The Perfect Thanksgiving Prayer

Happy Thanksgiving!

On the heels of my second Thanksgiving in South Africa, I’m thinking about what’s happening in American homes right now. The relief provided by the tryptophan-induced naps is probably wearing off, and the last laughs of the night are being shared with a healthy dose of football banter and just one more slice of pie. Alarms are being set for Black Friday shopping escapades, and, if you’re anything like my family, you’ve made a map, a list and have organized the ads.

At my house, my alarm just went off to have a little time with you, Jesus and Pike’s Place coffee before the most perfect little boy wakes up and we get ready for school.  I have to confess that I’m thrilled to not be Black Friday shopping, but even more thrilled to be right where I am on this couch with Lifa sleeping soundly and the birds singing the sun up. I’m overwhelmed with thankfulness this morning.

Yesterday, as we left a feeding program to go eat Thanksgiving dinner together, Lifa said, “Thank you Jesus for eating. Thank you Jesus for play, play, play. Thank you Jesus for kids.”

A perfect Thanksgiving prayer.

We have more than those calories that don’t count on holidays and a day to come together to be thankful for. But if all our hope is in a roasted bird (or pig in my case!), or even on family all being around a table together, we’re going to get hungry again.

All of those good things are good. And I never want to stop saying thank you for them. But I never want to think it’s the pumpkin pie that fills me up. It’s the everyday and the eternal part of Thanksgiving that I want to feast on. Every good thing on earth is just a taste of the Kingdom of God – a reminder of how good He is that comes in our favorite flavors, memories and colors (because He knows all of our favorites us and He knows we need to be reminded). Even the very best baby kisses and family moments are an image of the affection we were made for, the Family we belong to and the hope worth holding onto.

I want to learn from Lifa’s Thanksgiving prayers.

He doesn’t know what Thanksgiving is. He’s never cut out construction paper replicas of the Niña, the Pinta or the Santa Maria. And he’s pretty sure Texas happens through a computer screen. But he knows it all starts with “Thank you Jesus…”

Last weekend, we sat on a swing – I did all the legwork and he just leaned back into me and giggled. It was beautiful. He was in the perfect posture for thank you’s. And I just listened and delighted –and finally couldn’t help but join in – as he started his thank you’s.

“Thank you Jesus for swings.”

“Thank you Jesus for swings high in the sky.”

“Thank you Jesus for slides.”

“Thank you Jesus for playgrounds.”

“Thank you Jesus for friends.”

“Thank you Jesus for Blessing and Tshepiso.”

“Thank you Jesus for GoGo Rosa.”

“Thank you Jesus for Texas.”

“Thank you Jesus for Mama Lifa.”

“Thank you Jesus for Baba Lifa.”

“Thank you Jesus for you love me.”

“Jesus I love you soooo much.”

The perfect prayers from the perfect place to pray.

Sitting in the lap of Love you couldn’t stop if you tried.

Fully aware you don’t have the strength or the control to make that swing go, or how fast, or how high it will take you.

Just leaning back and enjoying the ride, knowing Love won’t let you fall.

Thanksgiving and delight pouring out of you just because you’re in the right posture to receive it.

(just a little picture of the giggles and squeals!)

Thank you Jesus for showing me more of who you are through Lifa.

Thank you Jesus for doing the legwork and letting me enjoy the ride.

Thank you Jesus for a million ways a day to encounter You, know You, and be thankful for You.

Jesus, let me and every person who reads this today be stuffed full of Thanksgiving.

“Thank you Jesus for you love me.”

Forks and Spoons

I have a South African friend who loves to wear gold hoop earrings. And I, being the appropriate missionary-type that I am, make catcalls when I see her in them and ask her what kind of hott date she's dressed up for.

There are so many reasons this is culturally inappropriate - she's my elder is the biggest one, and the fact that the culture doesn't "date" nor do they EVER disclose personal information like that.

Last week, while I sat on Keri's couch, this friend came in giggling and nervous.

As she closed the door and covered her mouth, she told us, "I have a date on Saturday."

We immediately went into slumber party mode in the middle of the day: I kicked my shoes off, Keri brought out the food and the giggling girl-talk commenced. It went a little something like this:

Me: Oooooohhhhhhhh!!!! Ow-Owwwww!!!!


Her: hehehehehe

She gave us al the romantic facts about meeting him in line at the hospital, how often he text messages and sends airtime (cell phone airtime is very expensive in South Africa), and how she thinks he's a good man but needs to find out if he is married (men often have at least one wife and many girlfriends). We were beaming with pride at her high counter-cultural standards and her approach on a relationship.

And then we got to my favorite part:


Her: I've never been to a restaurant. Do you eat with a spoon and fork?


Me: Yes. 


Her: But which one do I use?


Keri: It depends on what you eat.


Her: But what do I order?


Me: NO pasta! It's too messy for a first date!


We finally decided on chicken and rice. And that she would use a fork and a knife if she needed it.


Keri: You don't want to order the highest item on the menu or the lowest. Order something in-between.


Her: What do I drink? 


