Posted in Home by Stacey Hume on 5/31/2011
It's a dream.
All of it. I am sure.
As I sit in my bed, in my sheets I left long ago. I realize nothing has changed. The photos are still on the wall as I hung them, the wall color is still a pale pink. The chandeliers still hang beside my vanity mirror. My cathedral headboard and down feather comforters call me to them, as they did before. And as I sit in the middle of it all, and the birds chirp outside my window, and the sun pours in, there is simply no other explination than it was all a dream.
And yet there are whispers that it was not just a Narnia. There is a scar on my right knee, where I fell down a mountain in Haiti. I sleep in the daytime, as if my body isn't sure when it is supposed to be awake or at rest. There are faint marks from bed bugs on my legs and stomach, still lingering. And my hair is somehow red now, instead of dark brown. Surely those things are real? Or maybe I am just imagining them to be there. Maybe I am a Lucy after all.
The world still turns, just as it always has. The grand changes I imagined must have been going on while I was away, really haven't happened. My car is still the same. My office is still the same. My shoes still fit, my clothes still fit, although a little looser on me now. And it seems in every aspect of life, nothing has moved. And yet, I don't feel as if I quite fit here. I feel foreign. I feel.... different.
And it wasn't until yesterday, when I went on a run that everything came rushing back. A moment of divine clarity, where all the processing and all the prayers, and all the wishes came colliding together on me at once. My pace slowed and stopped, and I went for a walk into a wheatfield. And as the stalks were blowing around me in the wind, as if God himself was running his fingers over the amber grains, all the ambiguity stopped. All the confusion left. And there was absolute silence. The dreary mental fatigue lifted and in the clearest moment, I remembered it all.
But I didn't cry at what I had done and seen.
I laughed.
And the red robin on the telephone wire laughed with me. I waved at him and I ran as fast as I could home, down the country roads, through the front gates, and into my mom's arms. She smelled like cut grass and Diet Coke. She was in the same garden clothes I have seen her in a thousand times.
And I knew everything would be alright. The dream had ended. But life began.
Ezekiel 11:16-20 "Therefore say: 'This is what the Sovereign LORD says: Although I sent them far away among the nations and scattered them among the countries, yet for a little while I have been a sanctuary for them in the countries where they have gone.' 17 "Therefore say: 'This is what the Sovereign LORD says: I will gather you from the nations and bring you back from the countries where you have been scattered, and I will give you back the land of Israel again.' 18 "They will return to it and remove all its vile images and detestable idols. 19 I will give them an undivided heart and put a new spirit in them; I will remove from them their heart of stone and give them a heart of flesh. 20 Then they will follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws. They will be my people, and I will be their God."
Thank you for everything that you all have meant to me. Thank you for reading and praying with and for me. Thank you for your patience, and for your hearts and for your truths. I have needed them all. But as this life starts again, I may need you more than ever. Please. Don't say goodbye to me just yet. I much prefer Hello.
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Posted in Malaysia by Stacey Hume on 5/27/2011
It has been an entire week of goodbyes. I am not kidding you. As we ran around our little island last week at final debrief, it was as if the world was in slow motion, and the constant state of mind was nervous apprehension. Like a bad joke, where you aren't sure if you are supposed to laugh, or yell at the person telling it. I've done both to Jesus this past week. And everything in between.
But as I sit here in KL, knowing that in about 2 hours my plane will take off, and I will be free from the World Race, all I can do is cry. a LOT.
And that is where I am.
Somewhere between Malaysia and America, holding two equally inflated balloons. Excitement for what is to come, and utter terror that what I have is ending. And they are rubbing against each other, and I am stuck, suspended in between in static electricity. Every nerve on end. Every tear backed up like a damn waiting to burst. Yes. I spelled it that way for a reason. DAMN IT. DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN. The Mississippi has nothing on this 1000 year flood. A heart can only break like this once in a lifetime, I am sure. It would kill you if you did it more than once. So pray.
Please please pray today.
Pray I'll get off the plane in Los Angeles. I don't think I ever want to see America again at this point. It's cruel. Utterly cruel.
Please God.
Don't make me say goodbye.
I am going to go throw up now.
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Posted in Malaysia by Stacey Hume on 5/16/2011
It has been a little over a year since my journey on the World Race began. From Haiti to Moldova, Malawi to Malaysia, it has been a long and difficult year of travel and circumstance. I feel as if I have aged about 100 years, and that my hair should be long and grey and my skin sallow and withered from abuses and sun and sweat and a life well lived. I picture myself sitting on top of a mountain, cross legged like an Indian mystic, ancient in look and wisdom, alone and awkwardly perched above the busy city crowds.
