"Shiny, shiny, shiny... so nice."

It’s Tuesday morning… and already I feel like it’s been one of those weeks. You know those weeks? It’s one of those weeks where it feels like the windows to my soul are forecasted to be stormy and rainy.

The holidays are on horizon in every time zone, and the enemy’s trying to entangle the tinsel. He's making pathetic attempts to stomp out the thanksgiving and joy we were designed for.

So this morning I need to tell a story that’s not about tangles, but is about Truth. A story about car washes and other things that shine brighter than tinsel.

I need to remember with you that  “…the Son of God, Jesus Christ… was not ‘Yes’ and ‘No’, but in him it has always been ‘Yes.’ For no matter how many promises God has made, they are ‘Yes’ in Christ. And so through him the ‘Amen’ is spoken by us to the glory of God.” (2 Cor 1:19-20)

I need to “Amen” to the Truth that is constant and the Truth that is promised to you and to me. I need to speak out His promises already being fulfilled to stomp out the encroaching lies.

I met Samkelo and Bongani almost as soon as I got to Africa. I stayed in the family home of these 12-year old identical twins for 5 days when I first came to “visit”. I was immediately amazed then by the servant-hearts of these boys who were the men of a family of 10, and who were always at church first to help clean and set-up.

Almost 3 years later, these 15-year olds are squeaking and stumbling their ways into being fine young men of God.  Along the way, family members have come and gone, a house was burned and a house was built, and one time Samkelo proposed to me.

Fourteen months into my life in Africa, the glorious day came when I was able to purchase a car and drive myself to church. Samkelo and Bongani’s aunties started passing me notes like schoolgirls, asking if that was “our new car parked under the tree”. It was indeed, and as part of the family, the car was considered the family’s.

Instead of demanding transportation and field trips, however, this family and these boys taught me a lesson on Family. Samkelo and Bongani begged me to allow them to wash the car. They longed to celebrate through serving and stewarding our blessing well.

Parked in the space in the yard they made for me, using water that was not easy to come by, the boys scrubbed, shined, and beamed. “Shiny, shiny, shiny…. So nice,” they said over and over again.

We cranked up the radio and danced and celebrated. I tried to pay them and they refused. They said it was for Family.

Every time I came, they begged to wash. Finally, I insisted on paying them R5 each – about $0.75USD. It was like I had given a million bucks. They raced to the shop to buy sweeties – a few pieces for themselves and the rest for their family. That 5 Rand was gone in less than 5 minutes.

Over time, we talked about budgeting. Although I might be the furthest from qualified in the ways of financial planning, I had access to Truth. So, through a translating auntie, we talked about what God says about money.

Once they had access to Truth and to knowledge, they absorbed it like a sponge. They giggled and delighted at the ideas of budgeting and started setting goals together. They asked me to hold their money so they wouldn’t be tempted to spend it, and they began to take pride in their work. It was always, “Shiny, shiny, shiny… so nice.” They’ve done so well, they’ve earned raises.

Some days they were hungry. Some days they were cold. Some days they were hot. Some days they were tired. Every week they were ready to work. Every week they sat back, admired their reflections in the paint job, and looked at me with big matching smiles saying, “Shiny, shiny, shiny… so nice.”

They had access to something they’d never known before: Samkelo and Bongani knew it was possible to live for something beyond today.

I think that’s what we call Hope.

We’ve had a hundred car wash dance parties.

Every one ended in “Shiny, shiny, shiny… so nice.”

(An old one but a good one - Lifa's car wash dancing.)

One week, the babies piled in the backseat to the irresistible beat of the Black-Eyed Peas while Samkelo and Bongani cleaned the front seats. At the end of the day, we realized that tiny little dancing fists had demolished the speakers on the back dash. So Samkelo and Bongani took a 10-week pay cut to help pay for the speakers. In the "tough love" process, they gained a new sense of protection and respect for their work and our blessings.

Even on the reduced pay weeks, “Shiny, shiny, shiny… so nice.”

Samkelo and Bongani’s first saved up for was a garden. They saved up, we went to a nursery, and they delightedly picked out just the right seedlings to grow vegetables for their mother, their extended family, and even for me.

Next, they were able to save up and buy cell phones!

And then they could afford to go on a field trip with their school!

Finally, they set their sights high. The boys wanted to buy a television. They dreamt as they washed. They reminded me every week what they were saving for. They wanted to count their money every week. Every week that, “Shiny, shiny, shiny… so nice,” meant they were that much closer to that electronic dreambox.

