I taught him "Please". He's teaching me "Thank you".

I've been huffing and puffing about the darkness and broken parts of the world all around me... and then becoming REALLY unpleasant when I realize I'm one of those broken pieces too.

Lifa came home for what might be a very short visit. For most of the days of the year, he lives in the sharp edges, infirmity and smoldering oppression that I kick and scream about living around. For most of his days, Lifa has no voice or height to rise above his current circumstances.
Right now I'm listening to him fight off the bad guys in his sleep.

But- For this two weeks, I hear him. 
And- Every single day of his life, MY GOD hears him.  

And- Today, I'm learning from him.

That little 4-year old voice that only speaks English when it comes to mama's house... that starts off silent, then turns to a whisper, and is now uncontrollable shrieking and laughing...
That big voice has a lot to say.

Lifa prays aloud all the time. Kids here learn lengthy, memorized prayers. I have no idea if he knows those.

I've listened to him all day today as he prays in his comings and goings.

He remembers to thank Jesus for everything... things I can't remember happened. He thanks Jesus for people who don't remember to say thank you. And makes sure everyone has a turn to say their thank-you's. He celebrates every piece of playground equipment, every puppy, every friend, every moment, and even says thank you for the things that haven't happened yet.

So today I'm going to take a big lesson from a little voice and bask in the glory of some of the beautiful moments God gave me this week. Bask in them and boast of them. And bring them to Him as a sacrifice of thanksgiving. (Psalm 50:23)

Thank you Jesus....

for Charity's first bubble bath.

for a hug and a hat.

for Hope and Home in progress.

for a mohawked, striped reminder of Your extravagant creativity.

 for a new cupcake pan.

 for Nandi's first birthday party... and a gazillion dazzling sprinkles from Texas.

 for role models... no matter who's influencing whom most.

for a fish pedicure and a friend to share moments with.

for this face.

for two boys and a blue balloon.

for three perfect children giggling through dinner together.

for that split second of surprise and delight when you see a monkey running right in front of you.

 for freshly-cleaned and painted 11-year old toenails.

 for a brother who does the dishes for you at the end of a long day.

"Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn't rescue the suffering. The converse does."

One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp

This morning's song lesson

Something caught fire in me on Sunday. We went to pick up Lifa, and it was one of those nothing-went-according-to-plan misadventures. Eye-opening. Heart-wrenching.

It shook parts of me that I have tried almost successfully to put on the “Survival Simmer” setting in my heart. Abba, it was horrible.

So much broken.

So many of your children misguided.

Turning to false idols.

Bowing before demons breeding hopelessness.

Perpetuating generational curses.

Raising up their children – and mine – and YOURS – to do the same.

Yet creation is singing outside right now even before the first ray of light breaks through this dark night. I’m writing to the soundtrack of the greatest symphony, sung from the treetops by the most extravagantly dressed songwriters.

It’s dark outside.

It’s dark in those houses.

It’s dark inside so many broken hearts.

Morning still comes.

Creation still sings.

The Glory song starts when it’s still dark.

My heart feels dark.

It’s justice kicking, knocking me out of “simmer”. I can’t just survive here.

It’s dark here.

But I’m not singing a Glory song.

I’m kicking. I’m screaming. I’m shouting.

I have to confess that my heart is not pounding out an anthem of justice.

My blood is boiling way past simmer and way past righteous anger.

What do I do with this?

How do I walk through the dark and sing like the light?

How do I sing the birds’ songs?

How do even they know how to sing Glory when it’s still dark?

YOU came here so you could walk through darkness and sing Glory’s song. We crowned you with thorns and hung you up like a banner for darkness – all the darkness of humanity displayed through the broken body of the Son of Man.

But YOUR fists weren’t balled up like mine are.

YOU opened your hands for the nails.

YOUR teeth weren’t gritting. YOUR mouth wasn’t full of bitter, sour, hurting words.

Darkness asphyxiated you. But in the breaths you had left, You sang Glory.

“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do...”

“It is finished.”

YOU knew morning was coming.

YOU knew about Sunday.

But YOU shook. In YOUR sorrow, the sun stopped shining, and darkness took over the land. YOU tore.

YOU tore from the top-down. YOU tore so that light could come anyway.

Jesus, I’m lost in a battle of light and dark, even in this very moment while a dark-skinned little boy sleeps in my lap. His skin is not a stamp that says it’s ok for him to live in the dark. IT’S NOT OK. Sunday night was not ok with me. The unknown stories of the children I will kiss over and over again today are not ok. It’s still dark outside. Help me sing Glory’s song.

“See, darkness covers the earth

And thick darkness is over the peoples,

But the Lord rises upon you

And his glory appears over you…

No longer will violence be heard in your land,

Nor ruin or destruction within your borders,

But you will call your walls Salvation

And your gates Praise.

