Full-contact Christmas

The fa-la-la-la-la and Christmas magic are being put back into attics, sealed up for another 11-month sleep as a new year is unwrapping. There’s so much coming in this new year. I believe 2013 is a game-changer in the Kingdom of God. But before the stroke of midnight, and hopefully a thousand times after, I want to unwrap and to reopen, Christmas magic.

After three years, this was my first Christmas morning with Lifa. He’s never had a “Christmas morning” the way that I know Christmas morning… there have never been gifts, music, special breakfasts, a tree, or a manger story. He didn’t even know he was supposed to wake up at 5am and pounce with glee. So I did. :) 

But first, I prayed.

I needed Christmas morning to be more than wrapping paper and cinnamon rolls. Because the next day I’d drop Lifa off for an unforeseeable amount of time at his dad’s house, four hours from mine. This time is different than any of the others. And because I knew that after we played and celebrated, we’d being going to the hospital for a Christmas visit.

Two days before Christmas, I got an early morning phone call from the most broken mama-voice I’ve ever heard. Sweet Given had been burned. A plastic bag, burning in a trash pile, had found that perfect 3-year old body in the early hours of the morning. Given is ok – but has severe surface burns beginning at the left-hand fingertips and climbing up the arm. There are also some ear burns and blisters around Given’s head and face.

That day I realized that the children’s ward would be full of broken and burned babies on Christmas morning. And that Christmas magic had to reach them there - and had to be even more than Christmas morning tradition.

It had to be what Christmas really is. The “magic” that is actually mysterious holiness needed to be actually mysteriously holy.

Vulnerable, unconditional love came in to the most unexpected circumstances and brought joy. Everlasting life meets daily life, on hospital beds, in trash piles, on the road between Lifa’s dad’s house and mine, and in the donkey’s bed (Lifa’s rendition of the manger).

Love put on a real body and entered daily life through a real body.

Love broke through oppression, sickness and filth by coming into those very things on His own birth day.

But you know what? I bet there was joyful laughing on the day that Savior-baby was cast into the filth of a manger. I can almost hear the wild thanksgiving after that final scream of pain.

It was a full-contact Christmas on that manger day.

He came with a body, through a body.

He came to earth all the way to reach us all the way. In the middle of scandal, chaos, rejection, vulnerability, fear, a Savior is born. And that Savior hasn’t left.

Full-contact Christmas.

He reaches it all.

And I need that Christmas to keep going all year.

Because that Christmas can reach burned bodies, broken mothers, and faraway families.

And that Christmas can reach me. My skin and my depths. My heart and my soul. The parts that cry for my babies and the parts I can’t even reach. Christmas can reach.

Christmas isn’t for the attic.

That full-contact Christmas reaches and is eternal. It’s reaching every hospital ward, every broken heart, and every injustice.

I prayed on Christmas morning for that morning of new traditions and play with Lifa to be my frankincense and myrrh. And now on this New Year’s Eve morning, I pray to live like full-contact Christmas lives  - and that my words, my thoughts, my actions and my faith be my frankincense and myrrh all year long. 

Our Christmas morning...

Lifa telling the Christmas story

Pure bliss every time he opened a gift... "IT'S A BOXXXX!!!"

Our Christmas visit to hospital...

George loved Jesus' birthday cake

And Khensani loved the balloons and stickers!

And Given started smiling again on Christmas Day

pa-rum-pum-pum-pum

Christmas is so close we can taste it! Christmas music is blasting everywhere - I HAD to laugh when I heard Feliz Navidad blaring in a South African pharmacy!

I had a moment a few weeks ago that made me rethink one Christmas song in particular.

It was a typical Sunday morning: I was hauling the giant red Condor through Dwaleni to pick up the kids and the mamas for church. Nandi pounced me in delight, her eyes and her mouth shouting, “Mama Kacy! Mama Kacy! Christmas! YOU!”

She handed me a tiny little piece of wrapping paper covered in Christmas stickers. I knew this was the very finest she had to offer. And I gave thanks.

I opened up the palm-sized parcel to find a neatly folded piece of notebook paper with her handwriting.

To my surprise, the paper was covered with the words – the English words – to the song The Little Drummer Boy. I giggled and started singing it. Nandi had never even heard the song, but ran in her house to show me that she had a book from school with the words written down… right next to the picture of a dark brown baby in a manger wearing traditional Swazi dress. (So awesome.)

As we loaded up the car with bouncing children, I skimmed through my iPod and found a hilarious – or maybe embarrassing – Christmas surprise. I did have The Little Drummer Boy… sung by New Kids on the Block. (Busted.)

It was better than a reunion concert… we JAMMED New Kids on the Block that Sunday morning.  Over and over again we sang, “Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum”.

I was in Christmas bliss in that moment, as we drove up a mountain sprinkled with shacks, barefoot and unsupervised babies, and empty-handed people. I reveled in the Truth and worshipped with a band of 10 kids playing the dashboard, headrest, and hand drums.

And I sang the words of Truth loud…

Come, they told me... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,

A new born King to see... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.