On the 28th of May I will be landing in LAX airport, and crashing into a buzzing reality of people and shopping malls and restaurants that have all become strangers to me now. My world will speak English again, and drive cars, and sleep in beds and have toilets again. Things that on this race, I have learned to live without. I will set foot in a land of indulgent oppurtunity and excessive access. A land that is blessed beyond any other nation I have seen, (and now I can honestly say I have seen the world).
And when on the 29th of May I wake up in a bed of my own, this amazing adventure will only be a memory. It will only be a dream. All of the people I have met, and the conversations that I have had will once again, be a literal world away. Trapped in a dark wardrobe in my mind, in the Narnia that is the World Race. The thought of that terrifies me beyond words. Every reality I have grown to know and love this year will shatter as each one of my 60 remaining teammates disperses, returning to the unintertwined lives we were plucked from. Like a star bursting and scattering across a galaxy in brilliant streaks of light and heat, so we will be across America.
But despite knowing that all of these things are hurdling towards me, that time and reality are working against me now, in these last days my greatest prayer does not involve any of these. Not fear, or convinience or goodbyes or hellos. It does not involve the world I am leaving or the world that I am re-entering.
My greatest prayer is that the miracles I have seen will not end upon my return. That they will not remain behind me, in the nations of memory I have built. That instead, the greatest glories are yet to be discovered, and the greatest miracles have yet to be seen. Hopefully, in some way, I will be able to experience them with my family and friends in a more present way than a blog or patchy phonecall. I earnestly hope that the Kingdom comes home with me. Through some deep magic, a bit of it escapes the wardrobe and spills into the dry lands I journeyed from. And I pray to God that you get to see what I have seen.
In these next days I will be gathering with my squad in Malaysia to say goodbye. Please keep us in your prayers. This will be the most difficult thing we have faced by far. And pray for me as well.
I know for a fact, that this Race isn't over. Not really. My real race is just beginning.
p.s. When you stumble out of a closet of continents, you may come home looking like this. Warning to all my respectable friends and family members: only one pair of shorts, and two t-shirts have survived this year (and they are GROSS). BEWARE!
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Posted in Asia by Stacey Hume on 3/31/2011
At the end of the town down a muddy lane, is where the invisibles are kept behind lock and wall. Past the jail, past the rehab center, past the AIDS clinic is a set of buildings, with only fields and cows as witnesses to their existence, live the disabled orphans. I wish that there were words to describe what happened this last month. Where we were, and what we did. The things we saw and said and learned. But there just aren't. I am at a loss. Never have I been so acutely accosted with tragedies and miracles of such a magnitude, their coexistence defies every ounce of logic or explanation I can muster. I held dying children in my arms, with nothing to do but sing them a song. I danced and jumped for joy when another child spoke their first word at the age of 12. I cuddled and kissed infants that were starving to death by the system that was meant to protect them. And I colored pictures with middle aged men frozen in a state of eternal youth and joy. After much reflection and prayer, this is all I can leave you. Last month changed my race. It changed my world. It changed my life, and it is going to change yours. But I can not honor the events that happened or the people I met through this cold computer. These are conversations that I will have to have with you face to face. Because these indescribable children deserve more than just a paragraph or two on some soon to be forgotten blog. They are more precious than that.  This photo describes last month how I cannot. I took it on a long walk home, back from a long day of ministry. Under the constant cover of darkness, in communist blockades, there is a faint light in the shape of a cross. | |
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Posted in Philippines by Stacey Hume on 2/9/2011
This may be a bit disjointed, so as a warning I am telling you to be gracious with this post.
I fell off a laundry line today. from five feet in the air, I tripped and came down to earth with a fairly impressive thud. I managed to pretty severely mangle myself, but that isn't where the story begins. It's only the place that it gets good.
The story begins with last night. I was in my bed by 10, like a good missionary. But like a bad missionary I was thinking very intently on something, well someone, that I should not have been. An old love came to mind, and I started to wonder about possibilities. I should know by now just how pointless this is, considering my previous track record of sleepless nights, but I couldn't help it. The train of thought ran away with itself. There were just no breaks. Before I knew it I was re-planning a relationship that had already been broken... twice. Laying in the dark, I watched the clock go from 10, to 11, to 12, to 1, to 2, to 3 am. Yep. 5 hours of staring into nothing, thinking about something ridiculous. But, I am a girl. So once in a blue moon I am allowed.
At three am, even after the best attempts at trying to fall asleep (including but not limited to: Nyquil and a boring podcast, my sleeping play list and reading poetry, journaling and the bible, praying and plain old fashioned wishing on a star), it was futile. I was awake. So in an effort to un-stick myself, instead of thinking, I started listening. And surprise, when my mind shut off its monologue, I found whispering away into the night, the voice of the Lord. Being the gentleman that he is, He approached me sweetly. What are you doing? He asked. Wasting time on you know who. I replied. Help me sleep? I asked him back.
