Look Who's Walking!

In my last blog, I mentioned a 20-month old twin that seemed to have the world set against her. Beyond a vacant mother, malnutrition, and homelessness, sweet teeny-tiny Pokasi still wasn't walking.

Just a couple of hours after posting that blog, I sat in the red dirt at our Mbonisweni after-school feeding program and watched your prayers at work. Carla leaned against a tree and I sat within talking distance to her, with just enough room for a play runway between us.

All of us sudden, little miss Pokasi had something to show the world.
She lifted that all-day droopy diaper off Carla's lap and aimed those dancing eyes in my direction.
The shortest distance, the shakiest legs, and the very grandest celebration.

You prayed. Pokasi walked. 

From where she's coming from, it's not that different than Peter walking on water. 

I want to keep praying prayers that make the hopeless get up with joy and purpose.
And I want to memorize Pokasi's walking on red dirt as I continue learning how to walk in step with the Spirit. 

Over and over again, she waddled back and forth between Carla and I.

Joy overflowing every single time.

Without fail, as soon as she reached my outstretched arms and legs, she wouldn't wait for accolades or invitations. The princess in the pink dress could only perform a delighted face-dive right into my chest.

And revel in her new glorious freedom...

... and perhaps even more in having someone to celebrate it with. 

Twin pile. 

Maybe it just wasn't worth walking until someone was waiting at the other end. 

Two Milkshakes and a Cup of Tea

We sat around a table… a recent high-school graduate trying to find where she fits in this world, a pastor’s wife with two little ones living in a partially completed home, and me, the fair-skinned Texan who doesn’t speak the same first language.

We ordered two milkshakes and a cup of tea.

We are getting ready to work together on a deeper level and reach out for more in the community they call home. It started with just a few ideas on how we can love together. How the church can be the Church, whether we are driving in from the Ten Thousand Homes base or walking in through the community that’s always been home.

We agreed on these things:

There are no orphans in the Church.

There are no widows in the Church.

There are no sick, no hungry, no thirsty.

And then it got personal.

I pulled out my notebook and said, “Ok, where do we start?”

The milkshakes and the cup of tea were almost finished, but we were just beginning.

Almost in unison, we nodded our heads and said, “Esther.”

Esther with her babies at Sunday Lunch last month

 Esther’s life story is one of abuse, being orphaned, being sick, and being overwhelmed by her children that she struggles to care for. She has been completely rejected by all surviving members of her family; mental impediments that have left her repeatedly victimized to sexual abuse and disregard; she has no place to call home and no will to live.

It’s easy to write her name in the notebook. And to nod over milkshakes and tea.

But, when all the babies are crying and dirty, and a mother just can’t respond…

When you take them to a social worker, and she just shakes her head, says, “This is a disaster,” and then stops answering your phone calls…

When you try to supplement her food supply, and somehow the kids are still hungry…

It gets ugly. And putrid. And disheartening. And feels like a viscous cycle on repeat.

So, “What about Esther?” I asked.

Esther has never been into town for a milkshake or a cup of tea.

And no milkshake and no cup of tea could restore hope, health or her future.

But these women who were from the same place as Esther, and who bore the hope, health and inheritance of Christ, started telling stories. They talked about how Esther used to care for twins in the church before she had her own. They talked about how she was capable of caring for them. They said that, in their culture, people believe that if you have twins, one should probably die – almost like it was ok to lose one child because there is another one. When God gave Esther twins, they were all sick. And no one thought the babies, maybe not even Esther, would make it.

 

Esther walking up the hill to church this Sunday

We look at her now and the see 20-month old twins with severe emotional and physical setbacks. One has just learned to walk; one to crawl; and they are saying their first words.

The women I sat with leaned over the table like they were telling their best-kept secrets, and I heard the first words of hope I’ve ever heard from a local South African about Esther:

“God trusted her with those twins. He knew she could do it. And one day we want to see her in her own home, with her own yard, walking around watching her children play.”

Before I could finish paying the tab, the girl who prays for direction and the mom who longs for rest had planned the most extravagant surprise birthday party for Esther.

Somewhere, in the middle of those milkshakes and that cup of tea, the purpose crossed over from survivor love to extravagant love.

From weariness to whimsy.

From the vantage point of desperate need to that of abundant riches.

The three tired women who had arrived in my big red Condor, reloaded as giggly schoolgirls talking about baking cakes and bathing babies. I asked them how we could keep from getting weary of doing good. The answer was obvious to them:

More milkshakes and tea.

Tell the stories until they change.

Drink the Truth, and then go live it.

On your mark.... get set...

A couple of weeks ago, we had the BEST PARTY EVER.

It may not have measured up as “the best party ever” by most party scales…

It was not the party of the year because of its exclusivity and illustrious details.
It was on a Monday afternoon, with 100+ not-technically-invited people roasting in the summer sun between parked cars, two shacks, and a brand new house.

It wasn’t written in the books for the perfectly timed, ultra-smooth flow of entertainment.

We did have dancing DJ’s.

And some dancing guests of honor rejoicing in traditional African style.

But we also had that one drunk guy who kept trying to steal the show. And the electricity, and therefore the music, went out by the end of the party.

It was so fun, so joy-filled, and so absolutely perfect. It was a perspective-shifting party for me.

At Ten Thousand Homes, we always throw a party to commemorate the completion of a new home. I really, really love them. There's something so sweet, so sealing, so family about them.

I love the planning, the decorating, the secretly stocking it full of treasures, the sharing the gospel to the community, the blessing of the home, the handing over of the keys, and that drum-roll-please moment when a new family enters their new home for the first time.

Carla giving Mama Charity her new home keys.

She's going in! This is our "Move that Bus!" moment.

It’s like the Grand Finale on the 4^th of July.

It’s like waking up late on sleep-in Saturday after a hard week’s work.

It’s like... I would assume (and won’t ever actually know)… crossing the finish line after a marathon.

We snuck in the backdoor to capture the moment.
Decorated inside and stocked with all new furniture and home supplies.
Thank you for your generosity and for making it possible!

For me, the “Welcome Home Party” is the moment where all the weariness in my body and heart is replaced with gratitude and satisfaction.

It’s when I remember and recommit that every moment I’ve spent away from my family and friends, and every tear I’ve shed over the years has absolutely, 100%, without a doubt been worth it.

I keep thinking about that “finish line” the party seems to symbolize.

At this particular party, with this particular family, I began to understand more and more that it’s not really a finish line at all.

What if what I've been looking toward as the finish line is really the starting place?

What if we don't stop when the building was finished?

What if we started in this built up place of provision, security, and space to plop down in the bed she didn't buy to teach her how to live in the provision, security and space reserved for her in heaven that she didn't buy?

What if this is where the end of the orphan crisis begins?

This was not just a house we built because we saw someone in need.

This home was built on 2 ½ years of discipleship, hundreds of shared meals, hours in hospital, thousands of thankful games.

This home was built on great loss and amazing gain, on a long, winding journey toward understanding and creating a family.

This home was built with two steps forward, and one step back as cultures collided, forging a way for the culture of the Kingdom.

This home was built visit-by-visit, Sunday Lunch-by-Sunday Lunch, laugh-by-laugh, moment-by-moment.

This home was built by birthday parties and Christmas dinners.

Just as real life starts when the wedding celebration has finished and a groom carries his bride over the threshold of their home, I can see now that the real work just began when Mama Charity crossed the threshold into her new home.

The house is finished.

Now we have a starting place to really live like we have a Home.