Getting His Grip

In my last blog, I wrote about the contrast of cultures and moments that sent my head spinning and body whirling. I don't think I'm through with that. And there are stories I didn't get to tell you in the midst of traveling.

I need to turn these images replaying in my head into words so that the Word of Truth can wash them clean.

The day before I left South Africa, Nandi showed up.

She'd been missing for three weeks, and she did what she does when she's ready to be found by me. She turned up, folded into a long-legged pile of shame, and covered in dirt in the shadows of Ten Thousand Homes' feeding program. She only comes when she's out of options.

Nandi had worn out her welcome everywhere. She looked hollow - too broken to maintain her practiced, hardened, street-child mask. No words. Only nods. But she said she was ready to go home.

Through translators, I explained I was leaving and wouldn't be able to find her or rescue her. I held her hand and hoped much more than I trusted that God would hold that hand and protect that 11-year old body for the next two months.

There was no place to go but her mother's house - and I knew it wouldn't be pretty.

I prayed loud over that mountain and down that dirt road while she trembled with terror, knowing was she was being delivered into. Knowing what I was delivering her into.

Helpless and almost hopeless, we stood at the door, neither one of us wanting to cross into that threshold of what I couldn't even fathom and what I wish Nandi never had to know. Nandi's mother opened the door enough to stick her head out and cast a glare that said, "What are you doing here? I don't want you."

Nandi's 11.

ELEVEN.

Before I knew it , the yard filled with angry children. They were screaming at Nandi for stealing money from them three weeks ago when she had run away. The equivalent of $2.50. They didn't miss a beat.

I was the only English-speaker.
And the only one on Nandi's side.
I didn't understand much - but I understood Nandi's mother giving the neighborhood children permission to beat Nandi.
And then it's probably be her turn to do the same thing - to pay for the shame she brought home with her.

Nandi's tears betrayed her.
Her grip tightened on my hand.
She hid behind me as her fear turned into wailing. The kind of sound a child shouldn't be able to produce.
The cries were hidden under the shouts of the children and the laughter of Nandi's mother.

It had become a game.
Nandi's body, heart and mind were being used as a dance floor for demons.
The battle rages on with the most vulnerable on the front lines - hoping for somebody to stand there with them and hold their hands. 

I stood there and held her hand. And I felt helpless.

I was leaving the country, and my presence in that yard was only escalating the situation.
I had to go. And there was nowhere else for Nandi. Not even a church or social services were available to help this beautiful, angry little girl.

All manners, culture and language barriers aside, I looked death in the eye and almost lost my grip. No options. No help. I couldn't reach hope. I cornered Nandi's mother and let the wrath of injustice shoot out of my mouth like bullets.

"NANDI IS A CHILD.
YOU ARE HER MOTHER.
YOU WILL LET HER INTO YOUR HOME.
YOU WILL FEED HER.
YOU WILL PROTECT HER.
YOU WILL NOT LET HER RUN AWAY.
SHE IS A CHILD
YOU ARE HER MOTHER.
DO NOT BEAT HER.
PROTECT HER.
SHE IS A CHILD."

I had to go.

I remember where every tear streaked down that dirty face.
I remember what it sounded like in that yard. 
I remember what it felt like to peel each little dark brown finger off of mine. 

I had to go.

I drove off in time to see the children crowd Nandi against the wall, with her mother watching approvingly.

I peeled Nandi's hands off of mine to leave her to be beaten, to be mistreated, and without a person on this earth to find her or defend her. 

I prayed loud and hard and angry as I gripped the steering wheel that drove me further and further away from the yard where Nandi was under evil's grip.
I asked Him to help pray my fingers off of these precious lives I was flying away from - for Him to help me believe they wouldn't slip through His fingers while I was gone.
I asked Him to help me believe His Kingdom was coming there - that there was some sovereignty in that moment that haunts me.
I begged for the day when every tear from every eye would be wiped away. When justice would touch down like a tornado and destroy the brokenness that makes children run, mothers laugh and violence erupt.

When is Your Kingdom coming?
And what does it look like in that yard?

Days later I descended into a seemingly opposite reality.
A place where family gathered to rejoice and celebrate God's faithfulness. The joining of two people who stand for community and social justice.
Love was reckless and ushered in a pleasure, celebration and delight I couldn't even remember a few days before that.

I left the story of a running away to enter the story of running to. 

I left prying off fingers to joining hands and lives. 

I watched and prayed and stood with a bride getting dressed in pure white, robed in righteousness, Truth and grace, radiant in His promises.
A world away from arms raising in violence, my arms raised in prayer, praise, and right on cue for the flashmob dance.

I cat-called semi-inappropriately as the groom kissed the bride.
And I remembered the promises of the Bridegroom coming - running - to kiss His Bride. 

