She sees full

She called me to tell me she was hungry.

Like a child who comes home from school and says, “Mom, I’m hungry and we don’t have anything to eat!” But not actually like that at all.

This child hasn’t had a mom – or anyone – to cry to or to be fed by since she was 12. That’s when she found herself living alone in a shack with her 8-year old brother. Now she’s 21 and has a child of her own.

When she calls to say she’s hungry, she’s speaking as a head of a household with an empty stomach and a burden of responsibility.

I brought food, and we sat down on her porch to pine over her baby’s preschool graduation photo and to talk about her empty house. I asked her why she ran out of food this month so I could help her make plans for next month, especially important with the brutal, beastly nature of December around here.

Her culture’s oppressive roots teach them to survive in dark corners behind dark stories brought on by dark skin. You’re not supposed to ask why someone ran out of money, especially when you look like I look and she looks like she looks. But, with counter-cultural candidness, this hungry child-mom held nothing back.  

She told me that two of her cousins had just come to live with her and her 18-year old brother. One is 14 and in 5^th grade, the other is 19 and in 10^th grade. These cousins have no parents, no birth certificates. She’s already run around the social services circuits to seek help, only to be repeatedly rejected. Now she has a house full of teenage boys, and everyone in the house is a student. No income, no parents, and no food.

Suddenly, the small bags of groceries I had carried in seemed wildly insufficient. My heart sunk to the pit of my not-empty stomach. Yet this hungry girl on the porch of this empty house was not despairing or panicking. I assessed the circumstances and could only say, “I don’t know what to say. What is God saying to you?”

Without hesitation, this little girl left alone to survive in a grown-up world said, “They are staying with us, and God is making a big family. We will help each other.”

Her house and her stomach are empty.

And everything in the world seems to be against her.

But she sits on that porch and does not see what she doesn’t have.

She doesn’t see two more mouths to feed, broken systems with no birth certificates, and no way to maintain her household.

She sees family.

She sees hope.

She looks in that empty house, and sees that it’s full.

She no longer defines herself as an orphan.

She says, “God is making a big family. We will help each other.”

I want to be like her on this Thanksgiving Day. I want to look in empty houses, empty hearts, and empty eyes, and to call out family and fullness. I want to see family when I join hands over a meal, when I pass out plates at an after-school program, when I hear their stories, and when I tell my own. I want to be all up in that family helping each other.

She’s right. God is making a big family.

He says to make some space because they’re coming home! More mouths to feed and all of their broken baggage in tow. “It’s a big family. We will help each other.”

“Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back…”

Isaiah 54:2

We bring our empty, and He makes us full.

I run out of room in my hands and my heart, and He gives me His.

Father, let me see full, and let me see family.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Whatever you do... DON'T SMILE.

Today's post is in honor of my extra-Sunny sister's birthday and the ultra-emotional previous blog post. Let's be real: I just baked (and ate) an I-miss-you birthday cake, and ain't nobody got time for all these tears. 

Sometimes the world seems to scream, "Whatever you do, DON'T SMILE."

But we have hope that does not disappoint, no matter what this world, human nature or our circumstances say. 

Today I'm celebrating a sister who can make me snort laugh and break my whole face with joy when the world seems stacked against me. Thank you for the smiles, sister.

I dare you to watch this and not smile. 

Just in time

I dreamt Texas dreams all night last night. I woke up thinking I was in my NaNa’s house and immediately started overflowing with prayers of gratitude, warm fuzzies and hometown giddiness. I was just about to get up with a morning dose of sass for my mom.

“WHY have I been in Texas for A WEEK and have not gone two-stepping yet!?!”  

And then I looked up and saw a spider on my ceiling.

And I remembered.

Toto, we’re still in Africa.

These Texan toes haven’t two-stepped in a year and a half! There are new family members to meet, new flavors of Blue Bell to eat, and my NaNa… She’s made of perfect, and I’d swim to America to see her. For real.

 

LOOK. AT. HER. I can't even stand it.

But there has been no twirling with my mom or Dancing with the Stars marathons with my NaNa for a long, long time because something is broken.

My volunteer visa expired at the beginning of this year, and I was totally prepared for it y’all. I had the system down, the paperwork complete, and turned everything in for a renewal just in time.

Just in time…

Just in time for a presidential election that stopped paper-pushing and time itself.

Just in time to remember I don’t have anything down; I’m not prepared; I have no control.

Just in time to realize this doesn’t actually have anything to do with time.

Here’s the deal:

I re-applied for volunteer visa in February.

Just in time for a colossal paper jam. Right after I submitted my application, the laws changed so that if I leave the country before I have the new visa in my passport, I will not be allowed to reapply for re-entry for 1 – 5 years.

I was prepared for the 4 weeks to 4 months of visa limbo ahead of me.

This ain’t my first rodeo, people. You gotta just go with the flow.

Under. Control. I’d be home for mine and NaNa’s Labor Day weekend birthdays.

