What's so bad about a bikini?

*Note: I am not trying to start a political debate. Nor am I trying to hurt anyone in my family or the people I knew growing up.  This is me sharing my heart and it's about a personal choice that I am making for my family.  I respect the decisions you make for yours.*

A few months ago a video went viral in which swimsuit designer Jessica Rey talked about the evolution of the female swimsuit and the effect of the bikini on today’s society.

And let me tell you, I thought her modest designs were cute and agreed with much of what she said – but thought I was the exception.

You see, I grew up in bikinis.  I grew up surrounded by bikinis.  With a lake in our backyard, summer wardrobes consisted of pajamas and swimsuits.  We didn’t need much else.  Neighbors came by in their boats, friends swam from dock to dock, and most of the women wore bikinis.  Thin, beautiful women, lying on lawn chairs with Coppertone tanning oil and fashionable sunglasses while their kids competed to make the biggest splash with their cannonballs.  

It was life.  It was normal.  Throwing on a pair of shorts and walking to the neighbor’s house with no shirt was no big deal.

Then the girls hit puberty.  There was a group of us, all with “perfectly” shaped mothers weighing in around 100 pounds, and we were outgrowing them.  Our mothers wouldn’t dare say anything beyond a subtle warning about impending weight gain, but we felt it, and we knew that it really wasn’t normal. 

In the midst of all of this, we were boy crazy.  Through our young years of observation, we learned how to draw compliments or approving eyes with our bodies, and the bikini became about more than cannonballs and suntans (and who can safely do a cannonball in a bikini anyway?).  I remember going to a pool party in seventh grade, for the first time wearing a bikini on a maturing feminine figure, not just that of a small girl.  And my focus was one boy, and making sure he noticed me in my new, barely there swimwear.

I went home disappointed.  The party may have been fun – with water fights and barbecue and friends hanging out… but I didn’t attract the boy, and I felt ugly and worthless.  Over the next few years, though, I wore a lot of bikinis and attracted a lot of boys and to me that was, as a woman, just what you did.  And when a boy I liked didn’t like me, I assumed it was because of my body – my outward appearance.  I wasn’t tan enough, thin enough, pretty enough…

And man have I struggled through the years with being “enough.”  It wasn’t until college that I learned that I was “enough” and loved because I was a child of God.  Not because of how I looked or acted or how many boys were attracted to me in a bikini.

Even so, I’ve struggled with this bikini debate.  I liked the attention I got when wearing them.  Don’t tell anyone, but I still like the attention I get in a bikini, pregnant body aside.  But as we expect our first child, I've had to wrestle the whole idea and think about how we want to raise our children.

Do I want my son to hang out with the girls who are just trying to get him drooling over their bodies?  Do I want my daughter drawing that sort of attention?  As I started to think about all this, I just went back to the idea that it was life, it was normal, and I turned out okay.

But I also know the paths I could have so easily taken.  I listened to the lies that men would only want me if I gave them my body.  In high school I was told by a family member she was surprised my boyfriend was still with me since I was committed to waiting until marriage for sex.  Because that was the lie she had been told and believed and my heart breaks for her.   

While those sorts of thoughts might be “normal” in our culture today, I realize I don’t really want our kids to be “normal.”  I want them to know they are loved as children of God. 

For our daughters: that men who love them for their integrity and faith are far supreme to those who lust over their bodies.  For our sons: to seek God first, and find women after God’s heart.

It may be radical or countercultural, but as I become a mother, I may have to retire my bikinis (or save them for special times with my husband – because after all, we were created to be sexual beings  - one man and one woman – in marriage).  To set an example of modesty for my children.  To demonstrate to my husband that he is special enough to be the only one to see me bare and vulnerable.  And perhaps, to bring a little personal healing along the way.

“Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” – I Corinthians 6:19-20    

and I cried

When I called Mama Yoba at midnight and she told me that a well-trained birthing nurse was able to remove the placenta and that Regina was recovering, I cried.  I cried tears of joy and relief that my dear friend would be okay.  I cried tears of thanksgiving to God for hearing our prayers.  I cried tears of exhaustion.  I told Luke that I think the tears I cried were tears of all the stress and exhaustion of the last two-plus years, finally spilling over.  The dam broke, my strength was gone, and I cried.

I didn't know Regina was pregnant until about a month ago.  We hadn't been together as much and she hid it well.  When she finally told me, she was ashamed, saying it was a mistake and they hadn't been responsible.  It came as quite a surprise, as I had just recommended that another missionary call Regina to speak on purity at a girls’ workshop.  But I assured her I was there for her.  She was my friend.  And of all the Zambians I have come to know and love, Regina is probably the only real, mutual friend – almost a sister.  

Tuesday I decided to walk to Kimasala to visit Regina and Mama Yoba and some of the others out by Lusa.  I arrived to find out that Mama Yoba was in Lusaka and Regina had gone to the hospital Monday afternoon with severe cramping. When I visited Tuesday evening, she had not actually seen a doctor, but was feeling a bit better.  Wednesday afternoon I stopped in again, and she had been discharged – never seeing a doctor, having an ultrasound or anything.  Thursday morning I received a text message from her brother saying she had been sick all night.  I called and she said she wanted to rest a bit, but a couple of hours later she wanted to go to the hospital.  I picked her up, along with her cousin and the baby’s father and we went to a small clinic in town that specialized in ultrasound.  The technician said her amniotic fluid was dangerously low and we should go straight to the hospital.

Back in the overcrowded maternity ward, Regina was given one of the last available beds.  An initial exam determined she was in pre-term labor, and that was that.  There was no medication, no further analysis.  They were just going to let the labor carry on (though only seven months pregnant).  Now most women are completely alone through the labor process.  With 3-6 beds in an area, they lay there in the heat and fight through the contractions quietly and alone, until it’s time to actually give birth (which may be why many women prefer to deliver in their homes).

Visiting hours are very strict: 6-7 a.m. and 5-6 p.m.  I stood by Regina for the first three hours, holding her hand, fanning her with a notebook, praying fervently, and slowly noticing I was the only “visitor” in the area.  At 3 p.m., I went outside to ask her friend and her cousin if one of them would stay with her for a bit while I went to get a bite to eat and put gas in the car (there had been a shortage and I was running on fumes).  They told me they wouldn't be allowed - that I was only allowed because I was white.  I think the one friend made her way at least for some of the time because she was nine months pregnant and could easily pass as a patient.

I returned for 5 p.m. visiting hours, only to find out Regina had gone into the labor room.  This is a room with three beds side-by-side, in which the women lay completely naked through the birthing process.  All the women are expected to bring a sheet of plastic, gloves, and other supplies for use by the hospital.  By 5:20, Regina had given birth to a 3 pound baby girl.  The baby was taken straight to an incubator, but Regina was not in the clear yet.  A group of us waited until 7:00, but Regina had still not delivered the placenta.  One of the older caregivers for Lusa convinced the nurses to allow her to stay, but the rest of us were forced to go.  Mama Yoba was still in transit from Lusaka, and most of the day I was praying she would arrive quickly.  She called me from the bus shortly after I arrived home pleading with me to do something – to tell the nurses they needed to help Regina.  I didn't know what to do.  There was nothing I could do.

And I was so afraid I would lose my friend.  I even told Luke that if something happened to her, I didn't think I could come back to Zambia. I couldn't handle it.

After a hot shower and a few hours of tossing and turning but not sleeping, I called Mama Yoba.  Regina was fine.  Everything was going to be okay.  And I cried.

Thank you Jesus. 

Access to the Father

“Because you are close to God, because of your skin.”

I stopped by the post office to check our mail this morning and one of my favorite security guards greeted me joyfully. He told me he thought I would be at church, which normally I would on a Sunday, but our church had a special Christmas event last night and therefore cancelled church this morning. Anyway, he said that they (he and another man with him) unfortunately couldn’t go to church because they were securing things. So, they read the Bible together and pray. (Yay for them, right?) He said they pray to God to protect them, that they won’t be endangered. Then he said that only God and I can protect them.