They thought they could get one for R400. ($50) They didn’t want to wait to get a bigger one – they wouldn’t have space anyway.

They worked hard - oh so hard.

FINALLY, the day came when the boys had R410.

They giggled and rejoiced… And then I reminded them about tithing.

We opened up the Scripture and talked about all money coming from God, and giving him the first of everything. They grimaced, they agreed, and then they grinned… “Next week! Shiny, shiny, shiny…. So nice.”

The young men proudly walked down the aisle at church that Sunday and deposited R20.50 each in the basket at the front.

I shared with the TTH staff the rising anticipation and the accomplishment of the boys, and another staff family decided to get their car washed too to help out.

After tithing and a double-duty car wash days, the boys had R460.

Their mother wasn’t sure it would be enough still, so she selflessly walked to a neighbor’s house and borrowed R100, (at least a full day's work!) not wanting the boys to miss out on what they’d worked so hard for.

And into town we went! With 2 of their friends in tow!

With R560 burning a hole in their pockets, they browsed every set in the shop. There was one for R400 and a significantly larger one for R500. They collaborated in SiSwati while their buddies oogled over electronics they’d never seen.

Samkelo and Bongani came to me beaming. Through very broken English, they told me they wanted to buy the R400 television so they could afford the batteries for the remote and an antenna – and return their mother’s money.

I have never been more proud.

I wanted to look directly into their hearts and scream, “Shiny, shiny, shiny… so nice!”

We had a small photo shoot, a few victory jumps and yelps, and then piled into the car – giving that 17” piece of glory its own seat.

On the car ride back, the thankful game brought me to tears.

“Thank you for teaching me budgeting.”

“Thank you for teaching me giving my money to church.”

“Thank you for teaching me how to behave.”

They had waited an extra week because they chose to tithe.

They had gotten one size smaller than they could have.

But Samkelo and Bongani walked out of that television shop with hearts even fuller than their arms.

They had access to the Truth, and they had consumed it.

At 15, these boys are walking in wisdom, faithful giving, and grabbing onto a hope for tomorrow.

The rest of their circumstances haven’t changed. They still get too hungry. Too tired. There’s still water to fetch. A family to care for. And a thousand struggles in their daily lives. They even asked to stop by the TTH feeding program on the way home because they were too hungry to focus on their new TV.

But despite every damaged speaker, every delay, every trial, there is Truth.

Truth that you can’t feel on some days. Truth that makes you wait another week, another year, or until eternity comes down. Truth that makes you reach only to the R400 shelf on this day, but Truth that sets you free everyday.

Truth that says, “Now it is God who makes both us and you stand firm in Christ. He anointed us, set his seal of ownership on us, and put his Spirit in our hearts as a deposit, guaranteeing what is to come.” (2 Cor 1:21-22)

That Truth still comes with a hope and a promise of that tear-wiping, Kingdom-coming day when Your Savior and Your Beloved looks you in the eye and says, “Shiny, shiny, shiny… so nice.”

Hope's Colors

This is a surprise blog....

SURPRISE!

Just as I was finishing up yesterday's blog about greens and blues, I found myself sitting in the biggest most colorful surprise. Right there in Steve Biko Academic Hospital.

Just before I was ready to go lock myself in a bathroom and fall apart, Hope showed up. And, as Hope tends to do, it spread. Hope poured out and took on every color of the rainbow. 

The enemy intends to steal, kill and destroy our bodies, minds and spirits... and hospital ward 8.5 was prime real estate yesterday. But what the enemy intends for evil, God uses for good.

One balloon and one racecar led to a makeshift family party. A Family party. Kingdom-sized.

Before I could even hit "save" yesterday, a boy and his mom pulled chairs from all the way across the room to sit with me.

We played games.
We defied hospital-blue with colors of hope. 

I showed them pictures, and then Robe Kid got hold of the camera. And suddenly, all the moms in the room were part of a fashion shoot! The nurses were laughing and secretly posing.

From the photo shoot: 

(Made sure not to include patients and moms gave permission!)

I took family photos to print and mail to a new mother.
And no one stayed in their plastic red chairs.
Moms met other moms. Held other babies. Laughter rang out in Room 3, finally louder than the crying, suffering and dizzying circumstances.

Hope is loud. And does not withhold from any place or any person who welcomes it.

I interrupted my broken-hearted story writing last night to show pictures that tell my story. And then Robe Kid's mom told hers.

Hope narrates our stories when we let it.

I showed this blog to Robe Kid and his mom. And she said I could put her story and photo on it.