August came and went. No visa. No NaNa. No Texas. (But Texas DID come to me!)

In September, I finally got a number to call to check on my case. Since then, I’ve called weekly with no new news.  I’ve asked a bazillion questions, offered to make the 4-hour drive to the capital city offices, and done everything I know how to do – and then some.

Still pending.

Welcome to visa purgatory.

I actually begged a guy to reject my visa so I could at least reapply to get the process moving again.

He said it’s impossible.

And not to call him again.

And no one with answers would talk to the public or agree to see me.

This is not under control at all.

We joke, (well it’s kind of a joke), about “Africa time”.

Africa has its own rhythm. Usually, when we talk about “Africa time”, we are talking about how, when an event starts at 1pm, that’s usually when people start thinking about getting ready for it. Or, when offices open at 7:30am, that just means they’d like to try and get the day started earlyish so they can go home early. Time is a suggestion because Africa doesn’t run by seconds and minutes as much as by sunrises and survival skills.

There’s a culture clog. Without the efficiencies of running water, personal vehicles, or even common language in the third world communities that I spend my afternoons in, things take longer. I think about these things as I write this from a café just down the road from those communities, where I just ordered an americano, a filling breakfast and am enjoying free WiFi.

(edit: I finished writing this blog on GoGo’s couch with GoGo-biscuits while a midget dances on a too-loud TV, Zodwa boils water to bathe, and two tiny grannies stand outside hanging freshly washed clothes and tilling land for a garden.)

There’s a gap between these worlds.

Not by time or by space.

There’s a gap between the system and the people.

Not by rhyme or reason.

There’s a gap in realities. And it hurts.

It’s heavy. It doesn’t make sense.

I was fine. I was actually at a newfound depth of trust and thankfulness with God in all of this unknown. I have been committing to telling Him, “YES” daily and thanking Him for trusting me with what I don’t understand. His plans, His timing, His ways. That’s what I want to be all about. That’s what I should be writing this blog about.

Even when my driver’s license and bank cards expired. Even when there are so many things in Texas I need to attend to. I was fine. I was thankful. And I was confidently saying, “Yes, Lord. Your ways and not mine.” But, let’s just be real, when my black bra and my iPod broke on the same day, there were some tears and… some words. But those tears finally washed up an even more sincere and resolute,  “Yes, Lord.”

“It hurts, and I’m sad. But, yes, Lord.”

But today, after Texas dreams and yet another, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do,” from home affairs, I feel like there’s a boulder on my chest. Not because of passports or Texas or two-steps or black bras or iPods.

Because it’s broken.

Because there’s a gap.

Because I fell through the cracks 9 months ago, and I feel like a piece of gum, chewed up, spit out and stuck under somebody’s shoe.

Because I know a little super hero who doesn’t even have  record of existence, with no piece of paper to get jammed in a system.

Because there are thousands of cracks and millions of people that have never lived a day any different than the way I feel this day – who don’t know there is anything but the bottom of that shoe.

My visa’s pending.

Pending in some sort of visa vortex that feels like a black hole.

I can’t leave this country right now.

That’s real life.

My residency has nothing to do with my visa or my passport.

My home and my citizenship are in heaven, and I am just here as an ambassador for my Father’s family, wherever I am on this earth.

That’s the Way, the Truth and the Life.

He knows that visa vortex, those places between the cracks, and the underside of those heavy shoes.

He has every unwritten name etched in the palm of His hand.

He’s coming soon and very soon. And he will not delay.

The Father who sets the lonely in families, and Who definitely created the two-step and NaNa, does not run on Africa time. Praise the Lord.

So today, on a Texas-sized teardrop day, as I write you from this fancy café and with red mud stains on my shoes, I’m sending out an all-call for prayer.

He says His yoke is easy, and His burden is light.

Today, I just can’t understand how when He sees and knows all these people, all these cracks. How can He be so light when He knows all those unknown names and chewed up hearts? How could He leave Home and become the cracks, get scraped off of shoes, and become unknown and unnamed so our names would never be forsaken or lost?

He did. He does. And He is just in time.

Time and space bow down to Him. His love and power are so much deeper and wider than a visa vortex or a broken system.

So will you pray? Pray for me to remember that His burden is light. Pray me out of this visa vortex. Pray for Batman’s birth certificate. Pray for all the people in all the cracks. Pray for just in time to come now.

Now is the time for His Kingdom to come.

This is the time for justice, restoration and abundant life.

Rolling out the picnic blanket

Two and a half years ago, the standard, sweaty South African Sunday afternoon church experience was transformed into a weekend experience of bulk grocery shopping, hours of cooking, a car overload, spewing fountains of bodily fluids at any and every given moment, a thousand cake crumbs and even more memories – all in the name of Family and Sunday Lunch.

And Sunday became the best day ever. Every week.

Way back then, it was time for an upgrade.

Time for me to stop talking about family and to start living like it.

The “orphan crisis” looks different in South Africa now than it did 15 years ago. Because those little orphans have grown into big ones – who reproduce.