"Talk to me a while, instead. I have things I want to share with you." And so the Lord began to speak to me in intimate tones. Of the love he had for me, and the year of promise that was quickly arriving. I turn 25 in a few days, if you didn't know. And he asked me to make him 25 promises. He said that he would, in return give me 25 promises of his own.
So I entered into a pact. For the sake of brevity I will stick with the first three promises:
1. I will love the Lord more than any man. 2. I will listen to His voice over my own. 3. I will rebuild my temple. So in the quiet of the morning, just as the sun was rising I pledged my heart secretly to the Lord. It felt forbidden and sexy almost, in a room with 8 other sleeping women, who did not know of the strange suitor in my bed with me. Lit up by the red glow of a headlamp, I fell in love again. This time with someone worth while. The next morning I pledged I would get up to accomplish 2 of those promises, or start them anyways. Number 1 and Number 3. So I set my alarm for 6:30, in a mere 2 hours, to run. I would leave this old love on the field for good. I promised the Lord I would not stop running until that haunting memory was gone. And so when the sun rose, I rose. And I ran. And ran. And ran. In my bleary state I moved farther and farther away from my past. With each step, I became more secure in my new love of Jesus, and self worth. By 7:30 that man was gone. I left him on the track. So excited and happy for the way that the Lord was loving me, I charged into the day full steam. I went and shoveled rocks. And when I saw a friend of mine, sitting on a bench crying, well I knew that she needed the joy and excitement I was feeling as well. So before I knew what I was doing, I was standing on top of a laundry line dancing and singing. "I'm trading my sorrows, I'm trading my shame, I'm laying them down for the joy of the Lord." I also did a pretty great version of "Shake your groove thing, shake your groove thing yeah yeah... Let's show the Lord we can dance." Swinging and dancing with the ease of a gymnast, on a high wire. I broke it down. Literally. When it came time for the dismount, I reached onto the mast of the line, and stepped backwards onto the support beam. Well, just so you know. Always check for dry rot, because the mast gave way, and so did my body. I fell backwards, somehow by the grace of JESUS to miss the hard wire laundry lines running 10 inches apart, and rubbing up on the support beam I caught three nails with my back and came down with a massive thud. I settled into the earth like a woman well weighted. Two of my friends watching this came running over screaming. What did you break?! What did you break?! When I got enough air to breathe, all I could manage to say into the grass was, "Rejoice in the Lord Always, again I say rejoice." They looked at me like I was nuts. Like somehow in falling 5 feet onto my side, I had rattled loose my brain. They steadily rolled me to my stomach to assess the damages. All I heard was "SSSSSSS" the sucking of air through closed teeth. So I said, "That can't be good. Well it doesn't hurt, so don't tell me what it looks like, or it will make it worse. Is it bleeding?" Christy replied, "Yeah... A lot... Let's get you up stairs to somewhere we can clean this." Alright. I have the strength of a thousand camels. And the grace of none. They both started hysterically laughing. I didn't mean that for anyone else but me to hear, but apparently I said out loud what I was saying in my head. And as I picked myself off the ground with their help, the only thing I remember seeing was the portion of the laundry line I just fell off. It stood in the perfect shape of a cross. Beautiful I thought. And was carried inside. The whole time I was wondering, why am I not more worried about this? Why did I say rejoice, I should be screaming in pain. But no. I'm happy I did this. I made my friend laugh and stop crying. Mission accomplished. They stretched me out on our dorm floor to clean my bloody back and side. Jess, my team leader was in the room and she was horrified. The only thing she could say was "why the hell were you on a laundry line?" They cleaned and bandaged my wounds, and set me upright on the ground. How do you feel, said the two dozen eyes staring at me. Fine. Surprisingly fine. I then launched into an explanation of what happened and why I did it. There was just no reason for my friend to sit in that sadness. So, I don't know. I tried to bring her joy. No one really understood me or why I had done what I had done. And to be honest, I don't really either. I was on the ground, and then I was a bird on a wire...dancing That's about all I can say. Sorry Mom and Dad, I'm still apparently not that smart. So when it came later in the hour to go to the bathroom, I wanted to see what it looked like. Locked inside our community showers, alone, I pulled off the bandages to see, three huge gouges. They didn't hurt, but they were quite bloody and I knew they would scar. (HERE COMES THE DISJOINTED PART) I was instantly reminded of a vision I had in month one of the race, in the Domican Republic. One afternoon I was standing in my shower, and I watched as the water ran red. And looking down, I saw my skin falling off in shreds and collecting by my feet. Collapsing to the floor in pain, I looked at bare muscle and sinew. I was fully exposed and every part of me was on fire. I started screaming. Someone