"Vivian's Diary"

Yesterday my son was at theatre (operating room). I felt uncomfortable because I have spend a lot of hours, so I was busy praying to God so that his mercy fell to my son in order to survive there.

People were busy passing the passage, so they feel pity for me while I’m staying there waiting. They said, the way I have stayed there and how I’m feeling, I must never lose hope. God is the answer. God will make a way to succeed.

So when he comes out I was very very happy. I said to God, “You are my hero. I have nothing to thank you God, but only my life. I will give it to you. Even now I am very very glad because I have already this child."  Tomorrow I am going home. God will make the way in order to arrive at home.  Thank you.

Lesson learned: Maybe hope DOES come in the shade of hospital-blue!

green balloons and blue racecars

This morning I wore scrubs, a hair net, and shoe covers. I held a perfectly-created 3-year old and a gas mask. Arms thrashed, eyes rolled back, and then sleep came. I laid that slumbering body on an operating table, and I walked out, empty-handed and silenced by my screaming heart.

Sweet baby Given and I made a 5-hour road trip for Given’s government hospital appointment. Given’s mother had no means of making this appointment that could not be missed. So I came as the back-up mama. For privacy’s sake, I’ll spare procedure details, but we are beginning a long process of restoration in Given’s life.

Now, post-op, I watch Given sleep in the pediatric surgical ward.

We’re Bed 1 of 6 in this room.

I look around and see 3 babies with fluids dangerously misshaping their skulls.

I see two little boys confined to watch the clouds roll by from their hospital beds.

I see 4 exhausted mothers bent over babies’ beds.

For the first 10 hours of this hospital day, I couldn’t catch my breath.

It’s not my baby. It’s not my body. But I started losing my grip.

I couldn’t hear or reach anything that mattered 10 hours before this.

I couldn’t open my Bible or pour prayers into my journal, much less quiet myself to hear the Spirit of God.

I couldn’t look beyond the sight of Given’s abdomen, empty for almost 24 hours now and rising and falling a little too quickly for my liking.

And this is not my baby. Not my body.

I think about Given’s mother.

I’ve been praying for a huge spiritual breakthrough in her life for a year now. I spend hours with her every week and walk through all parts of life with her.

But, in just 10 hours, I have a new tiny taste of what one moment is like. Five children under five, one full-sized bed in an otherwise empty shack, no running water, no income, no family, one serious medical condition and one newborn.

And I can’t still my heart over one baby on an operating table.

How can she reach for a Bible when 50 fingers are reaching for her?

Hopelessness was lunging for me. And I was losing the battle.

And then I looked across the room to Bed 4.   

Longing eyes of a sweet little boy were peering over a bright green balloon – an eye-catching combination of color and life breaking through the hospital-blue surroundings.

We’re going to just call him Green Balloon Kid to respect his privacy.

Green Balloon Kid was the only one alone. He’s about six-years old, has a partially-shaven head, swollen and offset jaw, and wears a giant bib as mucas-drool pours out of his mouth constantly. And he’s absolutely precious.

I take over the little blue racecar.

The toy blue racecar that zoomed through the back seats of the little blue Mazda that brought us to the hospital. The little blue racecar that has passed between children in waiting rooms, has scaled the corners and walls of this hospital that I’m sure the brooms have never even made it to, and has even done some flips through pre-op.

I sit on that hospital-blue floor and send that little blue car speeding into the hands of Green Balloon Kid.

We play.

Green Balloon squeaks. I giggle. Straight off of the hopeless cliff, I giggle.

I look at Bed 3. A ten-year old wears only an open robe because his surgery incisions and his pain are so fresh. (He’ll be Robe Kid.) I gesture; he nods; then he hobbles over. And the little blue racecar drives back and forth between the three of us.

These bodies still break. These mothers still bow. Every child in this room faces an avalanche of surgeries and appointments. Systems, papers and oceans of hospital-blue are on their horizons.

But that blue racecar zooms.

And, suddenly, Green Balloon Kids’ eyes start dancing. He says, “1, 4, 2, GO!” And the little blue racecar zooms on command.

Robe Kid offers a sympathetic smile, and says, “5, 4, 3, 2, 1, GO!” Little blue racecar goes.

And I realize that we probably speak 3 different languages.

And we only have that moment. A moment that is not ripe with hope and healing. But a moment with one little racecar connecting the three of us.

Green Balloon Kid paints on a devilish grin. He ties the green balloon onto the little blue racecar. And they both take off!

Robe Kid adds a sound system.