The sun will no more be your light by day,

Nor will the brightness of the moon shine on you,

For the Lord will be your everlasting light,

And your God will be your glory.

Your sun will never set again,

And your moon will wane no more;

The Lord will be your everlasting light,

And your days of sorrow will end.”

From Isaiah 60

Ladies Day Out!

So many deep thoughts.
And so many frogs during deep-cleaning.
At the end of a heavy holiday weekend, I needed a getaway!

Yesterday I picked up two of my very closest friends from Mbonisweni for a great adventure: the fish spa!

We drove to the top of a beautiful mountain, and, for the equivalent of about $3.50, had the most organic pedicure you could imagine. Creation was singing to the beat of a whole different drum as hundreds of tiny fish nibbled away the dead skin on our feet. It was AWESOME! And the perfect change of scenery for all 3 of us! (I'm officially addicted.)

First, he washed our feet to get them ready for the fish.

Thuli and Prudence meet the fish. It TICKLES... A LOT at first. And then becomes the most relaxing little spa with fins! Please excuse my cackle... I couldn't hold back.

Prudence was hilarious... she just couldn't stay still!

Thuli loved it immediately. The fish did too!

Guess whose foot this is...

Finally making progress!

So much fun!

Finally... she likes it!

And... then relaxes COMPLETELY!

Three happy, relaxed ladies soaking in our little getaway and the view from our picnic spot

Middles and Moments and Easter Thoughts

On this quiet Easter morning in South Africa, I’m very aware that I’m on the other side of the world than most of the other Easter mornings I’ve celebrated. It’s a crisp, but warm, fall morning. The birds outside my open windows are the ones dressed in their Sunday best and singing creation’s songs. There’s no church today, and I plan on finishing deep-cleaning the cottage, maybe while listening to an Easter podcast, and having a meal with some friends.

There’s still something awe-inspiring about today though. Even if the congregation is just an iPod, a mop and myself.

Today, together, one time zone at a time, the Church will rise, sing, praise, and give thanks for the God who entered time and gave us eternity in a weekend.

That’s the Church I’m a part of.

And, Church, today, as we sing completion, redemption, revelation songs, I find myself in the middle of a lot of stories, with pieces of my heart being stretched almost too thin as it gropes to stretch all the way around the world.

One church is not meeting today. The ones who could afford it are gathering at an out-of-town conference, praying in a language I don’t understand.

One church is worshiping in a home I’ve never seen, singing the songs I long to sing, and is full of people I want to hug.

One part of my family is coming home next Sunday! After only being together for 2 weeks in the first 3 ½ months of the year, I’m praying, begging and aching for miracles.  For completion.

One part of my family is gathering around Easter dresses, Easter baskets, my perfect NaNa, and a tiny Easter onesie, capturing the moments on a camera that I wish I were there to see in person.

One family I love here is being fed by death – a mother selling her body to make ends meet. Her daughter, Nandi, runs from – or maybe into – abuse. Nandi comes home with me once a week to eat, bathe, receive positive attention, and to learn how to sew from a local, SiSwati-speaking woman that has a God-breathed passion for helping this little girl. In months of attempts, Nandi’s had five lessons; five weeks where she hadn’t run away. But God says to keep going. Keep finding her. The same way He does with us. He says it’s the middle of a long, long story for Nandi.

One family that has become like my own is in the middle of an identity-changing story. A rare and taboo medical condition of a 2-year old left a 22-year old mother of 4 silenced, shut down, and living in shame inside a barely-standing shack. We’re scheduling one appointment at a time. She’s not doing it alone anymore. And she’s even inviting me into her shame. We’re standing together at a fork in the road that will author the identity of a child and a family, and that will pave the way for understanding their identities in Christ.

It’s almost too many middles to stand in the middle of at one time.

Too many stories.

With my heart wanting to be in too many places at once.

So we go back to the One Story.

The story of this weekend.

Death conquered – in the name of love.

Free-flowing, undeserved, life-saving, soul-redeeming Grace, standing up and walking out of His tomb – in the name of eternal life.

And Grace, whose body left our presence, the second time, only for the sake of a seal better than skin. A living, loving, moving, speaking, pursuing, responding, Living God – who chooses to be passionately involved in our every breath.

This whole story – this whole adoption – this whole faith hinges on one weekend over 2,000 years ago.

A God outside of time did it in one weekend.

And now that it’s done, He keeps doing it again and again in me.

It’s hard to wrap my head around, but my heart’s all in.

I’m sitting on my couch in the quiet of an Easter morning, while straddling handfuls of stories of longing, believing and wavering – my own and others’.