Nandi might never board a plane to see a wedding or experience the beauty and holiness of that innocent kiss. But I have to believe that Jesus, our Bridegroom, is going to run into her yard first and kiss away those dirty tears. 

Nandi may never spend a day surrounded by people painting her toenails, pinning flowers into her hair and dressing her in extravagance. But I have to believe that she is being held, prepared, protected, and dressed. I have to believe the Bridegroom will protect her - and those of us who've tasted and seen what it means to be a part of such a tremendous wedding celebration have the ability and responsibility to stand and believe. 

I believe in the Wedding. 

I believe in the Kingdom coming when I can't even see it. 

I believing in losing my grip to be gripped by His.

I believe in holy hands big enough to carry justice, mercy, hope and healing. 

I believe that our hands - held wide open - get to help dress the Bride and get to bring the Wedding Day closer. 

I believe that wherever we are, we're getting ready for the Wedding - whether our hands are holding flowers or wiping tears. 

I believe He's coming for and already holding Nandi. And me. And you. 

I believe in hearts and hands joining and saying, "I do."

Culture Shock

A week and a half ago I was practicing walking in high heels on a red dirt runway while my African sisters giggled and sang the wedding march. Babies subbed for bouquets, and we were like little girls playing dress up for a far, far away fantasy land.

Yesterday I had the hair, the dress, the eyelashes and the shoes on a rose garden runway while tears of thanksgiving fell as one of my most beloved sisters in Christ said, "I do." The other bridesmaids and I stood in the middle of a dream coming true and heaven reaching down with a kiss to Tacoma, Washington.

You could say I'm in a bit of culture shock. But, really, culture shock is an understatement after a year away from the American culture - a year of wrapping arms wider and tighter around little brown South African bundles of beauty.

In the past week, there have been hours of sweating profusely in stores and leaving tearfully with nothing in my hands to show for it, garment bag meltdowns, driving on the wrong side of the road, forgetting everything - all the time, and iPhone app outbursts. (It is RIDICULOUS that there's a Starbucks card app, isn't it!?!)

I may or may not have brought a plastic hotel laundry bag as a purse to the wedding last night.... So maybe I don't quite have it all together.

And I'm not sure if I ever will.

But I'm learning to be thankful for that.

I'm thankful that I don't thrive in the American culture. (Except on the dance floor, of course.)

I'm thankful that my inability to grasp even the 1st layer of the South African culture keeps my friends there entertains and reminds me I've done nothing to deserve this life and these blessings.

I'm thankful that I don't speak any earthly language all that well.

I'm thankful that my skin, my accent, my mannerisms and my most-things don't ever line up just right.

I'm thankful that I get to live and love with a group of people in South Africa who don't fit in with the culture there either, and then come back to visit family and friends who love me with love bigger than the whole wide world.

I"m thankful that I get to be a daughter in the Home that makes sense and try to mirror that Home in my own home as a mama.

I'm thankful that things don't have to be smooth, painless or even properly accessorized to be holy.

I'm thankful that I never have to be Homeless because the One who is Home in me moved in when I said, "I do." 

So I'm choosing to be thankful and giving up on American assimilation. I'm going to hug and hold and love oh-so-squeezy tightly for the next 5 weeks. I'm going to be thankful when I feel overwhelmed, out of place, and Home-sick.

I'm going to remember.
I'm going to walk in my inheritance and Family rather than my alien status, no matter which side of the world my feet land on. 

Want to walk with me?

Back to the Future

I’m writing this from the past…

Or maybe I’m just speaking into the future.

Either way, I scheduled this blog to post much later than I wrote it. So maybe we’ll all be surprised by what it says!

Today, the day I’m writing you, is January 14, 2012. The world around me is just shaking off the afterglow of the holiday season and beginning to exchange resolutions for routines.

I got a late start, and I usually can’t even remember which month it is anyway, so I’m just revving up in excitement for God’s promises for the year.

Not only am I writing to you, the future, from a new year’s mindset, but on the first day of my 3^rd year in Africa.

Two years ago today, with jet lagged, cross-eyed glee, I unknowingly set foot on the soil that would become my new home on earth.

January 14, 2010

January 2010

How can a girl not get reflective at a time such as this?

Today, January 14^th,  2012,  my house is empty for the first time in 2 ½ months. Today, January 14^th and the today from which you are reading, my house is brimming with promises, hope and God creatively weaving the highest good for all His kiddos. And that’s the part I’m reflecting on. And that’s why you’re reading this blog in August instead of January when I wrote it.