Me? How can I protect them? I responded: “Only God can protect you from danger – I can’t protect you!”

And that’s when he said it. That I could protect them through my prayers to God, because God will listen to me because of my skin color; as if having white skin is a prerequisite to having a close relationship with the Lord.

Is this what is being taught? Is it a belief that is widely held by our Zambian brothers and sisters? I find myself wondering if it is a remnant of colonialism or if it’s the result of false doctrine (or both). Some churches in South Africa and elsewhere teach that the black Africans are descendents of Ham, father of Canaan. After Noah awakes from his drunkenness In Genesis 9:25-27, it says,

“He said, ‘Cursed be Canaan! The lowest of slaves will he be to his brothers.’ He also said, ‘Blessed be the Lord, the God of Shem! May Canaan be the slave of Shem. May God extend the territory of Japheth; may Japheth live in the tents of Shem, and may Canaan be his slave.’”

The idea in the doctrine is that the black Africans are an inferior race, subject to slavery. It’s the same theology that had so many Civil War era Americans convinced that slavery was morally and spiritually acceptable.

As Luke prepared to go to Ethiopia, a European man told us that in Ethiopia, the people don’t look at themselves as inferior to whites, making it much easier to have mutual friendships and mutual working relationships. In contrast, it is very difficult to have strong mutual relationships with our Zambian brothers and sisters. Despite our sin, our shortcomings, and our brokenness, we are still viewed as “superior.” Perhaps that is why there is one church here absolutely convinced that they need an American pastor (they really want Luke) to grow. Perhaps this is why children seem to take great pride in greeting a muzungu (white person) and receiving a response. Maybe this is why when I pick something up off a shelf in Shoprite, others around me immediately look at the same thing in the hope of imitating my selection and becoming just a little more like me.

But regardless of the whys and hows, it’s wrong. I told my friend this morning that he is my brother. He has the same access to God that I do, and the Lord listens to his prayers. In Revelation 7:9 it says,

“After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and before the Lamb.”

It doesn’t say that the Americans or Europeans will be in front – in the cushy seats – VIP seating. It doesn’t say that the Zambians will be sweeping the floors or asking others to pray on their behalf. It says we will all be standing before the throne of God and the Lamb.

We are all sinners – all guilty before God until the price has been paid for our sin. And through the death of Christ on the cross, it has. One death for all mankind; not proportioned out based on our race or the intensity of our sin. We are all disobedient; and we all have access to redemption.

“There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” – Galations 3:8

I pray that I encouraged my dear brother this morning. After all, that’s what he is – my brother. We share a common Father, and have equal access to that Father. And as he sits praying and reading his Bible and wishing he were at church, I am humbled that he would think of me (running a few errands on a Sunday morning), as greater in the Kingdom of God. And I am forever grateful that our salvation is not through our actions, but only through Christ.

A Look at Village Life... Part 2

April 29
…Even though it’s peaceful and fun in many ways, I still find myself counting down the days until we return to Solwezi. There’s just something about being in your own bed and own kitchen and somewhat in control of your own schedule and not worried about miscommunicating or offending. There’s also something wonderful about a shower. Heck, even a bathtub would be great. I washed my hair again by dunking my head completely in a bucket of water. Fun stuff. In a week I’ll be a pro.

Luke’s stomach is bothering him today. It worries me a bit because at lunch yesterday they served us meat from the night before – which they had just left in the pot in a cabinet without re-heating. We did have beans last night, though, so it may just be gas…

… People here are definitely showing appreciation – bringing chickens and okra and bananas and all sorts of stuff to welcome us as visitors. We have no idea what we should do to show our gratitude. The sacrifices people here are making for us are incredible and really humbling. I am too selfish to be so selfless! But, as Proverbs 28:27 says, “He who gives to the poor will lack nothing, but he who closes his eyes to them receives many curses.” Lord, help me to have a giving heart and to be able to discern how much to give, how much to do, who to help, and most of all, how to glorify and amplify you in the process.

