Dirty Dishes. Part III

“Southern hospitality” is its own culture back in the States. We’ll welcome you in like family and serve you with the fancy plates no matter what time of day you stop by. Mom always said, “The guest gets the best.”

You know you’re really family in Texas when you are welcomed into the kitchen with a sink full of dirty dishes and Mom doesn’t have her make up on yet. If you’re hungry, you’re gonna have to look for something to eat – it’s all fair game, but, for the love, please clean up after yourself.

Even more than that, you’re family when you’re invited into all the parts of a family, a place where Mom’s make up can’t cover pain and where clean dishes don’t clean up messy circumstances. There’s something about being given access to the broken and imperfect parts that make you feel really welcome.

In many of the culture groups in South Africa, my family’s included, hospitality is huge. You are welcomed in to do daily life with people without giving it a second thought. On my birthday, I was given GoGo’s chair and Lennon and Keri and I were served a feast on the family’s plates while they waited until we were finished to re-use the plates for themselves. When I visited during my community stay, a friend brought by ice cream cups for the kids, an extremely rare and delicious treat. The twins brought each cup to me and Lyn first to make sure we received the first bite before passing it out to the drooling children.

Over the past five months since I’ve returned to my family’s weekly routine, I’ve felt a deep and remarkable shift from the word family into the experience of family. Part of it is time together. Knowing one another looks different here. Besides the language barrier, there’s not much space in the culture to ask personal questions or go deep in any sense of the word I know how. Instead of face-to-face, eye contact, deep and personal conversations, we’ve spent time shoulder-to-shoulder doing daily life together.

Every Sunday and Wednesday, as soon as we put the truck in park, I head straight to my family’s house to greet, chat, help bathe and pick up the boys. Sometimes I’ll bring the family a treat. Sometimes they’ll send me with fruit. There’s always hugs and kisses. The more often I go over there, the longer I stay. Lifa’s hand in mine, we walk to church while I talk to him, pray over him or play with him.

Photo by Carly B

Something really changed when I invited the family into my home and onto our base for our monthly community night, Taco Tuesday. They dressed their best and picked flowers for me when we picked them up. I invited them into my cottage and Stanley translated “how to build a taco”. Zodwa, Baby Fiona and Lifa spent the night. We had girl talk. We painted fingernails. We read a bedtime story. Lifa took his first shower ever. And snuggled with me all night.

I knew it was meant him be when I saw him devour his taco.

GoGo was in tears when I welcomed her to my home. Best Night Ever. 

Zodwa and Baby Fiona after her first shower.

All of my favorite things in one photo. Bedtime really is the best time of the day. 

Dirty dishes and no makeup. Life together.

Slowly but surely, Zodwa has started sharing stories. Small pieces of her life that I savor, as though I’ve found a buried treasure.

In the past few weeks, Sharon has joined in with Prudence and Zodwa in greeting me with, “Hi Sister!” and giving me a kiss.

Prudence has opened up too – always begging me to bring her chocolate. (I make a mean chocolate cake… I’m just sayin…) And telling me part of her story that completely goes against the grain of the culture to share. Yes Prudence… I will give you as much chocolate cake as you can stand if you’ll keep letting me know you like this.

GoGo tells me stories about Lifa and life in a beautifully excited combination of SiSwati and Afrikaans. I don’t know the words, but I get the stories because I know my GoGo’s gestures and voices and kisses.

And Lifa…

Oh man, Lifa.

He’s perfect.

We have a reputation around church. The GoGo’s call him my baby and Pastor celebrates Lifa Day with me every Wednesday and Sunday. The entire congregation is celebrating with me as Lifa is learning, through consistency and value being spoken into him, how to be loved.

I celebrate the tiniest milestones –the day he started playing with my watch, the day he started comfortably swinging his legs on my lap, the day he smiled with I held him up over my head, the day he laughed, the day he started running into my arms, the day he started clapping during the songs.

Photo by Carly B

Then the day I heard him say my name, the day he spoke to Stanley, the day he started playing with other children, and the day he started to play with other white people. 

The more he is loved securely and the more he sees I’m coming back, the more he knows how to be loved. With our Mbonisweni family, we’re re-writing his story of love – from abandonment to abundance.

Photo by Carly B

I love to see him running around during the feeding program with the other children. When he’s not with me, I see him glimpsing at me for approval or coming over for a kiss to check in. I secretly and especially love it when he gets a little sassy with the other boys. He’s starting to understand that he’s valuable and that he has a voice!

They are my family. Not in that hospitable, fancy plates, GoGo chair sense of the word. They are my people – I feel with them, I love them deeply and I’m slowly but surely being given the most incredible gift… they are letting me know them.

Every week there’s something to celebrate in this shift of welcome. This week, Lifa said “I love you”. I almost threw up. Instead, I attacked him with kisses. I’m not sure he could breathe.

Brokenness and messiness hurts. It’s not as easy to write a blog without something squeaky and shiny. But I never want to go back to what squeaks and shines again. I’m their family and they are mine.

It’s kinda like the Family of God.

You enter in with the greatest welcome – one of salvation that’s better than the very fanciest of plates serving the most delectable piece of chocolate cake. Then, as you start living like you belong, walking into the Kingdom and into knowing the heart of Jesus, you feel His pain. The more you know Him, the more your heart looks like His. The more you belong in His family and they more you're living for eternity. The dirty dishes look like broken families, poverty, orphans and loneliness that don’t line up with “Your Kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven.” His Kingdom came with pierced hands and blood. Of course it’s a mess.

But I never want to go back to what squeaks and shines. I want to be fully vested, dirty hands, broken heart and to completely belong in the Family of God. To know Him and His children and to be known. The treasure of hearing pieces of Zodwa’s story. The kisses and “sister” greetings. The wild gestures and neck kisses. The most perfect lips and the tinest “I love you”. Yeah, that’s worth it.