Author: Carol Gibbs

          In September of 2008, my husband and I found ourselves traveling with a team of people to Malawi, Africa. After supporting a local organization that worked to eradicate HIV/AIDS in our city for some time, we were feeling called to extend our focus overseas. The purpose of our trip was to investigate ways that we could partner with ministries in Malawi in their efforts to manage and eradicate HIV/AIDS.

            To say that I was changed by my experience in Malawi doesn’t even begin to describe the impact that the trip had on my heart and my faith. It was sobering to be surrounded by poverty, sickness, starvation, and precious homeless children. And yet, there was hope in Malawi. God was there and He met me in the slums of Ungona in a very powerful way.

            We had visited many villages over the two weeks in country but the anticipation of going to the slums of Ungona caused me immense amounts of fear. I knew it was going to be difficult. It was a very dark place…filled with witchcraft, crime, substance abuse, sickness, the worst poverty ever seen, and hundreds of orphans. So, as we drove to the slums I found myself praying that God would give me what I needed to be all that He was calling me to be there. As I prayed, He spoke to my heart saying, “Look for Me there”. I confess that I wanted so much for the van to break down on the way to prevent us from going but God continued to remind me to look for Him in the experience.  Shortly before we arrived God added to the encouraging words, “You are going to see My face.” 

            When we arrived, we parked our van in the open area of an adjacent village. We were greeted by a chorus of African women dressed in their colorful costumes, dancing and singing praises to God. It was beautiful.

            After touring the adjacent village, the woman chief took us to an area café where we had lunch. The whole time, I was thinking, great maybe that was our exposure to Ungona… from afar.

            But, we returned to Ungona and assembled by the vans to pray before entering the village. Prior to praying, the team leader had the “brilliant” idea to divide us into smaller groups so that we would draw less attention to ourselves. Now, I can do almost anything with my husband by my side but… all couples were divided up to travel through the village. We were told to stay close to our group because this was an unsafe place. People had disappeared there never to be seen again. I could feel myself panicking inside; my chest tightened and breathing became labored. As we prayed, the fears began to release their grip on me.

            Ungona was a two and a half square mile area, the home to fifty thousand people. There was little to no vegetation. The terrain was primarily dirt and rock. Homes were built on top of each other with dirt floors, many sharing walls of burlap, mud, or wood. Alleys separated this sea of houses and streams of contaminated water ran through them. It was the worst conditions you could ever imagine.

            As we entered the slums we saw a naked baby less than two years old standing all alone in the alley crying…no one came to care for him. It was heartbreaking.

            There was a school right in the middle of the slums. Hundreds of children filled the school yard. A heroic teacher watched his class of two hundred children. How did a teacher attend to so many? Those were the lucky ones.

            Our mission that day was to accompany the workers from a health care organization as they visited the homes to evaluate and care for patients, most of whom had AIDS. We encouraged and prayed for each person we met. I continued to pray for God to meet me there.

            We stopped to visit a woman who was clearly dying from her illness. She looked far-older than her actual age. As we paused beside her in the warm sunshine, I found myself wondering about her life before she was struck with this debilitating illness. Did she have a family or were they “gone”?  My deep thought was soon interrupted by our team leader asking me to lay hands on the woman to pray. Fear rushed in once again, but  as I prayed for the dear woman smiling up at me, I was filled with an amazing peace. 

            It was nearing the end of the day and we were getting ready to leave the village when my life was changed forever. As we traveled down a small alley, I saw some children playing. I had seen hundreds of children that day but there was one who caught my eye. She was about ten years old, and when she looked in my direction her face lit up like an angel. I was sure she had recognized someone she knew because the excitement on her face was way beyond understanding. I glanced over both shoulders to see who she was looking at, but no one was standing there. She had one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen. Her eyes were bright and alive, her face filled with joy. Then she started to run… at full speed she ran…and before I knew it this precious little angel was in my arms. Then she spoke. Her voice was soft and very kind… a sweet melody to my ears. I was surprised when she spoke perfect English to me. She told me that her name was Portia. We spoke for only a few minutes, most of which escapes me, but when she left, she said, “God bless you.”

            I was thankful that two members of our team were standing close by to witness this amazing event in my life. It would be easy to think that I had just imagined it but they experienced it, too, as they watched. Then, I understood. I had just had an encounter with the God of the universe.

            Later, my team leader shared a photo she had taken of the young girl, but the photo before me did not capture the angel that I experienced. This was merely a photo of a child. The Light was gone. 

            Through a young girl, God chose to reveal Himself. You will see My face. He spoke to me in the slums of Ungona and I will never be the same again.

            This is my story of how God moved in my life in Malawi, Africa. Where have you seen God at work? What’s your story?

     I am extremely excited to share with you the first post of my new blog, What’s Your Story? This blog will include personal stories from my life, the lives of my family members, friends, and many others. Why share stories? Sharing our stories creates a connection between us and we begin to know each other more deeply as a result. Stories give us hope and encourage us to be more courageous, causing us to grow in the most amazing ways.