April 30
Last night we woke up to a rat in the room. I jumped back and all night found myself turning a flash light on and looking around…

But there are really good things too. Last night all the kids actually came inside with us after dinner and we played UNO. Surprisingly that is one game that does not require everyone to speak the same language. It was fun to see the kids so excited and Mrs. Yanjisha has an awesome laugh and smile. She is always singing and humming. Life is so simple, yet so incredibly happy.

The kids are creating new toys, like a full oxen and cart set from clay and twigs. They also shoot homemade pellets with slingshots. Yesterday, one of the kids hit a pretty tropical bird and the Yanjishas asked me if I ate that kind of bird and if I wanted them to cook it. Eeeek! I said I don’t know and I think they could tell by my face it wasn’t a good idea.

Today we helped crush stones for their church’s new foundation (talk about humbling!). This afternoon we went and watched a couple of village “futbol” games. It was a nice mix up from just sitting at the house. Some of the Yanjisha grandkids have really taken to Luke and he had one on his shoulders the whole time.

It rained a bit and afterward there was a great rainbow. I may never get used to the incredible skies here – rainbows, sunsets, and the most amazing star-filled nights. In the book I’m reading (Lover of My Soul), it talks of how God often communicates to us as his bride – with sweet whispers to draw us close, not loud shouts or giant storms. We have to listen for those whispers and gaze upon His splendor. We can’t always look for the “use” of something, trying to capture the stars in a photo for others or find purpose other than taking in God’s beauty and goodness.

A Look at Village Life... part 1

There is so much to say after spending two weeks in the village, and yet so much of it would seem frivolous or dramatized. So rather than try to summarize or explain or anything of the sort, I’m going to just go straight from the heart, including excerpts from journal entries written during our time in Lubofu. As it was holiday time there – just before the harvest started – there was a lot of time to sit and think and write. Some of it is silly, and some a little more serious. I’ll give you a little glimpse of our thoughts…

April 26
… We pee into a hole in the ground. Granted, I’ve gotten used to this at Lusa and elsewhere, but I just went into the little house that surrounds said hole, and the flies were crazy. We’re talking you start to go, and all the flies fly out and up. Yeah. Awesome. Think horror movie – I thought they might eat me. I may cut back on my water intake, or start going to the bathroom in the bushes…

April 27
Mrs. Yanjisha asked me what I am writing, and we tried to explain about journaling and how our culture is a written culture whereas theirs’ is oral. She has asked me about recipes for this and that, and I don’t have a clue without being able to look them up! They seem to remember so much more and memorize songs and verses more easily. I think what really continues to amaze me is how innovative people – especially kids – are here. They were filling a battery with acid and one of the kids made a funnel from a leaf. They are constantly creating toys and tools from scraps of this and that and things from nature. It is also amazing how young the children are when they start working and helping at home. The kids are fetching water and cleaning and cooking and farming and caring for (and killing) animals. They sleep in a small house separate from the adults and never eat with the adults.

Typically in the village the kids live in a small house by the grandparents’ house once they are 7 or 8 years old; the Yanjishas have 5-9 kids living “with” them at any given time – all grandkids, and kids of their nephews and nieces. The kids have an incredible respect for elders and seem so easily satisfied and entertained.

It’s very different from the kids – and especially teens – in town. Those teens in town have been exposed to western thought and dress and rebellion has really taken its hold. That and they’re not busy working in the fields. We worry about seeing this culture disappear as Zambia becomes more developed. A mine is being built nearby here. It will change everything. The road won’t be safe to walk down freely as it is now, and it will be so much louder and easier. It might bring jobs, but is it a good thing? Are we destroying a lifestyle of peace and contentment by bringing more, bigger, “better?”