Green Balloon Kid adds shocks.

I can’t stop surgeries. I don’t know if I can stomach the sight of another operating room.

I certainly can’t stop the emotional commotion to whisper with the Spirit.

Maybe my blog’s “not supposed” to say that.

But I can’t. Not in here. Not with this baby on that bed.

But my hands can receive and send off a little blue racecar.

I can hit that green balloon back and forth, even as the drool splatters all over it.

And the Spirit splatters too.

When five fingers release a green balloon to reach for mine for help getting to the bathroom, I can release this day to reach for the Helper’s Hand.

And I have to believe… I HAVE to believe, even if it’s only to feel like it’s worth staying in South Africa (because, today, that’s what it is), that when 50 fingers grope for Given’s mother, a Holy Hand can still reach her.

I HAVE to believe that as she expends all of her energy walking uphill with buckets of water on her head, that Living Water can splash out over on her life.

I HAVE to believe that when we have no capacity, we’re held.

I HAVE to believe that when our bodies and our babies’ bodies scream death, He gives Everlasting Life.

I HAVE to believe that hours on the road, days away from home, never-ending hospital hoops, and gaping language barriers can spread gospel seeds that last.

I HAVE to believe that HOPE comes in the shade of hospital-blue and racecar blue. And green balloons and red plastic chairs. 

Justice Floats

This one time, at youth camp in Florida, we decided it would be a good idea to swim with the dolphins…

…in what could have been classified as a minor hurricane.

I exaggerate, but it’s only because of past trauma.

There we were, standing at the back of the boat- a bunch of teenagers, Cindy, our fearless (up to that point) leader, a few parent volunteers, and a boatload of other tourists – too excited to wonder if this was a good idea. A looped rope was cast out behind the boat, and we were told to jump in within the perimeter of our rope fence. THEN came the waves… I mean tsunami. Like an ocean-deep wave pool, but, instead of lifeguards, there were panicky swimmers.

I distinctly remember crazed fathers trying to get to their fearful, screaming children. I also remember their survival instincts kicking in with a roar, as they repeatedly pushed me under, threw me aside, and tried to use me to propel themselves toward their children. They were trying to save their kids. I felt like they were trying to drown me. Survival, stress and swimming bring out the most extreme parts of us.

The world, and every fiber of my being, says, “Sink or swim.”

But Justice Floats.

I’ve been thinking about my actions, my mindset, and the real motives of my heart this week. I can easily slip into the mindset of a parent trying to get to mine, at the mercy of any bobbing body- just like anybody else. I can push aside the pain and priorities of others, staying focused on my heart’s desire- maybe more than anybody else.

My selfishness and self-righteousness are like brutal weapons and agonizing weight…

They are the very splinters that bore down on my Savior’s bleeding shoulders as he slumped up that hill.

They are the death-weight I try to pick up every day – fulfilling the curse of that  murderous tree my Savior was nailed to.

They are enough to sink a Savior.

Spitting, seething, sneering sinners: We chose to sink our Savior by waving him high on a hill.

The Savior went under – without coming up for air.

FOR THREE DAYS.

And He didn’t rise up spitting, snotting and gasping for air like I did that one time I got pulled out of the wave pool at Water World.

He overcame the depths with eternal life.

He took justice unto His own hands.

And His feet.

One nail at a time.

And He stretched those sinless arms wide to receive the full, sinking weight of my sin, completely severing Himself from holiness.

And that’s what does it. Separation from holiness sinks us.

But Holiness woke up and walked out of that tomb.

He didn’t give swim lessons. He became the flotation device.

In Christ, the deadweight of the orphaned, the widow, the prostitute, the addict, the poor and the pious can be cut off like the anchor’s chain.

But no one… NO ONE can swim themselves to the shores of holy. I can’t achieve healed. I can’t reach whole.

Justice came down. Justice went down. Justice rose again.

Paid in full. Holy. Healed. Whole.

I try to amend, make better, or even just do something right.

And Justice begs me to cut the anchor line.

Justice bids to me to the only place that makes sense… on top of the water.

Sure-footed and eyes locked on Salvation, the see-through, wavy, immeasurable depth below me goes unnoticed.

Justice is sure. And solid. And perfectly balanced on supernatural scales.

Justice floats.

Justice isn’t delivered like blows to a backside with a wooden instrument. It wouldn’t be enough. Nothing could rectify me or you like that one blow, on that one wooden instrument, delivered to the One Savior.