even knocked on the bathroom door to see if I was alright. And then Jesus walked in through the closed door. With eyes of compassion he said, you are going to suffer. This is not going to be easy. But, beloved it will be worthy of your pain. I promise. I stared at him in blank wonder. And watched as he took new skin from his hands and reknit me. Covering me in a new outer shell. When he was finished, I ran to the mirror to see not myself, but Him staring back at me in my reflection. The radiance of his face was mesmerizing. A choir of angels started singing, and then suddenly I was alone again. With my bar of soap, staring, dripping wet into a mirror at my own face. That's it. This race is going to make me an insane person. I'm losing it week one. This is not good. (BACK TO TODAY) So standing in the bathroom, I looked at my back. Red and bloody and bruising. It took my breath for a little while. But again, Jesus somehow managed to get into a locked room to stand beside me. Lifting his own shirt, he exposed his back next to mine in the mirror. His scars were just like mine. "I told you I would make you look like me." I started to cry. Not for my scars, but for His. Upon seeing my tears, he held my face in the palms of His hands and said, "You climbed on a cross. You did it to bring someone freedom and life. You hung on the nails. You did it for love. You look just like me. I am so proud of you. You are more beautiful than any other woman in the world. I promise you Stacey, it is finished. " And staring at Him, staring at me I realized it was finished. My constant battle of despair and doubt was over. And He spoke again, "Some scars come from a lack of gracefulness. Some scars are stupidity meeting flesh. But once in a rare while, a scar is a mark of a war raged. A battle fought and won, a step forward forever. This ground will not be taken again." And at the end of it, I realize that it really had nothing to do with the fall, nothing to do with the nails, or the earth and rock hitting my face. I learn lessons the hard way, so it would take a marker for me to realize what an amazing thing God had done in my life. I was finally happy. I was finally free. The impossible task of my life, to take a broken and frustrated woman who was utterly lost, and transform her into something that she believes, TRULY believes, is worthy and joyful has happened. I'm not sure how God did it, but He did it. What I never thought I could find, found me. On a laundry line. In the Philippines.  P.S. For all you doctor types and Mama, I have had my tetanus shot, and I have plenty of Neosporin, plus many patient nurses and an occupational therapist! Here's to turning 25: I am wishing for a more graceful nature, but if I don't have it by now, I'm not holding my breath. | |
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Posted in South Africa by Stacey Hume on 1/5/2011
I know that it is already past New Years. And perhaps you have already forgotten about Christmas. Perhaps the tree is already down, and the lights outside your house are haphazardly packed up in your attic or closet. The only thing that remains is the three extra pounds on your waist from your mothers cookies and cakes and pies. I wish I had the comfort of those three pounds myself, to be honest.
As I sat in the living room of our orphanage on Christmas night this year I thought of my own home. I began to acutely understand just how far away I was from everything I knew, and everyone that I loved. I thought of my family, and how they probably had gathered around together, to cook and love each other amidst the garland and bows and snow. I looked down at my own hands to see nothing but a bowl of noodles that I hadn't really touched. And I cried to myself. It was selfish I know, to feel sorry for myself. But when the tears ended, God spoke to me and told me to rise to check the children.
So I got up from the ground, and walked into the toddler bedroom. There sleeping in perfect order were 7 tiny children. Each one of them owning only their story of abandonment. Left in cardboard boxes, in trash cans and city parks, hours old and left to die or be found by someone else. Not a single one of them were wanted. My heart and mind wandered to the other 45 children we have been caring for this month, and how they have never known what it means to have a home. And there in their bedroom, I fell to my knees and silently cried again (crying seems to be a theme here in Africa). In an instant of realization all that I wanted for Christmas changed. I didn't want my family, I didn't want the food or the friends or the tree. The pangs of homesickness and self-pity disappeared and turned into smoke before me. Christmas is so very much bigger than all that. What I wanted for Christmas was for these children to find homes. I prayed mightily that they would not have to stay here, in our care for one more day.
But they are still here, many weeks later. My Christmas wish has not come true. And as I laid them to rest yesterday for the last time, I tucked them in, praying and crying they would make it home. We are heading to Cape Town tomorrow, and I will not see them again. I will not know where they will grow up, who they will become or how their lives will pan out. And as I went to bed myself last evening, I had the worst night of rest of this trip. Goodbyes are difficult, but this one seems impossible. My dear sweet ones. I will miss you all.