I have no idea what our Augusts have in store. I know that if I’m in South Africa the day this posts, I’m probably FREEZING cold. And if you are in Texas reading this, you’re most likely BLAZING hot. Whichever hemisphere you reside on and no matter how you fill your days, we are now 8 months into the year that you probably started with at least a handful of hopes and dreams. We could probably all use a reminder of the Name and the One who authored hope and wrote the dreams in our hearts. And a reality check that there’s more to this year and to who you are than whatever is on mine and your to-do list today.

If I would have known on January 14, 2010 what was in store for the rest of that year, I would’ve see everything with different eyes and a different heart. And if I would have known that in 2011 I would become a spiritual mama and a foster mama, I would have made A LOT of other suggestions as to ways God could use me that involved a lot less tears, cultural splits, spiritual warfare, financial support raising, endless transitions, and separation from my family.

Me and little Lifa. April 2010

So, it’s a good thing He didn’t tell me until it was time.

Maybe today – the August, present-tense today – is time. Time for Him to unveil and reveal something great He has for you. And for me.

Or maybe today is a day we both need to be reminded that those seeds of hope and promise He planted in me and in you are real, were planted richly in the fertile soil of our hearts, and the harvest is coming.

January 2012

On January 14, 2012 God reminded me that HE knows the road for me and for you. HE won’t leave my side or yours for a moment, no matter how far and fast you try to run and no matter how many ways I try to take things into my own hands.

August 2010. Photo by Jillian Hamp

On January 14, 2012 God asked me to tell you and myself that we are filled with Him because His blood was shed for us. And it doesn’t matter the ways we fill in the societal blanks of who we are and what we do. We weren’t made to be called therapists, pastors, missionaries, teachers, nurses, doctors, businessmen, mothers, fathers, or anything but His children with the greatest gift: the love, the authority and the commission to carry the name of Jesus wherever we are in whatever we do.

January 2012. Photo by Carly B

On January 14, 2012 God said to write to somebody to say that He hasn’t forgotten our hopes and dreams, and He doesn’t want you – or me – to let chaos be louder than His voice. He is fulfilling His great plan today. He has something for you today.

January 2012. Photo by Carly B

So, on August 14, 2012, let’s carry the name of Jesus in all that we do. And let’s trust our God to be who He says He is and do what He says He’ll do. 

January 2012. Photo by Carly B

Again.

We pulled up to the shack of one of my favorite families this morning - only to find that the mama and baby had gone to the clinic, leaving the 4-year old and 2-year old twins to play alone in the yard. The house was locked so the few things they had left wouldn’t get stolen. We had to leave, and the mama still wasn’t home. They clung to the crackers we left them with and stared longingly, then angrily.

Nandi keeps running. I keep finding her, and she keeps running.

This time I can’t find her.

I’ve been doing the social services shuffle. No breakthrough; no answers; no help. And now Nandi’s been gone so long people have stopped talking about it.

Yesterday I went to pick up her little brother and heard her mama inside, hiding from Truth and from daylight, refusing to answer the door even to let little Tommy come to the birthday party.

Sometimes it feels like the cycle is on repeat. None of this is new.

I found those babies unattended and unbathed… again.

I found those same rings of dirt around their mouths because they are eating soil… again.

I can’t find Nandi… again.

Nandi’s mama didn’t want to be found… again.

I had to leave that community on the moutainside with people still hungry, still hurting, still lost. Again.

It was one of those drives home where it took everybody a little longer to come up with 3 things they are thankful for. We scrounged for words and spat them out, hoping we’d believe them.

I heard the words come out of my mouth; “I am thankful that God doesn’t need us to meet every need because He already has. And that He lets us do what we can from where we are.”

Peace started coming. Again.

Then from Katja, “I am thankful that Jesus is in the yard with the kids that we couldn’t stay with.”

Truth started flowing. Again.

These families that I love and cry with are the families that you pray for, you know, and you love and cry with too.

And then I remembered.

In June, we celebrated Karabo’s first birthday.

The day of the party, her mama almost didn’t have enough energy to get dressed for church. Nandi had just worn out her welcome in the place of refuge we’d found for her and we were going to have to leave her with her mom that night. Everybody was tired, hungry and hopeless.

And then those arms of the Body of Christ stretched wide and long. As we blew out Karabo’s candle, Avelina and my friends from Citymark Church unfolded Kingdom generosity. A bundle of clothes – an entire wardrobe – for every single person at the party. Marked with their names! There was a fashion show, rampant giggles and real-life Heaven on earth.

His Kingdom Came. Again.

Such pure joy as we passed out the gifts!

I don't think Nandi expected to get anything - she couldn't hide her happiness

Sweet Charity

Perfect Given

Reading his name - This was my favorite part. 

Over-sugared cheering section: Tshepiso and Lifa

Nandi modeling her new purple skinny jeans, shirt and jersey. A happy little girl!

