Changing Languages and Paintbrushes

I always thought it was strange that there’s “American Sign Language”.

It’s sign language for crying out loud – or for dramatically, silently gesturing!!

In my “new normal”, it’s common to be in a room full of people with fragrant phonetics and consonants jumbled with vowels flying from an arsenal of languages, and me picking out what meaning I can and not even worrying about the rest.

Can’t sign language at least be universal?

I always say that, as the classic English-only speaking American, I can at least speak non-verbals. (Remember that time I used to be a Marriage and Family Therapist?)

We’ve all heard the statistics that our non-verbal communication is so much louder than our words. I can’t help but glean meaning out of gestures, tones and facial expression.

Last Monday, the day we went on yet another 4-hour road trip, to pick up Lifa for a visit (PRAISE THE LORD), I realized that I speak American non-verbals. And English.

And that’s all.

I spent the day sitting in worn furniture with chickens and children coming in and out. There were women gesturing wildly, Lifa’s father smiling, relaxing and chattering away, and Lifa sleeping soundly on my lap. My ears were filled with SiSwati and my heart was so full of emotional apprehension, I wasn’t sure if it was going to keep beating.

I couldn’t even try to keep pace with the conversation. Everything was completely in my SiSwati-speaking pastor’s hands. I trust him completely. So I just figured I would dust off that fancy-pants counseling education and interpret the non-verbal part of the conversation.

Big mistake.

Facial expressions, tone of voice and gestures in the Swazi culture don’t exactly translate into American non-verbal. By the end of the day, I was shaking with nerves and exhausted from the soap opera playing in my mind. I was SURE that the seemingly stony-faces of the women I had encountered meant they didn’t trust me and I wasn’t especially welcomed as the white girl gliding away with their baby in a Mazda. And then confused about why an auntie was clinging onto my hand during a prayer and thanking me over and over again.

I felt unraveled. All day.

Unraveled about being completely vulnerable and feeling out-of-control while walking in the unknown.

Unraveled about me finally saying, “Ok God… I’m in this all the way.”

And then right there in that living room, in the middle of “all the way”, He says, “Ok. But it’s not going to look like the color-by-number picture you’re trying to fill in. I am creating a work of art with colors you’ve never even seen before.”

What I did know right then and there was that God is working a story of welcome and belonging in that family.

And that I felt a warm rush of Truth over me – my adoption is Christ is complete. And His family is bigger and better than circumstances and stories.

That Lifa’s father ran up to our car with the same sparkle in his eye that Lifa had before I left for the States – the one that means he feels completely loved and safe in that love.

And that Something was moving amongst a patchwork, broken family. Prayers - your prayers -  are being responded to.

So now I’ll give you as much as I can of the translated version. Thanks for hanging in!

A family story unfolded as the day progressed.

Lifa’s father shared his story of abandonment. His dad left before he was born and his mother left before he could get a birth certificate. He’s never had identity documents – a huge symbol of belonging, identity and worth withheld by brokenness, injustice and neglect. He says he knows what it’s like to grow up without a father – with eyes full of love for Lifa. He shared some of his deepest sorrows and invited us in to his family by a large gesture of trust. I have to protect the details, but I am asking you to be intimately involved by praying with us for God’s favor as we respond to Lifa’s father responding to us. 

He’s living in a house with a woman he’s in a relationship with and her family. The woman wasn’t there, but the gogo of the house spoke about being passionately moved by God’s love. She couldn’t believe that we would travel such a long way for such a little boy. It goes against everything in the culture. Even my pastor’s extended family couldn’t get it. It’s like the disciples telling the children to leave Jesus alone. (Matt 19:13-15)

The gogo drank up the love we have for God and for Lifa. She was so moved that Lifa instantly fell asleep on me. She thanked us and begged us to come back.

Then we drove FAR… almost right up to the Swaziland border, which looked even more like an enchanted forest than it sounds like. We were going to meet the father’s sister.

And more story unfolded as old family photo albums were passed around, cold drink was served, and Lifa’s father brought out the one personal possession he had packed – the Kacy And Lifa book I had given him on our first visit.

Lifa’s father has been the estranged, prodigal son. It seems like he disappeared from his family around the time Lifa’s mother abandoned them, when Lifa was only 7 months. His sister did not even have his phone number and hasn’t seen them since Lifa was a baby. There are other siblings who haven’t even met Lifa. And a gogo who hasn’t seen him in years.

Lifa’s father called his sister for the first time after we visited him earlier in the month.

Family responded to family. And he decided it was worth it.

He saw the power of love for even the smallest, most helpless child. And thought there might be a chance.

He was afraid to face his family alone.

What I thought was an over-protective auntie asking for mine and John’s numbers to check up on us was actually an overwhelmed sister trying to reign in her emotions over her family finally coming back together. And asking for our numbers to stay connected, to repeatedly thank us for bringing her family back together, and to make sure she always had a way to find her brother in case he ever disappeared again.

On the way home, once I got the full story, I managed to re-hinge my jaw long enough to join in Pastor’s giddy praises and let God keep talking...

Lifa’s gogo and 3 of Lifa’s father’s siblings live in a community less than an hour away. Instead of making the 4-hour drive when it’s time to drop Lifa off in a couple of weeks, we are appealing to God’s adoption and restoration plan. The Father who’s watching eagerly and preparing a party for his estranged son’s return is scheming beautifully.

We’ve asked Lifa’s father and sister to take public transport to come this way and meet us at the gogo’s. We’ll pick up the siblings and end my first visit with Lifa with the biggest, most beautiful family reunion ever. Fattened calf. Gold signet ring. Nicest robe. Bring it all, Jesus! (Check out the story of the Prodigal Son in Luke 15)

The father and sister have agreed! Pray with us for the transport, timing, and planning to work out. As well as for the preparation of mine, Lifa’s and the family’s hearts.

Pray for Lifa. I can see months and years of abrupt transition and insecurity taking a toll on him. He’s having trouble controlling his emotions and trying to control anything else he can. He’s screaming and crying in his sleep. And he’s completely overwhelmed by constant change. Pray for healing in the very depths of his tiny body and beautiful heart. God is moving profoundly around this child – bringing family together through the love of one little boy.

His sparkle of resting in secure love isn’t completely back yet, but it is undeniable that he gets happier by the day. In fact, he’s feeling so secure now that we’ve progressed to temper tantrums! I tell myself every time I get drenched in tears and snot that it’s a good thing for the boy who was formerly afraid to disobey or even make a sound. He’s singing, dancing, learning English and playing like he owns the place. Everything just seems better with him home.

We’re teaching each other family and creating our own langauge.

It’s not about American non-verbals, SiSwati words, or any version of sign language. Leaving it up to my own interpretation just isn’t working anymore.

God is calling me to speak a language painted in colors of grace I’ve never seen.

 It’s time to let go of the color-by-number surrender plan I’ve been subscribing to and watch the Artist of Family, Adoption and Redemption create the Greatest Masterpiece I can’t even begin to fathom.

It’s scary… but I’m in.

Promise to post pictures and (much shorter) updates this week. Pray for me to get a working modem again so I can have internet access readily available!

Thank you for being a part of His Masterpiece in my little corner of the story.