It doesn’t come like a heavy hand or a steel rod when it comes for His Family. It comes like the running, rejoicing father in Luke 15. Or like a 40-year desert walk, being sustained by day-by-day mystery meals, until we remember that He is Lord.

It comes to do whatever it must to prevent us from thinking we could ever swim our way out of it. It comes to bring Life and to bring us Home.

It defies logic, gravity, reasoning, instinct, reflex and every bone in this body.

Justice Floats.

Leftovers

Sunday Lunch runs like a well-oiled machine….

I prepare the meal the night before, finishing up early Sunday mornings – just enough to fill up those empty bellies and to leave space for dessert. We play; we laugh; we clean up together. I drop them off after Big-Red-Condor Karaoke, and, by 4pm, I’m EXHAUSTED in all the best ways.

I should have known from the beginning that this Sunday Lunch wasn’t going to be like the others. Usually it’s beans and rice, but this week, just for a treat, we were going to have MEAT. And taco soup at that!

I couldn’t get to it Saturday night, and on Sunday morning… after chopping the onions at 6:30am, and cooking it halfway, I realized our meat was rancid. And I needed a quick back-up! I managed to defrost the 2 ½ chicken breasts I had, chop more onions, throw in a little bit of this, a little bit of that, cook some kidney beans, corn bread, and create a homemade chicken-chili-esque kind of meal, with part of a package of noodles to spread it further. I was worn out before church even started, but thankful that He had provided a soupy, yet hearty, just-enough kind of feast for us to come home to.

That wasn’t the only curve ball of yesterday’s meal. This week, Sunday Lunch had a pit stop.

The kind of interruption Jesus lived for.

Literally. Lived for, died for.

We had to take a different route out of Mbonisweni, and ended up going past Leah’s house. A house we built early this year and is home to 3 children that my heart swells and breaks for. Samkelo, Maria (Sesi) and Bennett (Bhuti).

Samkelo

We were given a surprising invitation into a home to pray for an afflicted man in a house near Leah’s. Leah wasn’t home, and we didn’t even stop in front of their house. But Leah’s children ran out screaming, squealing, delighting, and scaling me with spidey-skills. It was like a one-car, one-lady parade had come down their road, and they weren’t going to miss a moment of it. I had nothing to offer at that moment, but I felt a little nudging that told me I’d come back that day with Sunday Lunch leftovers for Leah’s family.

I was nervous about feeding the Sunday Lunch crew this new recipe, much less having enough to feed ANOTHER family!

Bennett

I walked into the kitchen back at base, heavy with the weight of that whisper I had just heard. I pulled the top off that giant pot, and my eyes bulged out of my head. The soup was HUGE! And it wasn’t soup anymore!

The noodles had absorbed all the water and had created a still-warm, super-hearty, super-delicious chicken-chili-pasta kind of creation. It was MORE THAN twice the amount of food I had prepared.

And I remembered 5 loaves of bread and 2 fish.

And the breaking and giving thanks.

And the groups spread out on the lawn, each receiving their portion.

So I looked to the heavens and gave bulgy-eyed thanks.

And together, me and a picnic blanket full of His beloved, gave thanks and feasted until we could eat no more.

And then I filled a container to take to Mama Charity, who had stayed home with a sick baby.

And after Sunday Lunch was over, I filled a bucket… there was literally so much, it took a bucket. I took a bucket of chicken-chili nourishment and a fresh loaf of bread to Leah’s house. It was enough to feed her family more than once, and enough to remind me of just how faithful He is.

Maria

When He whispers about what it seem like there is not enough of, He gives leftovers.

He had something in His hands. And He trusted His Father with it. And then entrusted it into the hands of His disciples. Every disciple who approached the hungry with the provision their Teacher had given them returned to Him with a basket full of more than they started with. Twelve for twelve. 

Don’t let it stay in your fridge.

Don’t let the guest room stay empty.

Don’t let that chair at the dinner table go unfilled.

Don’t let it sit collecting dust or collecting interest on this earth, when treasures are being multiplied WITH LEFTOVERS.

Break open that lid.

Give thanks.

Live on the leftovers.

And do it in the name of the One who was, and is, and is to come.

The One who said:

“…Do you truly love me more than these?

... Feed my lambs.”

(John 21:15)

He replied, “You give them something to eat.”

…Taking the five loves and the two fish and looking up to heaven, he gave thanks and broke them. Then he gave them to the disciples to set before the people. They all ate and were satisfied, and the disciples picked up twelve basketfuls of broken pieces that were left over.

Luke 9:13a, 15-17