Our finest gifts we bring... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,

To lay before the King... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,

Rum pum pum pum, Rum pum pum pum.

So, to honor Him...Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum

When we come.

Little baby... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,

I am a poor boy too... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,

I have no gifts to bring... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,

That's fit to give our King... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum

Rum-pum-pum-pum, Rum-pum-pum-pum.

Shall I play for you... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,

On my drum.

Mary nodded... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,

The ox and lamb kept time... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.

I played my drum for Him... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.

I played my best for Him... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,

Rum-pum-pum-pum, Rum-pum-pum-pum.

Then He smiled at me... Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.

Me and my drum. 

This carload of kids had nothing to bring their King that Sunday morning, but they were singing to Him. They were playing their drums. And I was playing them too – on the steering wheel. They offered songs and joy in a language they couldn't even understand, and I offered that steering wheel, that Sunday morning, and my hands.

And it was Christmas.

Merry Christmas to you and your family. I pray that every hand that passes a gift, serves a plate of food, hugs a family member, or opens the door for a guest is blessed with all of the meaning in that “pa-rum-pum-pum-pum,” and He opens your Christmas morning ears to hear the cadence of the King’s song. 

A Bucket of Justice

I’ve just spent three glorious days at the beach.  

And not just any 3 days at the beach: Family Vacation!

I’m so thankful.

I wrote this on our last night at the ocean:

Today, an almost-5 year old hand grabbed mine and led me to just the right spot – that magical place where the waves meet the shore, where the depths come in for a kiss.

He threw sand, and I marveled at what a perfect Christmas moment it actually was. Not a miracle baby and a star, but the Creator coming in for us, nonetheless.

Lifa sat in my lap, and waves rolled over our feet with giggles and gladness.

I sang.

“Your love, Oh Lord, reaches to the heavens.

Your faithfulness stretches to the skies.

Your righteousness is like a mighty mountain.

Your justice flows like the ocean’s tides.”

I watched the ocean coming and coming, and I thought about justice that looks like that.

What is justice that flows like that?

The child on my lap is starting Grade R (kindergarten) in January, but has no documentation. He might be able to be enrolled, but it won’t “count”. He can’t get a diploma, health care, a passport, a driver’s license, a job, a bank account, etc.

But the ocean keeps coming.

I never know where the waves are going to land, which ones will fill up our bucket, or which ones will bury our feet. But I know they’re still going to come.

January changes everything for me.

Unless the tides change, Lifa will go to attend a community school near his dad’s house – four hours away from mine. He may only be with me for school holidays.

I swallow this reality with salt and sand, and he squeals with a purity and joy I’ve never ever seen before as he faces the “big swimming pool”. He’s screaming and squeezing – and I sing.

“Your justice flows like the ocean’s tides.”

I hold that baby tight.  And I look for the edges of the ocean.

But I can’t find them.  So I let go. And I raise up my hands.

And I look at Justice lapping around our legs, swallowing us, even picking us up and spinning us around as its tide comes in. 

I look at Justice, and I tell Him there’s enough out there.

I tell Him I don’t want a swimming pool.

I want tides of Justice flowing in, over me and over us.

There’s enough out there for January, no matter where his feet land and where mine do.

It’s time for sand castles. I promised I’d help.

We need water, but he’s too scared to go out deep enough to let the bucket fill up.

So I take that green plastic sand pail, and I walk into the ocean.

I fill up, and I bring Lifa one bucket of Justice at a time.

And I tell Justice how happy I am to bring that bucket to Lifa.

And I realize that there’s enough – and that it’s completely worth it.

Justice is flowing. Justice is complete. Justice is rolling in.

Lifa needs justice. He was made in the image of Justice. Thousands of names I don’t know need justice.

And when they are too scared, too small or just in shell-shock, I can take a bucket and cross that sand for them.

I can bring one bucket of His unending supply at a time, and give Lifa the tool he needs to keep dreaming and keep digging into the house he’s building us and the hope he’s learning how to live with.

I don’t know what 2013 will look like or feel like. I don’t know how easy it will be to swallow once I’ve washed the sand and salt out.

But I know, and I’ll sing:

“Your love, Oh Lord, reaches to the heavens.

Your faithfulness stretches to the skies.

Your righteousness is like a mighty mountain.

Your justice flows like the ocean’s tides.”

Justice says He’s finished. He’s sitting in the mercy seat. I’ll sit at His shores.

He said He’d build a big house in 2013 for me, and for His Family. He said He has plans for that house and His Family that I can’t begin to grasp.

He said He loves me and Lifa and Lifa’s father. And that He doesn’t even have to readjust Himself on the mercy seat for His highest good, the greatest love, to flow in like the oceans tides.

I can’t fathom any of it.

And I can’t see the edges of the ocean.

But I have a bucket. 

What do you do?

Last week Nandi and two other 11-year old little girls knocked on my door in the middle of the day.

They had walked miles from their houses to mine because they were afraid and hungry. One girl’s mother had eaten all of her food and told her to go beg for more. The girls stole eggs from someone’s yard and got caught. So now they were on the run looking for sanctuary from their heavy-handed mamas and for something to fill their stomachs.