The Yanjisha’s farm is amazing. The work ethic and love of God is incredible. Yes, we (westerners) needed to bring the gospel, but it seems we’ve brought so much rubbish along with it. How much is helpful? How much is needed? At what point are we polluting (or crippling from giving handouts) a beautiful, peaceful, happy culture? Perhaps we should have Zambians come to the US to teach people like us how to work hard, love life and want less. If only…

Tubena Kufunda Kikaonde

A mi wa ne Mrs. Wessler. Twafuma ku Kwamelika. Twaiya na kufunda Kikaonde ne kukwasha bana ba kishali.

I am Mrs. Wessler. We are from America. We have come to learn Kikaonde and help orphaned children.

Get that one down and I’m set, right? Everyone tells us we’re learning very quickly, but I feel like I have to look up everything in my handy dandy notebook (Thank you Blues Clues) before saying it. Yes, my vocabulary is increasing significantly, and we have most of the greetings down, but this language stuff is HARD. It’s one thing to be able to say something to someone, but understanding what they say to you and then responding is a whole different story. And I keep wanting to resort to Spanish. Seriously. Especially because there is this horrible consonant that looks like the rolled “n” in Spanish, but sounds like the “ng” in sing. Not that hard, except it doesn’t end syllables or words, it starts them. Syllables always end in vowels. So here’s one of the words: Mwibananyi, used in “Anweba mwibananyi jizhina?” or “What is your name?” Break it apart…. Think: Mwi ba NGA nyi (but deep in your throat and hardly pronouncing it at all…). Okay, I’m going to stop now. I have figured out that if I say my name first (like the first line of this entry), I can just add, “Ngo bewa” to ask “what about you?” and avoid having to completely butcher the pronunciation. Enough of your language lesson for the day.

The fun part about learning the language is it breaks down a barrier. Because of the local mining community (with expatriates from all over the world), the local people are not used to the Mzungus (white people) making efforts to get to know them or speak their language. As we walk to Kimasala (the village where our ministry will primarily be based), or through the market, we see hard faces and looks of almost annoyance or frustration, but as soon as we greet people in Kikaonde or try to start a conversation, they warm up and tell us how great it is we are learning their language. What’s funny, is that a lot of people, especially kids, like to practice their English when they see us. Kids constantly ask us “How are you?” We think it’s the first - and sometimes the only – thing they learn because when we respond they have no idea what to say back! When we respond in Kikaonde some of them start laughing or cheering. People have started to recognize us, too. Our walk takes longer each day as more people greet us or ask us questions. The best is when the kids from Lusa Home-Based Care see us walking. On Friday a few saw me as we approached the last hill toward Kimasala, and they ran down the hill to give me a hug. Awesome.

We’ve also been told that we have to attend a different Kikaonde-speaking church each month during our language study to help us learn. Now we see people in the market who recognize us from church and ask about our work and our language study. I just wish I recognized them as easily as they recognize us!

With language study comes cultural study. We each have a great language helper that clues us in to traditions and “rules.” Like the men and women very rarely sit together in church. We’re talking full out separate sides of the room. Today we were told that a man will never sit in close proximity to his mother-in-law. Likewise, a woman would never sit near her father-in-law. So when Luke arrived to the home of his helper, the mother-in-law was there visiting and so Luke and Christopher sat outside for their lesson. Another thing – kids don’t receive any respect. There are different phrases and greetings and questions used for children than for adults. We add “mwane” as a term of respect to just about everything we say, but we don’t say it to kids – they would laugh or just be confused. But, you can ask kids things you can’t ask adults… like “what is your age?” (Or “how many years do you have?”) They don’t all know, but at least it’s appropriate to ask and answer. The kids will also run out to the road when they see us coming and yell “MZUNGUS” – letting all their friends know they see white people.

Even as we learn, we find ourselves as teachers. Our language helpers ask us questions about American culture. Today, Regina asked me if people eat nshima in the United States. Nshima is a staple here, made from pounded, ground maize that is boiled and formed into a sticky ball that is then used to pick up other food (think polenta… sort of). She was shocked to find out that we don’t. Then we discussed how our hair is very different and we have to wash it a lot more than they have to wash theirs. We also talk about language differences, helping them with their English. When observing the teaching of the children at Lusa, we sometimes even find ourselves correcting the teachers as they teach the kids English.

