Almost three and a half years ago, I shirked by hiking pack on a hastily laid tarp at Randwick Racecourse in Sydney, Australia. I sat Indian-style on my sleeping bag, pulling towards me the four days’ worth of food supplied to each World Youth Day pilgrim awaiting the Papal Mass the following morning. Packaged rolls, processed dessert bars, canned salmon and vegetables. The air was surprisingly cold as the sun sank below the stands. Candles kept vigil through the night, stuck into the sand of the horse track.
A group of African pilgrims approached our camp. Clad in an American flag cape, our chaperone, Josh, danced with the group, and we all joined in. I traded my last long-sleeve shirt for a yard or two of thin cotton fabric: deep green, patterned with the outline and flag of their country. That night, the entire campsite frosted over: I pulled out the fabric and wrapped it close around me, unwilling to regret the trade of my extra layer for this piece of far-away.
Upon my return to the U.S., that fabric found a waiting place in a drawer with my prayer journals, my hallowed things. Yesterday, I took it out again. That piece of fabric is patterned with the words, hued in bold red and orange:
“Peace, Prosperity, and Freedom for Zambia.”
I know little of the workings of Fate, Chance, Destiny. But I have faith in God’s plan for me, and as I await my journey to Zambezi, Zambia this summer, I cannot help but think that the piece of fabric God gave me three years ago has been closer to my heart than I could’ve imagined. Closer than it was pulled tight across my heart in Sydney. Closer than it was keeping vigil with my deepest prayers. Closer than it will be, tucked away in my duffel this summer, as I bring it home again.
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