of me, touching my face, stroking my hair, stealing my sunglasses and laughing at everything I said.  Before I knew it I had braids in my hair and the little one had adopted my Portugese dictionary as her own picture book.      My heart was completely undone as Zura indicated that she was a single mother providing for these babies on her own the best she could. Her middle child, Narzesa, had a concerning laceration on her foot that was sticky and muddy with flies landing around the cut. I helped her wash the foot, and put clean band-aids over it that I had with me.  I felt the smallness of what I had to offer against so much need.

That week someone left a Portugese Bible at our house accidentally. I snatched it up and began journaling verses to Zura.

“For the bread of God is the bread that comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.” Then Jesus said, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.” – John 6:33, 35

She loved the Word. She was glowing with a new brightness in her eyes. So much so, that we began writing notes back and forth in the journal every morning.      Then this message broke my heart. She asked if there was any way I could help her family with my two hands. She barely makes enough income in a day to bring home food, much less to pay her rent and clothe her children adequately.

I knew this was coming. If it was myself in her shoes as a mother, how could I not ask for help?

I prayed desperately for a way to answer her. I continued to give her verses and promised I would ask God to give me wisdom as I am very small on my own.

The next morning I felt God gave me a picture that He wanted to heal Narzesa’s foot. He wanted to affirm and assure Zura and her family to know Him as their protector and provider and that they can run to Him to meet ALL their needs. He is such a good, good Father.

I held the word in my heart and prayed about who I could ask to go to her home and join me with great faith in prayer for this healing that would be a new sign of love and his goodness.

I felt God highlight Leo and the boys. It was part of His plan for them to pray for their own neighbor. I asked the boys the next day and they readily agreed to meet the following evening to go to Zuras house.

I wish I could describe the power of prayer in her home that night. The presence of God was overwhelming as Leo prayed. I was expectant to see radical healing, still the cut appeared the same to me. Leo confidently told me we were done and that it would be healed.

Before leaving, we washed Zura’s feet to honor her in her home. She received all of this in honest humility and with light, grateful tears.

“What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?” – Romans 8:31-32

The next morning I gathered my housemates to visit Zura. We brought bread and peanut butter and I also brought her a Portugese Bible I was able to get my hands on.

As soon as we rounded the corner of the path to her house the girls came out running! I scooped them up in my arms, trying to catch Narseza long enough to look at her foot.    If only I had a photo to show the extent of the injury before– her foot was completely healed and the wound covered with new skin!!

Wow! Thank you Jesus our Healer! Zura pulled out the welcome mat and we praised God together! All of us laughing and hugging and talking over one another.             Every day since, Zura is praising God. Their circumstances haven’t changed, but their spirits are full of hope and their eyes filled with joy.

“Remain in me, as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me. “As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy may be complete.” – Jesus

 

The Vision

What’s the vision? What’s the big idea?

The vision is JESUS—obsessively, dangerously, undeniable Jesus.

The vision is an army of young people. You see bones? I see an army.

And they are FREE from materialism.

They laugh at 9-5 little prisons.

They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday.

They wouldn’t even notice.

They know the meaning of the Matrix, the way the West was won.

They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations. They need no passport. People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence.

They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and dirty and dying.

What is the vision?

The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best. It is dangerously pure.

Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation.

It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games.

This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause.

A million times a day its soldiers

choose to lose

that they might one day win

the great ‘Well done’ of faithful sons and daughters.

Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night.

They don’t need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting again and again: ‘COME ON!’

And this is the sound of the underground

The whisper of history in the making

Foundations shaking

Revolutionaries dreaming once again

Mystery is scheming in whispers

Conspiracy is breathing…

This is the sound of the underground

And the army is discipl(in)ed.

Young people who beat their bodies into submission.

Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms.

The tattoo on their backs boasts ‘For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.’

Sacrifce fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes.

Winners.

Martyrs.

Who can stop them?

Can hormones hold them back?

Can failure succeed?

Can fear scare them or death kill them?

And the generation prays

like a dying man

with groans beyond talking,

with warrior cries, sulphuric tears and

with great barrow loads of laughter!

Waiting. Watching: 24-7-365.

Whatever it takes they will give:

Breaking the rules.

Shaking mediocrity from its cosy little hide.

Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs,

laughing at labels, fasting essentials.

The advertisers cannot mold them.

Hollywood cannot hold them.

Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties

before the cockerel cries.

They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive inside.

On the outside, They hardly care.

They wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide.

Would they surrender their image or their popularity?

They would lay down their very lives–swap seats with the man on death row–guilty as hell.

A throne for an electric chair.

With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days, they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.

Their DNA chooses Jesus. (He breathes out, they breathe in.)

Their subconscious sings. They had a blood transfusion with Jesus.

Their words make demons scream in shopping centers.

Don’t you hear them coming?

Herald the weirdos!

Summon the losers and the freaks.

Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes.

They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension.

Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden.

And this vision will be. It will come to pass; it will come easily; it will come soon.

How do I know? Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God.

My tomorrow is his today.

My distant hope is his 3-D.

And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great “Amen!” from countless angels, from heroes of the faith, from Christ himself. And He is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.

Guaranteed.

* Peter Greig, Red Moon Rising