The view outside my window is a thatched hut and rows and rows of maize.

You could call Kazembe village and the surrounding area the Siberia of Zambia. It’s out, out in the middle of nowhere.

There is singing today, lots and lots of singing and the beating of drums. Today is Easter Sunday, the joy of Christ’s resurrection cannot be hid even in a remote village located deep in the African Bush.

I’m not here to stay, it is just a short visit. Come Tuesday and I’ll return to ‘civilization’. A place where cars drives and there is pavement (in some places), a place that once seemed to me to be simple and village like, but now that I have seen what a real African village is, the cities are truly cities, filled with people and traffic.

The singing continues and I sit and listen to it. I’ve hardly seen a white face since I came to Kazembe. There is Mr. Morrow, the owner of the orphanage, but he’s busy and not around much. I am told often they have volunteers from America and Europe, but I somehow planned my time in such a way that I came at a moment when there are none.

I am surrounded by children and their devoted caretakers. I don’t speak Bemba, which often makes me feel left out. Everyone of course can speak English, but between themselves they chat in their native language, of which I can boast of knowing only a handful of words.

I guess you would think I would get lonely – but I’m not.

I can’t explain why; why I feel more at home here than when surrounded by those from my part of the world. Maybe it’s because I never really fit in with so-called ‘western civilization.’

These days it’s all about which tv series you watched, which movies came out. It’s all about who is an introvert and who is an extrovert, about who bought what who dresses in what, who can get more attention on the internet. It’s all about letting the world know each and every thought that passes through your head, each and every action, each and every part of your day.

And I tried, I tried so hard, but I couldn’t become a part of it.

Out here no one argues about what is right to eat and what is not, you’re thankful to have food at all. No one cares where the clothes came from, just be glad you have them. Medical care is primitive, fancy medicine is unheard of. There is hardship and poverty, you’re lucky if you have a bicycle, There is fear and darkness, superstition and witchcraft.

And there is Christ and His unending light. I feel it so much purer and closer to Him here than I could ever feel it back in the comforts of home.  It’s like any moment I can reach out a touch God. He’s not buried in materialism, personality types, and retail value.

I see friends writing things that used to be part of my life and I feel as though I am reading tidings from a different planet. A planet I am so glad I no longer live in.

They are still singing. Songs of joy and celebration to Christ who came to this dark and lonely world. Who died that we might have salvation, Who rose again that we may have life and hope eternal. Soon the children from the orphanage will return from the service, they’ll be knocking on my door and demanding attention. They’ll be asking me why I only came to visit for a week, why I am not going to be there for longer. I can hardly wait for them to come back. I could not love anyone on this earth in the way I love children. I never feel more secure, more peace, more joy than when in their company.

While I wait for them I write this post and muse about the surroundings. There is something about the lonely, remote location that has captivated me, something I can not explain no matter how hard I try.

On Tuesday I shall have to leave and go back, but I fear I’ll have left my heart in Kazaembe, and who knows, perhaps fate will be kind and allow me to return and take it back again.

(media from