So even though the hope of the season may have faded slightly with January's arrival, and the rest of the world may have barreled into 2011 full steam. They are still here. And my hope still stands. If the Lord is good, which I know Him to be, He will be faithful to these children just as He is faithful to you and me. So if as you think about them, would you join me in praying and hoping for these amazing 53 children, and all the others that will find their way through a Door of Hope this year.
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Posted in South Africa by Stacey Hume on 12/30/2010
It has been almost four solid weeks of what I have deemed 'Baby Mayhem.' Days that begin at 5:45 and stretch on until 11 at night. Days where you are a jungle gym, a vomit towel, a refrigerator, and an endless bedtime story. Hello My name is Auntie Stacey, and this month.... I AM TIRED.
I wish that I could tell you more about what I am doing, and the incredible children that I have met. But because of the national laws of South Africa, I am not permitted to share much at all. In order to protect them and their stories, my lips will have to be sealed until I can tell you face to face! But, what I can tell you is that this month we are loving 51 babies. We are living in an amazing house, with 8 tiny toddler roommates. We are all aunties and uncles and moms and dads. And we are all learning to love and be loved in return by these awesome children of survival. Each of these amazing small people have stories of heartbreak and redemption. And we are all falling head over heels in love.
Here is a typical day at Baby house 1, where I have been working for the month. Some of it is slightly exaggerated for effect, but let's be honest. Every person that has been a parent that is reading this, knows exactly what I am talking about!
5:15 am: Yell at Emily to turn off her beeping alarm, which she never seems to hear or notice.
5:16 am: Try to go back to sleep
5:28 am: Get frustrated that you can't go back to sleep.
5:42 am: Drag self out of bed ... try not to fall down the non-existent staircase for the top bunk bed I sleep on
5:43 am: stub toe on the raised platform to get into the bathroom.
5:43.5 am: Customary curse word for a stubbed toe. Usually it starts with D. On Mondays however, it starts with an S.
5:44 am: Abrupt bleary morning glance at yourself in all your bed head glory.
5:45 am: Get in the shower. (sidenote: wrestle with the shower door for at least 3 minutes to get it open, then undress, then get in, then wrestle for another 3 minutes to get it closed)
5:50 am: Fall asleep against shower wall.
5:51 am: Wake up with a start, and shampoo in your eye
5:55 am: Wrestle with shower door, get out of shower, wrestle with shower door again.
5:56 am: Get dressed, put on make up (eh who are you kidding), grab your shoes and backpack and water bottle and head to the kitchen.
6 am: Get greated by a chorus of toddler shrieking, head straight for the coffee pot avoiding all small human units until properly caffeniated. DEFINITELY avoiding the stinky nappy babes.
6: 15 am: Second cup of coffee and breakfast of some kind
6:20 am: Make lunch and put it in your backpack
6:30 am: Play with kiddos, now that they have been changed and fed... :)
6:45 am: Get into the van to go to Baby House 1, for Big Baby duty!
6:46 am: Depending on who is driving you to work, pray continually for 10 minutes.
7:00 am: Arrive, Sign In.
7:01 am: Bathe and change each of the 8 small babies, apply lotion, and attempt to giggle them awake.
7:12 am: Pick up the poop out of the tub, that one of the babies deposited in the water while you were attempting to clean them.
7:33 am: Get peed on by one of the boys who thinks it is funny to wait until the nappy is off to go potty.
7:40 am: Lay all the babies out in the living room, on the floor!
7:45 am: Heat up bottles:
8:00 am: Emulate octomom and feed 8 infants at once. This usually does not go over well, or quietly.
8:45 am: Get the three big babies up, who have all left extremely big messes for you in their drawers.
8:46 am: Gag a bit, then hold your breath as you finish wiping baby backsides.
8: 50 am: Prepare cereal for the older babies
9:00 am: Wear the cereal you prepared for the older babies, as they like to blow raspberries as well as flick fallen food bits onto your shirt and face.
9:15 am: Clean up all the babies from their meals.
9:30 am: Put small babies to bed for morning nap.
9:35 am: Mayhem commences as the three older babies become mobilized, and start investigating, EVERYTHING.
9:45 am: Pray for your shift partner to let you take your coffee break.
9:50 am: Sit outside in the sun, with your coffee and pray pray pray for happy babies the rest of the day!
10:00 am: Mayhem continues as the older babies discover the speakers and radio that they try to pull off the shelves.
11:00 am: Put bottles in the big babies mouths, this makes them still and easier to handle. *Trick, the warmer the formula, the sleepier the baby...
11:15 am: Wash all dishes and bottles that have been used during the day.
11:25 am: Small babies start to wake up one by one. Bring them out to the living room for play time.
11:45 am: Try to figure out how to keep 8 small, and 3 big babies happy simultaneously. Fail sometimes, succeed sometimes.
12:00 pm. Big babies for nap time. Everything gets immediately easier!