Mama Charity beside herself - trying on TWO new pairs of shoes!

We emptied the entire bag - and then it became the playground for the best-dressed twins in South Africa.

They’ll get hungry again.

She’ll run away again.

They’ll fall down under oppression and poverty again.

But He’ll stay in that yard with them.

He’ll run with her.

He’ll hold them up.

And, even if those stomachs get empty again, there’s one place in them that is full and sealed. 

There’s something the enemy can’t steal away.

It’s that one place where that one birthday candle blazed.

That little handwritten piece of love, each individual name written down to give just the right-sized gifts.

The birthday song melody and the, “Hip Hip Hooray!” at the end.

His Kingdom came in a Sunday on a blanket in the yard.

And it’s going to come again.

He doesn’t need my hands, but He’ll use them.

He doesn’t need your resources, but He wants your arms that reach all the way around the world – because He loves when you reach.

He doesn’t need. He loves.

He loves again and again and again. 

Party Manic

Last time I wrote, I talked about celebrating. And then I promised to share birthday stories with you.

I promise… They’re still coming! You’re as much a part of these moments as the little icing-smeared faces I get to giggle with. It’s that “known” thing – you knowing the stories is part of my story and, more importantly, His.

But before birthday stories, we’ve got to talk about yesterday.

Yesterday was a true celebration.

Yesterday, I could have been diagnosed as a sanctified, situational, and Spirit-filled stated of mania.

(Couldn't resist my therapist roots - putting that education to good use!)

Yesterday I got to be a part of heaven on earth.

See… Wha’ Had Happened Was…

At the beginning of this year, I met Neli.

A 20-year old girl raising her 4 younger siblings, ages 2 – 17.

All sick. No money. No support. No food. No hope.

Two-year old Lethu would just fall asleep on you, starving for touch and nutrition.

Nine-year old Mpendulo would only grin the squeakiest, meekiest smile. The man of the house who doesn’t even realize he still sucks his thumb.

The three older sisters, Neli, Pepile and Thuli, kept their heads down, giggled nervously, and prayed for electricity so the neighbors would stop chiding.

Neli stays home from school to raise Lethu, and was spending her days trying to keep the rest of the shame tucked in the one-room house with a useless door.

They didn’t even have a proper toilet. They just dug a shallow hole in the ground, making hygiene and dignity impossible.

All 5 piled onto a queen-sized bed, coughing contaminated coughs with no capacity to dream about tomorrow as they drifted off into a hungry sleep.

Lethu standing on the very beginnings of the construction site. That room in the background was their home.

God was never blind to Neli’s family. He’s always loved them completley. But when the Family of God started praying, uniting on behalf of His own, He could not be unmoved. If you prayed for Neli, or if you start praying for Neli today, you get to be a part of this party. You get to be a party of this victory, this Home, this hope.

Everything’s different because of it.

One day at the feeding program, Mpendulo used a stick to
write in the dust, "Do You Love Me?"

Lethu giggles with open arms, demanding to be held because she now knows she was made to be held.

Mpendulo asks for his first-ever birthday hugs, kisses and candles. He asks to be loved.

Neli broke every cultural rule, and let us all the way in to her house, her pain and her heart. Two weeks ago, Marise took her hand and walked with her into salvation and the Kingdom of God.

I shopped yesterday. For 3 hours.

(I HATE shopping.)

But I was shopping to stock a new house, knowing and believing that we were going to fill the heavenly Home that day.

I floated from shop to shop, rattling off the story to every employee who would listen and giving thanks in between. Employees started opening up their own wallets to bring hope and home.

Yesterday we didn’t just present four walls and a roof to five hungry kids.

We celebrated the Body of Christ bringing Hope and Homes in every way possible – physically, spiritually, emotionally, eternally.

Just look...

I’m not a party maniac.

I don’t do parties for the sake of a party.

I suck at small talk. There’s just so many big thing to talk about.

I get over-stimulated.

But I get party manic when I’m celebrating a Kingdom-coming victory.

When the joy and the zeal are heaven-fueled, and when the talk just cannot be small.

I believe in partying with a purpose.

I believe that, yesterday, we didn’t just celebrate beds and walls and roofs and electricity and popcorn and cake.

We had a Welcome Home party.

Welcome to the Kingdom of God, Neli.

Welcome to knowing God sees you and hears you and responds to you.

You don’t have to be the Man of the house, Mpendulo.

Your Father is home with you.

He’ll be your security behind that new security gate and tuck you in and under the covers of your very own bed.

And you. You belong in this holy house too. You were designed to be known, loved and filled to overflow by the Father who will not disappoint you and who only wants your affection. 

By accepting that invitation, by believing in Him, you have everything it takes to build hope and home in everyone you encounter. 

Make today a party today.