I know fires. Part IV

I know fires.

I know what it’s like to remember – two years later – something else you don’t have anymore and you can’t replace.

I know what it’s like to not have the things you once thought represented who you are and where you’ve come from.

But I also know what it’s like to have a community of support made of people with more than enough – an abundance of love and stuff. We slept in spare bedrooms and on palettes made of extra bedding, slightly worn-in and pushed aside for a new look. I know what it’s like to have insurance so you know you’re not starting over from scratch.

I don’t know fires in Africa.

I don’t know what it’s like to be the twin who started the flame that burnt every tangible memory and possession of a family to a pile of ashes. 

I don’t know what it’s like to have nothing and to have no plan for something. 

I know two of the most incredible boys I’ve ever met.

I don’t know how to communicate to them through language, but we know we’re family and we love each other.

I know the two 13 year-old men in an extended family of nine who work harder than any 13 year-old in America would even know how to – with a smile, with dancing eyes and occasionally with full-on dance parties. They love life, from the babies they can’t stop carrying around and kissing, to the passion and pride they have in gardening and growing everything from beautiful flowers they pick for me to vegetables to sustain their family.

Digging trash pit at GoGo's

Part boy. Part ninja. They even make hard work fun!

Samkelo lit the match.

Everything was lost, including the money and materials their mother had saved up to finish building a half-constructed house for the family of three.

Samkelo was angry, disruptive and almost too much to handle. Bongani was broken-hearted and had empty eyes. Their mom, Sharon, looked like she wanted to be invisible.

The entire family carried sorrow in the deepest parts of them through a culture that doesn’t make room and a lifestyle that doesn’t know how to express it. 

Lifa and Tstepiso – for the first time ever – smelled like trash and were playing with trash. The twins stayed outside.

I held Sharon’s hand and, even when every face in the room remained expressionless, I talked. I told her how much I hurt to see my family experiencing loss. I told her about when I lost a home to a fire and how much it hurt. I just kept talking. I talked about what Home means to us, the ways God provides beyond the physical needs, and that she was not alone in any way.

She doesn’t even understand English very well. No one said much. Not even their eyes said much. But the more I talked, the tighter Sharon squeezed my hand. She felt the little bit of love and the little bit of Home I could offer that day. 

The boys, who, keep in mind, are still 13 year-old boys, usually at least try to duck and hide from my crazy-aunt kisses and hugs. On that day, Samkelo held my hand all the way back from church. And they both let me hold them and hug them and speak love into them. They needed it. They were like dried-out sponges.

That evening, we went with Pastor Sthembiso to see where their tiny shack had stood. It was only an outline on the dirt with some melted, morphed wire framing from what had been minimal furniture cast aside. She held my hand tight again. I held Sharon and her sister and prayed Home in the most powerful and providing sense of the word over them in that place in that moment. John and Sthembiso talked details, making a plan of action to take care of my family. I held hands and talked provision.

Then we saw what looked like a pile of tin. Upon closer look, we saw it was a homemade fence protecting the most beautiful vegetable garden. A carefully tended patch of vibrance. Life amongst what looked like – and felt like – death. The boys’ handiwork. Their aunt gushed with pride over the twins and the ways they cared for the garden with such joy and the diligence in which they did everything.

I felt a surge of relief to hear the boys being celebrated, when, so easily in this culture, they could have become the black sheep of the family. I couldn’t bear the thought of Samkelo carrying around the label “the twin who ruined everything” for the rest of his life. I couldn’t stand the thought of even the slightest flicker of life leaving either one of their eyes.

Hearing the aunt talk about them over their garden, I knew God had given this family a special gift. Thinking back on it now, I shouldn’t have been so worried. This family loves so well – they love me completely and as their own. In this small patch of red dirt – the community of Mbonisweni, you have to focus on the present and every person uses every bit of energy to maintain daily life. But God has written somewhere in this family that His love prevails beyond today. Without a single possession to their name, this family was celebrating the life in the garden instead of the pile of ashes beside it.

Please pray with us for finances to restore a sense of safety and a tangible sense of home to the boys and Sharon. We have received a donation to continue working on their home and are so grateful for that. I’m praying for more home for them. They’re my people. I’m praying for beds, furniture, an oven, a couch, curtains, and all the things that we don’t even realize we’re missing on a daily basis. If you are interested in joining in bringing Home to my family, feel free to email me at kacychaffin@gmail.com

Thank you for doing this with us.