We are trying hard, and know that this is an important phase of our ministry – especially building relationships, but sometimes it’s exhausting. Communication is such an interesting thing, and I’ve never felt so much like I can’t express myself, even to those who speak English fairly well. I guess all things with time – and we look forward to a time when we can really share our hearts and speak to the hearts of our friends here. Shalaipo Mwane. (Remain well.)

On African Soil

The title of this blog is deceiving. There really isn’t a whole lot of soil here… it’s more a red, sandy clay that when dry creates a slightly abrasive surface on all floors (think: sandpaper) and when wet, a thick red clay, similar to the kind you would use to create pottery by hand. Basically, though, it’s everywhere.

Anyhoo, enough about the soil, although you’d be interested in all the things climbing and crawling along in it, like giant centipedes and snails and cute little lizards… And then there’s the things growing out of the ground, like the mango trees, which aren’t quite ready for eating raw, but when cooked take on a flavor and consistency similar to cooked apples. There are absolutely amazing flowers as well – some lilies and other familiar ones, and some that look like they belong in the rainforest.

Speaking of rain, we’ve had some rain basically every day. The power has stayed on since we’ve arrived, though our water was off when we first got here. Today was actually sunny most of the day and Luke and I went out on a walk and visited a nearby market. We had gone to a grocery store when we first arrived to get milk and cereal and fruit and meat and such to last a few days (to my Dallas friends, it reminded me of Fiesta), but the market is completely different… especially considering the route we took had us basically going through the town dump, jumping over ditches where sewage mixed with rainwater ran alongside the alley way. I realize as I write this that a few of you are probably freaking out a bit about the “conditions” in which we are living – don’t worry – it’s not like that everywhere; even so, we constantly praise God for His provision in our lives, and for allowing us the opportunity to see what blessed lives we have lived.

So at the market, you can buy clothing – likely imported, used clothing, stacked in piles and definitely not very clean. You can also buy fresh fruits and vegetables. Planning to make spaghetti tonight, we bought a few tomatoes and a green pepper for about 500 kwacha each. That’s roughly a dime in US dollars. We also bought a large eggplant for 3,000 kwacha, about 60 cents (and we hear we paid the “white man’s price” – significantly inflated from what the local Zambians would pay). Also along the market path were butchers, barbers, and other tradesmen of sorts. We found a route back to the compound that involved trudging through much less waste and sewage – directly to the door of our compound.

We are currently staying at the Evangelical Church of Zambia compound outside Lusaka, Zambia. We have a quaint little guest house here until we move to Solwezi in early January. It is interesting living out of suitcases and crates, and one box that we had to open and now think we will have to replace before moving north. The first two nights we had dinner with other missionaries, but cooked our first real meal here tonight, making spaghetti with makeshift pots and pans and serving utensils. We look forward to settling into our own kitchen and buying spices and such and having a refrigerator bigger than a small dorm fridge. We also look forward to digging into “daily life.” Daily life right now basically consists of sleeping, cooking, eating and conversations here and there with the few missionaries here about what we can expect (or basically, not to have expectations). We’re learning early lessons in slowing down and taking life as it comes. We will be getting our car tomorrow night, and then may venture out a bit and explore as time allows.

We will fly to Solwezi Monday-Thursday for some time with the Bruce family before they head back to New Zealand. We will then spend Christmas and New Year’s here before moving to Solwezi. We hear that we will be attending a presentation of “Messiah” next Friday and have a big barbecue, or “Brie” for Christmas. We will try to update as we get settled in, but definitely appreciate your prayers as our entire lives and all that we know and are accustomed to are changed and turned upside down.

Thank you for your prayers, your encouragement and your support!

Note: I was not able to post this last night while it was still true. Shortly after going to bed, it stormed, and then the power went out until sometime mid-day today.