Keri and I in unison: Coke! 


Keri adds a sassy: You're not the tap-water kind of girl.


Me: YEAH, you're a classy cold-drink kind of girl!


Her: (giggling and taking mental notes) Ok, ok...


Me: What are you going to wear?


She's definitely thought about it.


Her: A short blue jean skirt (gesturing knee-length), with summer sandals.


Me: If you are wearing a short skirt, don't wear a tight shirt.


Her: Oh ok. I won't.


Keri: Yeah, you're not THAT kind of girl.


Me: Yes, you are beautiful. He can see that without you showing off your body.

Such a simple conversation. Which silverware to use. What to order. Her time to eat at a restaurant.
A mother and grandmother, finally getting taken out for a date and treated like a lady.

What an honor to get to have giggly conversations and be counted as a friend. I love living here today to talk about forks and spoons. It's pure joy to talk about wardrobe and cold drinks. And to tell her she's  beautiful and worth delighting in. To be invited into her personal life.

I feel God delighting in me by giving me this giggly, girly moment. And I want more of that.

Thank you Jesus for girl talk, friendship and feeling like I belong, barefoot on that couch with your daughters. 

THIS is Church

Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this:
to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world. James 1:27


Busi's Church. Thursday Church. Church in the Yard.
We call it a lot of different things. But something is happening in Dwaleni that only the Living Word can begin to capture.


It started just a few weeks ago when some high school seniors from my church in Mbonisweni came to visit the construction site of Ten Thousand Homes' first house to build in Dwaleni. Read here for more about that afternoon when the Holy Spirit landed and started building Home right where we were building a house. Hope started rising as we spent an afternoon singing, dancing and praising our God right there in front of the neighbors and construction crew. 


People are catching on to the Truth that there's something worth catching onto in Busi's yard on Thursday afternoons.

Photo by Lindsey Kaufman

Last week, God took this barefoot gathering to a whole new level. 


Contagious worship. 
Relentless hope. 
Heaven came to earth for an hour in that yard.


As soon as I greeted Busi and slipped her a jumbo bag of groceries we'd collected upon hearing she had no food, I saw a little girl named Nandi waiting at the edge of the gate. She was calling my name. Nandi has had a rough 7 or 8 years on this planet. I believe her family is being touched by God and is changing, so I won't share the details of her story... I'll just talk about the HOPE part. 


I went to invite Nandi in, only to be surrounded by a group of 7-9 year olds clinging to me. They told me they all lived in that little corner of Dwaleni, so I asked Nandi if I could go to her house. 


Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by shrills of delight, linking arms with little girls in school uniforms and skipping down red-dirt roads. Just me and them. It was the sweetest gift and intimate exchange as they sang out my name and pointed to the shacks they call home. "Kacy! Kacy! Look! That's my house!" 


God spoke to me while we skipped.  "This is being KNOWN."


Last week, I posted pictures of the tiniest little boy named Kevin. He is Nandi's cousin, and, though he makes no sounds, he greeted me with big "I know you" eyes upon arrival. I scooped him up and asked if he could come with me. Nandi would bring him home later. (Disclaimer: it's normal in the culture for an 8-year old to care for a 2-year old. Last week Kevin walked a 15-min walk to the feeding with his 4-year old sister.)


I love Kevin. When I prayed for him last week, God told me Kevin is His little King David. The tiniest, scrawniest, most unnoticed giant-slayer, fit for royalty. I know that's True. And I'd come prepared to talk about it and honor it.


So I scooped up that feather-weight child. He's turning 3, but fits a size 6-12 months clothing. The neighborhood children lined the bed of the truck as I held Kevin, announced his anointing, and poured a warm bath for him. I had come that day with hot water and a bath bucket. 


Right there in the back of a truck, I gave that baby a bath and rubbed his dry skin with Vaseline, telling him how loved he is by His Father.

Before I knew it, his mother and Nandi's family were there peeking over the truck. Adrenaline and the Holy Spirit were working double-time by now... something big was happening and this little boy's life was never going to be the same. 

I told his mother, his auntie, and everyone I could find (no matter what language they spoke) what God said about this anointed little shepherd boy. 


And then I dressed him in brand new clothes. 

Fit for a prince. 

In the intensity of the moment, I hadn't even realized that Busi's church was over and the worshipers were surrounding us.

Suddenly, I heard Keri say, "THIS is Church."

And it hit me.

Capital C.

Church.

In the yard.

Where Home is being built. 

People from the nations gathered.

Feeding the hungry.

Loving the orphaned. 

Uniting in passionate worship.

Visiting homes and encouraging vulnerable families.

Speaking Truth over the forgotten.

Bathing babies in buckets in truck-beds.

Realizing that nobody needs me here, but I'm part of it. 

I GET to be part of THIS.

THIS is Church.

I get to be a part of a neighborhood Church.

So do you.

It's in your living room, your front yard, your passenger seat, your workplace, and even in those four walls you sing in on Sunday mornings.

Get out the bucket and call out the princes around you.

Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this:

to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world. James 1:27