There’s something good – something right – and something indescribably holy about a God outside of time who never gets tired of walking through moments with me.

So, on this Easter morning, I sit on my couch and stand with my Church. And I say, “Thank You Jesus. “

Thank You, Jesus, for entering time over 2,000 years ago and never leaving me in a middle or a moment without you. I rest in the abstract and completely natural comfort today that You know the middles and moments, and you glorify them outside of time and in just the right time. You already took care of them when you walked out of that tomb. You’ll never stop taking care of me as I walk through them. Thank you, thank you, thank you Jesus.

I take heart, because you have overcome the world. (John 16:33)

Learning How to Breathe Again

I took a dip out of this worldwide reality that keeps us connected for a while. Honestly, I just got tired. I've been dancing with burn-out, straining to overcome weariness, and trying, trying to make it all count. We're a quarter of the way through the year. Whew. Instead of listing all the reasons why I couldn't breathe, much less bring myself to anything that ending in .com, let's just start with today. 

I've missed you. The "I" part isn't supposed to be about me at all. It's "we" and "us" and "Him". 

And we need each other. We were made to be known. By each other and by Him.

I remember that today after a 2-hour conference call with some of the women I'm closest to - and who live the furthest away from me. Four years later, they still know me. It's through their words and their prayers that I'm taking a fresh breath today. Being breathed into by His Spirit. 

I don't know how to catch you up on the millions of milestones and stories. But I will, one post at a time, to invite you back into what we are doing by His strength. Today, I'm just inviting you into my heart and my journal. 

To my giving, loving, never-stopping God,

Something started uncoiling yesterday. Sadness, loneliness and despair were brought to light. And they needed to rain. They needed to bleed. Like thick storm clouds, I've been stuck under their shadows. A cloud that looks like Lifa, my child so far from home. A could of exhaustion, of broken families, of unfulfilled promises. Clouds of doubt and sickness. Clouds of prejudice and violence looming all around me. A cloud created by distance. And a cloud of trying to make things that are not ok to you, ok for me to see and walk through and live in everyday. 

How do I live here God?

ONE DAY AT A TIME.

What is supposed to be ok???

How do I breathe here???

How do I live like it's "normal"???

How do I not set myself apart from them, and then come home to the luxuries of a comfortable bed, running water, electricity, and a well-stocked mini-fridge???

I want to know you more. 

You're letting me.

My friends opened something in me- they told me I'm experiencing Your grief and Your sorrow. Because You're not ok with it either. 

Somehow, I can breathe if I know You're breathing this air too. If I know it's not just me being exhausted, weary, and lonely. I can breathe if I know I'm feeling it with You, and on behalf of You, as an ambassador for every part of Your heart. 

It's NOT OK for Your kids to live like this. 

You're not ok with them starving, sucking nutrients from the soil when there's nowhere else to get them. 

But it's about more than their daily bread to You.

And it's about more than what I do. 

I want to know every side of Your heart. I want to taste every flavor of Your character.

The part of You that cries out for justice, with righteous anger and merciful tears that flow over the starving orphan, the little girl who keeps running from the house where her mother is selling her body, the children ripped out of life and put into the death of slavery, and the little boy missing a piece of government-stamped paper that could open a door to a name, an education and a lifetime of opportunities... if someone would just sign that dotted line. 

I want to experience that ravenous pursuit of wandering hearts pulsing through my own body, never exhausting and never running out of infatuated compassion, the way it authors Your Word and exudes through Your Being. 

I want to touch the foot of the mighty, erect throne of the King of Kings, willing to dethrone to become a compass as a pillar of fire, a whisper in the wind, or the very breath inside of us.

I want to feel Your hands and Your heart, bleeding every time we choose an idol that You already crucified. 

I want to know what it feels like and what it looks like to know, and to have, and to be a love big enough to see and feel and dwell in all the broken...

And, in response, to just love more. 

To know with every part of me that, in 3 days, it'll be undone. It'll be healed. It'll be conquered. It'll be good.

I want to know you more. 

Every part of you. 

Broken for what breaks you - in the ways it breaks you.

Because you never let it get all the way broken. 

You did once, and then you said Never Again.

You didn't want me to get all the way broken. Or them. Or us. 

"It is finished." That's what you said. 

And Your Word can never be broken. 

It is finished. And it will be finished. 

I am new. And I will be made new. 

Show this body and soul, groaning for the completion, how to live and love as a new creation. Here. Now. Today. Show me how to breathe by grace and hope. 

Amen.

"Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." He who was seated on the throne said, "I am making everything new!"

Rev 21:3-5

AND...

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! All this is from God who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation

2 Cor 5:17-18

We are new. He is making us new. 

It is finished. It will be finished. 

He has risen. 

In 3 days, He will rise again.