     Stories have always captivated me. I love telling stories. Whether they are true or purely fantasy, something magical happens when we share stories. There is a mutual exchange that occurs between the teller and the listener, and we become active participants in the marvelous tale that unfolds before us.

     I attribute my passion for stories to my upbringing. My father was a second generation Italian, born with a paintbrush in his hand in 1918. He became an artist by trade which I imagine was a very unusual profession for that day. In addition to being a painter and commercial artist, he was quite the musician. He played violin, mandolin, piano and sang…a Renaissance man. Dad was well read and never let a question go unanswered. He was kindhearted, loving and a very gentle man with an extremely dry wit.

     My mother was equally passionate in her own way. She was a stay at home mom until after I was married. It was then, she achieved her childhood dream of becoming a nurse and worked at the local hospital. But, while growing up, my mother’s profession was caring for our family. She was crazy about us…almost to the extreme. She loved deeply and her entire life was devoted to us. Her creativity found it’s expression in writing. She enjoyed writing stories about her kids and my father would illustrate them.

     Our home was a celebration of the arts. Everyone played an instrument, sang, and a few even inherited my dad’s talent as an artist. We all were required to learn to play the piano regardless of what else we did. The piano teacher would come for hours to our home to give lessons. When we practiced beforehand, there would be two and a half hours of beautiful music resounding throughout our home. Some of us practiced more than others and became quite adept in the art. When we didn’t practice, there was a tortuous cacophony of noise that assaulted the ears of anyone in hearing distance.

     I was the second in the line of five children, five years younger than my older brother. My younger brother followed me then my two sisters. Four of us were born in five years. It was “crazy town” most of the time at our house. Every day was a new adventure.

     My dad used to tell us that if we could read about something we could learn to do it. He lived his life that way. He never let lack of knowledge stop him, he just read about the subject. He often took the “Rube Goldberg” approach to life. Rube Goldberg was an American artist famous for his cartoons. He was also a sculptor, author, engineer, and inventor.Rube was famous for his unorthodox inventions that accomplished the ordinary task. My dad was so convinced about the power of reading that he often used the example of the possibility of performing brain surgery just by reading a book.

     Because of his thirst for knowledge, my dad was determined to teach us to research. I remember him answering our questions with “Well…why don’t we look that up”. And we would…together. The World Book Encyclopedia became a key reference in our home. Books became a primary source for answering questions.

     Both my parents loved to read so we visited the library every week. My parents read to us often but each day we had the “quiet hour”. This was time set aside to read by yourself. I used to think it was because my mother needed some peace and quiet but I actually believe it was for our good. The peace and quiet was a secondary benefit.

     As a very young child, not only did I love stories but I wanted to be actively involved in the story. Even the news on television would draw me in. I thought that if I could hear the voices coming out of the side speaker of the “big black box” that we called a television, that they could also hear me. So, I often attempted to engage the “man in the box” by shouting through the speaker. I was certain that I was being heard and my input was valuable, though most of the time, the man totally ignored me. I wanted to be part of the story.

     When I got a little older, I found that my desire to tell stories took on a variety of expressions. I loved to sing, and told stories through music and drama. In elementary school, I sang most of the solos in the chorus and started acting in plays. Middle school was more of the same. When I got to high school, my life in the arts began to blossom. Music and drama became a passion for me. I danced and sang my way through high school. Theatre and music continued in college. I spent my first semester freshman year as a singer host for a television series at the local station. I rehearsed all day every Saturday and filmed on Sundays. It was a blast but the show lasted only six weeks. It was mediocre at best but an amazing experience. The cancellation was much better for my college studies, however. But, every summer, I found myself acting and singing in local theatre productions. I loved telling stories.

     I, also, loved to write. I started journaling when I was in middle school and never stopped. People thought I was crazy when I would express that I hoped our tests in college were essay because that was effortless for me. Writing became a passion. I taught school for several years after I graduated, my primary focus was on developing a passion for reading and writing with my students.

     When I had children of my own, I encouraged the love of storytelling by developing the practice of telling stories together as a family. Each person had a part in adding to the adventure. Stories started orally, then I began to write them down.

     I have continued the storytelling tradition with my grandchildren. The oldest, encouraged me to begin writing the stories down again. So I did. I wrote a personal story about each grandchild and compiled them in a book, using photos from their lives. They were thrilled.

     It gives me great joy when I watch my older son respond to his children’s request, “Tell us a story, Daddy!” He has continued the storytelling legacy.

     I have always been drawn to people’s personal stories. They fascinate me, so much of my storytelling is drawn from real life events. You do not always need to create anything. Life is already an amazing adventure.

     May each story encountered on this blog be an encouragement and give you a deeper capacity to love others. With that in mind, I ask you, what’s your story?

With thankfulness,

Carol