What do you do?

December’s a dangerous month in South Africa. There’s no school or structure for children, and Christmas bonuses are cashed in at liquor stores. There are so many tragedies I can’t  handle thinking about, so many I can't see and can't reach them.

And three little girls knocking on my door for help.

The girls walked a very dangerous road.

Their mothers were dangerous – but hiding with me would likely put them in more danger with their mothers later.

My mind was reeling, stuck on, "What do I do!?!" All of a sudden, those three buried faces popped up out of those dirty hands and asked with hopeful eyes, “Can we go play now?”

They’re children.

Children who look like grown-ups because of the distances they walk alone, the ways they learn to provide for themselves, and the life skills they learned the hard way.

They’re hungry children.

And they squeal like the schoolgirls they actually are when their calloused feet land on the trampoline at the Ten Thousand Homes base.

What do you do?

“Feed my lambs.”

I loaded them up and took them to a Ten Thousand Homes feeding. And then it was time to take them home to face the mamas together.

I woke Nandi’s mom up. She didn’t even know Nandi had left.

The next girl’s mom only cared that the white lady wasn’t angry – but I could tell the tables would turn as soon as I left that property.

The third girl took off as soon as my car door unlocked – disappeared before we got a chance to meet her mom.

At the end of that day, the same questions were still in my mind and I had no idea if I’d made the lives of these girls better or worse that day. I had no idea if I’d made any impact for the Kingdom of God – or if I’d actually endangered them.

That evening, I realized 80 Rand was missing from my wallet. (About $10 USD – and almost the equivalent of a full days’ work for most people.)

What do you do?

“Take care of my sheep.”

They’re scared, hungry children.

Whose moms probably don’t have moms to teach them wrong from right.

Whose moms eat their food and tell them to go find their own.

And whose moms don’t wonder where they are when they’ve been gone all day – or even notice.

After church and lunch on Sunday, I pulled Nandi aside and talked with her about the money.

She wouldn’t look at me. She denied everything, and then changed the story a hundred times.  Ginormous tears fell far away from me, where she kept herself locked up.

I told Nandi that I love her the same as I always do.

I told her that nothing would change that.

Family stays family.

I also told her that, even though her actions didn’t change how I felt about her, there was a responsibility for a bad choice. I knew she’d never be able to produce R80, and asking her to would lead to more danger, so I told her I would come get her the next afternoon to come help me clean my house.

Nandi disappeared the next day, but this afternoon Lifa and I found the three little girls walking to base again. This time to clean the house. They didn’t have the, “We’re in trouble” faces; they didn’t seem conscious of that at all. They were three little adventurers delighted that someone would invite them over and give them jobs.

I put them to work – washing dishes, sweeping floors, beating rugs and mopping. They loved it. And God started speaking to me about His love.

Three little girls scurried around a one-room cottage I’d already cleaned once that day, but was already filling again with uninvited pests and summertime dirt.

They were playing house. We were practicing Family.

They were happier than I’ve ever seen them during their “punishment”.

What do you do?

“Feed my sheep.”

They ran out to play, and I cooked dinner. I set our little coffee table and thought about our lives and His love.

We steal - Truth from each other, love already paid for by grace, and glory from the Name of Jesus.

We scurry – bustling about to make it look shiny and clean in our one little corner of life, and the pestilence of brokenness contaminates while we are still cleaning.

He invites us over – bidding us to His Presence, no matter what it takes to get us there.

We work – but none of it adds up to the debt, nor the work Jesus did for us on the cross and in that empty tomb. 

We go out to play after work - and he’s pudding dessert in the fridge.

The feast has already been prepared. The table’s already been set.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to handle December. I don’t know how to love well. Most of the time I feel like I keep sweeping that same corner of the cottage when it comes to loving Nandi and her family.

But the One who made it all clean knows.

The One who is preparing the feast – the One who is called Love – can make our dusty-cornered love perfect through Him. 

And He can make those girls who play house and practice family know they have a Home and a Family that lasts.

When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you truly love me more than these?”

“Yes, Lord,” he said, “you know that I love you.”

Jesus said, “Feed my lambs.”

Again Jesus said, “Simon, son of John, do you truly love me?”

He answered, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.”

Jesus said, “Take care of my sheep.”

The third time he said to him, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”

Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, “Do you love me?” He said, “Lord, you know all things; you know that I love you.”

Jesus said, “Feed my sheep.”

John 21:15-17

How To Decorate a Christmas Tree in South Africa

Warning: May contain nudity.

(I just didn't want paint on their clothes.)

oh hey Given

Painting ornaments

Lifa happened to be the only one at the party with underwear on.

Nandi's heart

And here comes the Lifa show...

Mama Charity playing it cool, but completely enthralled. :)

The Christmas tree crew!

It takes at least two different shots to get a smile from all of them

And now it's Christmas in the cottage!

Lifa's ornament last year

And this year

Merry Christmas everyone!