12:15 pm: Feeding small babies begins again.
12:50 pm: Feeding small babies is over. Congratulations, you have just been spit up on about 5 times.
1:00 pm: Try to keep the babies awake by playing games, like the every popular baby piano where you lay them down in a line, and play songs on their belly as if they were a piano. This works most of the time, especially if you sing REALLY loud.
1:30 pm: Small Babies to bed
1:36 pm: Collapse into the couch, praising the Lord for Lunch Time
1:42 pm: Wake up with your face in your turkey sandwich. Then wonder how long you have been asleep in your food, and if anyone saw.
1:43 pm: Finish lunch, move to couch.
1:52 pm: Without fail when you are about to get a wink of nap, someone comes to the door with a donation. Thank them a million times, because, yes, you were almost out of formula, and then show them around the house.
2:30 pm: Small babies start waking up, take them out as they awaken, cleaning nappies and clothes as you go.
3:00 pm: second round of big baby raspberries, as it is time for their purity baby food. You intentionally pick out a food that matches the color shirt you are wearing, so hopefully no one will notice the smudges, spittles and volleys of mashed peas or bananas.
3:15 pm: Struggle to get the big babies to eat their food, continually telling them that although it smells terrible it is actually good for them. Usually three big babies takes 30 minutes of intense feeding concentration, plus two or three trips to check on the little ones who are sprawling out across the living room floor.
3:30 pm: Finally get the last big baby to finish their food, then clean and place them in the living room for play time. (This basically means trying to keep the crawling babies from squishing the non-crawling babies).
3:50 pm: Praise Jesus when a volunteer arrives in time for small baby feeding! Warm bottles
4:00 pm: Feed Small Babies, this includes patrolling the area so that no big babies take bottles that belong to someone else.
4:20 pm: Get a whiff of something foul. Check all babies until you find the culprit. Change said culprit.
4:45 pm: Almost all small babies have finished eating, except the vomitty one... joy.
4:52 pm: Change your shirt. Vomit baby strikes again
5:00 pm: play time, where basically you lay on the floor and coo at the children and rub their bellies. You wish you had someone big to rub your belly too.
5:22 pm: start changing them into their night clothes, changing nappies as you go!
6:00 pm: All small babies to bed, and you jail break towards the gate and awaiting van to take you home.
6:15 pm: Go into your room, to put your bag down. But accidentally somehow manage to fall asleep as well for the next hour.
7:55 pm: Dinner. Everyone sits around eating, and talking about the crazy things the kids did that day. You realize just how much you sound like moms and dads, and it makes you all laugh a little harder.
8:30 pm: Clean up the house. Kill approximately 1 billion ants.
8:45 Prayer and debrief-- this can last 10 minutes or 2 hours.
Sometime later: Sleep like you have never slept before.
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Posted in Malawi by Stacey Hume on 11/20/2010
It is amazing on this journey around the world, the
things that we carry. World Racers are often first remarked about as
being men and women of abandon, those that leave the world to spread and
search for the word of God among the nations. It is difficult for
people to even fathom the desire to do this, much less the reality of
doing it when the launch date appears on the calendar. But it speaks to
a common misconception about our possessions. Most of what we own as
humans has nothing to do with our stuff, it has to do with our hearts.
After five
months of this race, I have come to realize just how much I have been
carrying with me. I came to be honestly accosted by how much of the
race was about running away from home rather than running towards God.
No matter how light my pack had become, it's 17 kilos now, no matter how
many things I left littering the landscapes I had crossed, my heart
weighed heavily in my chest. Until God started to unpack the real
issues. Until God showed me the difference between owning things and being owned by failures.
The way that I
think about family, fears, lifestyles and disappointments have all been
completely revolutionized within the first three weeks on the continent
of Africa. With help from incredible teammates and miraculous
encounters with the power of God, my heart is now steering itself
home.
And that first step back along the prodigal path of
this trip led me to the commitment of baptism. I wish I could explain
to you the beauty of the weaving of this plan of God, but it would fall
hopelessly short. I could describe the mountains that stretched out in
glorious ranges beyond the waters that cleansed my heart and soul, or
the splendor of watching a herd of camels drink near the beach, or the
color of the lake and how it was so blue I felt as if I was standing on
the sky. I could describe the hole in my chest that was filled with
forgiveness, or the chilly water that swept away a lifetime of pain. I
could describe all of this and still you would never know an ounce of it
for yourself. So instead, I will write the words of a song that
Christy Z sang to me as I stood on the lakeshore of my new life. A song
that God had sang to her.
Rushing
water, Flowing water
Come and wash over me
Cleansing
water, living water
come renew my life in Thee.
