It is a beautiful morning here in Lusanja. The rainy season has quietly returned. The kind of rain that doesn’t rush, but lingers—soft and steady, like it’s reminding us to slow down too. The earth is damp and rich. The red dust has settled into deep clay, and the banana leaves glisten like they’ve been washed clean.
Everything smells like growth.
This week, I’ve spent time with some of the families I’ve known for years now. Families who’ve welcomed me not as a visitor, but as part of the story unfolding here. These slow, unhurried days of visiting are the part of my work I treasure the most. There’s something sacred about sitting with neighbors. And by “neighbors,” I don’t just mean the people who live beside us—I mean anyone nearby who is willing to sit, to share, to be present. Sometimes I bring porridge or sweet African tea, warm and fragrant, wrapped in a cloth so it stays hot. And sometimes, that’s all I bring.
We sit.
On wooden stools or dusty porches.
Sometimes on woven mats beneath mango trees.
We don’t always speak the same language. But that has never mattered. Because somehow, in the stillness, we always understand each other. We talk about many things—about farming, illness, children, the price of cassava, the goats that went missing last night. But we also sit in long stretches of silence. No one is in a hurry to fill them. And it’s there—in the waiting, in the presence—that I often learn the most. I learn from their stories—stories filled with hardship and loss, but also full of laughter, memory, and resilience.
There is so much grace in their lives.
It’s not loud.
It’s not boastful.
It doesn’t draw attention to itself.
But it’s there—like the rain—soft and steady, filling the cracks and soaking deep.
When visitors come with me, they often ask the same question as we walk back home:
“How are they so content?”
It’s a fair question. The houses are small, often built with mud or brick, and have little furniture. Children share beds, or sleep on the floor. Meals are simple, and rarely abundant. There are losses here—some big, some small—that never fully leave.
And yet… there is joy.
Real, quiet joy.
The kind that doesn’t pretend life is easy—but finds beauty in the middle of it.
What I’ve seen is this:
Their contentment isn’t because they have everything they want.
It’s because they are deeply aware of what they do have.
They notice the gift of being alive this morning.
They give thanks for the neighbour who came to help with the sick child.
They laugh at stories that have been told a dozen times already.
They cry freely, and pray deeply.
Their strength comes not from what they can hold in their hands, but from the people who sit beside them.
From faith that has endured many storms.
From trusting that even in the unknown, they are not forgotten.
Sometimes I walk to a neighbour’s home alone. We sit without words. I pour the tea, and we just… sit.
And those moments—simple as they are—renew something in me.
They give me back the strength I didn’t know I’d lost.
Because being near people who live with faithful hearts—who know the God who sees even the sparrow—reminds me where my power comes from.
Not from success.
Not from busyness.
Not from always getting things right.
But from being present.
From listening.
From sharing tea and tears and silence.I’m reminded of the story of Ruth, a woman who lost everything—her home, her husband, her future. She could have turned back. But instead, she stayed.
She looked at Naomi, and said,
“Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people, and your God my God.”
(Ruth 1:16)
It was not a grand declaration of strength. It was a quiet, steady choice to remain. Ruth didn’t know where her story would lead. But she knew the value of staying close to someone she loved, and staying near to the God who never leaves. And in her small, faithful choices—God did something bigger than she could imagine.
I wonder, gently, where we draw our strength from. Not in a way that accuses or compares, but in a way that invites us to reflect.
Are we recharged by the pace of our lives?
Or do we, like me, find strength when we slow down?
When we choose presence over performance.
When we notice grace in quiet places.
When we sit with someone not because we have answers—but because they are not alone.
Paul wrote these words in a moment of deep personal weakness. And yet, they’ve never felt more full of strength:
“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’
Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”
(2 Corinthians 12:9)
There is strength in being vulnerable.
There is beauty in being still.
And there is power—real power—in knowing that you are loved, not for what you do, but simply for being a child of God.
May we not miss the grace wrapped in quiet moments.
May we notice the power that comes not from control, but from connection.
And may we, like Ruth, choose to stay when staying is hard—and trust that God is writing something beautiful, even in the rain.
With love from Lusanja,
Dana