 

Becoming a grown up doesn’t make you stop being an orphan.

Becoming a family does.

But how can you convert from a reproducing orphan to a life-giving family if you’ve never been a part of one? If your story isn’t hemmed in with a white-picket fence or covered in rainbow sprinkles? How can we be courage and light for each other if no one ever turned on the lights to scare away our monsters under the bed?

Someone who knows teaches you, invites you, and sacrifices for you.

That’s what Jesus did. So that’s what we do.

The “orphan crisis” runs through all of us, no matter who we are or where we are, if we haven’t found our forever Home with our forever Father yet.

Once we know, we can’t stop knowing. We can’t ever go back to being orphans. We have to do something.

For me, for the past 2 ½ years, that has looked like picnic blankets, a lot of food and Kool-Aid, hauling people and dish water, and hours upon hours of living life together. We’ve danced, cried, laughed, fought, hugged, dreamed, created artwork, blown out birthday candles, popped a hundred beach balls, had cooking lessons and spa days, celebrated new lives and mourned lost lives, and we’ve learned how to be family. (Here’s a post with pics from Sunday Lunch’s one year anniversary.)

Y’all… it’s worked. Family works.

I won’t pretend to host a yard full of perfect parents and perfectly behaved children. (That would quite possibly be the very furthest thing from the truth!) I won’t claim to have set all the right boundaries or have said all the right things at all the right times. But I can tell you that moms love their children with real mom love. I can testify that both the mothers and their children have experienced security, belonging and satisfaction just in knowing that they’ve got a place on that picnic blanket, a job to do, and there’s a bowl and spoon waiting for them every week. A sisterhood has formed and is filling up the former gaps in their families.

And now the Father says it’s time for another upgrade.

We all start our lives drinking milk, being contained and watched over in every moment. 

Gradually, because they love them, parents and caregivers help their children transition to solid food, freedom and the ability to make their own decisions. We can’t grow if we don’t make the changes.

As soon as you get in the rhythm of a stage of life, it seems like it’s time to change to another one. What a sneaky plan to keep us in step with the Spirit.

It’s time for change here too. I wrestled, and I cried. And I heard God.

He said I can’t keep spoon feeding them from their very own spoons. I can’t keep bringing them into the safety of my home at the Ten Thousand Homes base with their own space on a freshly-washed picnic blanket, away from the chaos of their own communities. (Confession: when I say picnic blanket, I actually mean a ripped and stained teal bed sheet.)

He says now they know family, and it’s time for them to go and be family.

They speak the language.

They live next door.

They share a culture, life experiences, and daily life. 

They can end the orphan crisis faster than I can.

The edges of their picnic blankets can stretch so much farther than mine.

Now they know, and, no matter what decisions they make, they can’t ever not know how to belong in a family.

Two weeks ago, we had our last Sunday Lunch.

We had everybody’s favorite foods, remembered our happy moments, shared what we had learned from each other, and prayed together. With a wretchedly ugly cry face, I imparted spiritual Truth to these moms who have been transformed from being my children to my sisters. I gave them framed photos to remember, and, even more importantly, I gave them each their own picnic blanket.

 

Sunday Lunch mamas wrapped in their new picnic blankets.

I told them that nothing was ending, but something was beginning.

In God’s family, there’s always room for more… He doesn’t run out of picnic blanket places, bowls and spoons, or pots of beans. His resources don’t get stretched thin when there are more people added to the family, they increase.

It was time to increase the space on the picnic blankets so the family could reach wider. 

It was time to let go of our Sunday afternoons together, so He can do something greater with our lives.

The truth is, I feel a woozy combination of sadness, relief, eagerness, loneliness, security, anxiety, excitement, confidence, lostness (I don’t care what auto-correct says - it’s a real emotion), etc, etc. What do I do with my Sundays and my life while I seek to understand the next level of living like and extending His Family? Why does it have to feel so shaky and scary?

AND…finally the ginormous house God asked me to build is HAPPENING. And I can’t help but wonder, “Why did You tell me to build a big house and then, the very week construction started, tell me to stop bringing my family home?” Cue: feeling insecure and ridiculous and completely avoiding the construction site I’ve been praying for for 2 years.

 

Building my house.

The real Truth is, He stretched out the edges of His picnic blanket through Mama Charity, Busie, Mama Siyabonga, Esther, and Ruth two weeks ago. And He’s stretching them through that construction site too. He doesn’t expect me to fill it because He will. I don’t need to understand the dimensions and lingo (phew!) or even why I’m building such a big house because He’s the One who gives, spreads out, and brings all His children in to His picnic blanket and then sends them out with their own.

 

Visiting Esther's house.

So… now you know.

Roll out your blanket.

Sidenote: I've been trying for the last 9 1/2 hours... literally... to upload the Sunday Lunch video I made to show the mamas for our last Sunday Lunch. Finally it worked. Please feel free to watch it 3,000 times... that's what I did.