Holy Spirit fill me now
At your
feet Lord I shall bow
Holding back no more, I come
O Father,
fill me with your love
Promises that
you shall keep
I'm stepping now into the deep
No turning back, my heart you've won
My
life I'll live to praise you God
Holy Spirit fill me now,
And at your feet Lord, I shall
bow
Holding back no more, I come
Jesus
consume me with your love
And for the next five months of
this journey I will be returning home. I will carry nothing in these
empty hands.
 If you would like to support this journey, please consider donating. I can't do this without you!
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Posted in Malawi by Stacey Hume on 11/15/2010
I never thought that I would be hard-headed enough to require coming to Africa to understand more about my relationships at home. Even thousands of miles from Florida, I am still learning incredible amounts about the capacity of the human heart to love.
Admittedly and ashamedly, my sister and I have not had the perfect relationship. After several years of barely talking, recently God has been rekindling our friendship, slowly stoking the fires of trust and forgiveness. But this weekend, I was confronted with an entirely different type of love. A love that smashed all of my expectations of sisterhood.
Christy Zbylut and I were preaching and praying in a women's ward in a hospital in the Thyolo district in Malawi. I had spoken God's word, and then we went bed by bed to lay hands on the sick and dying. I can not begin to describe some the the things we saw, or the suffering in that place. There were women whose bodies were so swollen and bloated, that when you touched their leg to pray for them, it was like touching a water balloon, until you hit bone. There were women hours away from dying, who desperately needed God. One of these women was Rose.
Rose was rail thin, and her stomach extended out as if she were 8 months pregnant. I asked her if she was, and she replied, no. She continued that the doctor's didn't know what was going on. She said she ached and it hurt to breathe or move. Christy and I nodded to each other and went to pray for her. When I touched her back, shock waves of pain shot through my body. I fell to my knees. I grabbed her stomach, along with Christy and we began to pray. For some unexplainable reason, we prayed longer and harder for Rose than any other woman in that ward; and we couldn't stop. Christy even sang to her a song of power and joy. As we were praying, her belly started to swell in waves, as if she was breathing deep, and she broke into an incredible smile and giggle. Christy and I were broken out of our prayer by it, and we both started to smile, too. We finished, said amen, and walked away.
But this was not the end of Rose for us.
That night we were at our crusade, and I was praying for the sick. After praying for several people, Christy came up behind me, and grabbed my hand and asked for some assistance in prayer. I followed her a few steps to meet a woman named Veronica. Veronica explained she was there to be a stand in for her sister who was sick and in the hospital. And then Christy whispered to me that this was Rose's sister, who had singled Christy out of the crowd of hundreds for prayer. Veronica did not even know that we had been at the hospital that day, because she had been working. She simply had felt God lead her to the service and to Christy and myself. So she stood in front of us in an earnest petition for healing of her sister. "I know that you can heal my sister, and so I am here in her place. Pray for me, and she will be healed." I got a jolt of lightning through my body at the surprise of this statement of faith. I know.
And so we started to pray for her. When I touched her forehead, I felt chills run down my spine. God was moving in this. First we prayed for the healing of Rose, and that Veronica's body would be a stand in for Rose's. We prayed and prayed. Then suddenly, God changed our prayers into prayers of blessings for this incredible sister of faith, who had the courage to walk up to someone they had never met, and speak such a bold statement as 'I Know.'
And so we blessed her and her heart for the love of her sister. And as we were doing so, she promptly fell to the ground, as if someone had knocked her over. She erupted into a fit of laughter. Waves of joy were pouring onto her, and she was laying on the ground thanking God. "God, I know you have heard our prayer. Thank you Jesus for healing my sister. Thank you, God." Over and over again, waves of giggling and praises and songs all coming out in fractured phrases. It was one of the most glorious things I have ever seen.
And then she stood up, hugged us and left to visit the hospital.
That night, I fell asleep at 8 p.m. I felt as if I had been hit by a truck. And I dreamed of my own sister. When we were younger we used to laugh and play together, and we shared the kind of love that Rose and Veronica have. We would spin on swings, and dance in the sunshine. But that was all lost along the way somewhere between childhood and now. Beaten and buried and afflicted by disappointments and distance and frustrations. Miscommunicated and pushed aside for personal goals and preferences. And it is a damn shame.
I woke up crying for the loss of it. For the first time I think I understood what I could have with my sister, but do not.
The next night we were crusading again, near the same place, and Veronica returned late in the evening. She ran to us, swung her arms open and said Rose was already changing and getting better. She hugged us in so close. She said that it would not be long before Rose left the hospital. Hallelujah Jesus, we have a miracle of faith! An indisputable and incontestable miraculous healing.
 this is Veronica, praying for Rose's continued healing the second night.
But I stand strong in the belief that the miracle will not end there. And so with the knowledge of this woman's faith, I know that the love that bitterness has stolen from me and my sister, I am going to get back. Bolstered by Veronica, and encouraged by God, it's time to reclaim this broken ground. Even if it is from the other side of the world.
So Darcy, if you are reading this. I love you. And I need you. And I miss you desperately. I'm sorry it took years and Africa to make me realize it. Forgive me please.
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Posted in Malawi by Stacey Hume on 11/9/2010
I knew that Africa would be different. I knew from the bus ride, the dusty landscape, and the few people I had met, that this place would change me. Three days in, and it has already come true.
Covered in two days of dust, and five sleepless nights, we were crusading on the top of a mountain range in southern Malawi, in a small village called Namileme. At the end of our first night of prayer, preaching and worship, we were asked to pray for the crowd and their illnesses. One by one, they lined up before us in cues. I can honestly say, I did not know what to expect.
There were all kinds of maladies to pray for, from headaches, to back pain, fertility, and coughs. There was numbness and arthritis, broken bones and sores. There were requests to do better in school or for more intelligence, or for a husband or wife. And then there was her.
She was small, and beautiful. Probably 8 years old, with wide set brown eyes. She wore a stained gray cotton dress that had turned orange at the bottom edges from the clay roads. That is all about her physical features I can recall.
She meekly approached me, head hung low. Wanangwa, one of the pastors that has been acting as a translator for us, asked her what she needed prayer for. She responded in Chichewa, their native language, and her words were so quiet, I couldn't hear her voice. She leaned in close to him and whispered as if it were the most special of secrets, her small hands cupping his earlobe. His nodded his head, and he walked her slowly by the small of her back to right in front of me. He spoke to me in bold English something I was not prepared for, "She has a hole in her throat. When she drinks water, it comes out of her neck and down her chest." My brain stopped working for a second, trying to catch up to the sentence. But there was just no way to comprehend it. He turned to walk away, but I grabbed him quickly by his right hand. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" He repeated patiently, "there is a hole, in her neck. She can not drink water very well." He pointed to his throat in case it was his English I wasn't understanding. I fell to my knees to see if what he was talking about was even possible, and underneath her perfect tiny brown chin, and perfect little pink mouth, was a crescent moon slit about five inches long, from jaw to jaw, mostly scarred over, except in the middle where there was a hole. It was thick around the edges, and looked as though it had healed that way. Either my eyes struggled to send the signal, or my brain would not receive it, I just went to blackout. In a moment that seemed like an eternity, I tried to comprehend how someone could have cut her, and how she could have lived through it. But there was nothing. And the world got so small.
All I could think of was that I wanted to take her to a doctor. Forget the prayer, forget everything, she needed medical attention. I need an ambulance, I need the police, I need help. And then looking around for any of these options, I realized we were a million miles from anywhere. Scanning over the crowds of hurting people it dawned on me, I don't have a car, I don't have a doctor. All I have is God. Crap. She's screwed.
I hugged her into my chest and wept, not sure what to do. Watching as the line behind her was growing with others, I froze up. And so I did what I came to do. I prayed. I prayed to God a simple and honest prayer, "I know you are there, and I know you have done great things. I need one of them now. Heal this child, Lord. My whole body and everything I am tells me that she needs a doctor, but all we have is you. So I'm sorry if right now I don't believe you can do it, but ignore me, and heal her. She needs you. You are all she has."
And then she walked away, disappearing into the dusk covered crowd. I will always remember the back of that tattered dress, with the lace trim hanging below the frayed orange hem. I have never wanted to throw up so badly. But before I could even try, there was another person in front of me, needing prayer.
Later that night, I was sitting with my team, and we were discussing the day. When it was my turn, I just cried. Trying my best to hold it together, I held my head in my hands and explained to them what happened. "I know Jesus said if you ask anything and believe, then it will be given to you. But I asked, and I didn't believe. I didn't believe He could do it. What if I was her only chance to get healing or see a doctor and I failed. What if because I couldn't get it together she dies from this. What if I prevented her from healing, because I didn't trust God?" And then there were only tears, no more words could get out of my mouth.
They offered me support, and some Bible verses. The one about the father, who cried to Jesus, "I do believe, help me in my unbelief." But it did little help for my heart. I think it's shattered. It may even be broken. I hope God will bring me some answers and peace. But mostly I hope for a miracle. Oh me of little faith. She will forever be ingrained in my mind. So I will pray for her now, mightily. Which is all she ever asked of me.
Please, be praying for her as well. And believe it. From across the world, send your earnest prayers to God. He can do great and mighty things. Maybe He brought me her, so I could bring her to you.
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