What's In Your Hands?

I pulled into the Dayizenza CarePoint on Tuesday morning while the afterschool meal was still cooking. The preschool next door was learning songs, and their tiny voices blew in with the breeze. The volunteer cooks for the CarePoint sang along to the kiddies songs and lounged between their dish-washing, salt-shaking, pot-stirring tasks. We sat and chatted casually about their families and weekends.

The previous Saturday, some of them had attended Blanche’s Kid’s Club Training. The CarePoint volunteers are local mothers who come and cook everyday for the children. They also facilitate a discipleship program created by Children’s Cup every week. Hundreds of children learn stories, memorize Bible verses and learn how to actively engage in God’s Word. Blanche is an incredible part of the Children’s Cup South Africa missionary team, and she put her whole heart into hosting a Kid’s Club Training for the cooking mothers to create an experience they could own and recreate for the children.

Blanche after completing a Kid's Club Training in Thubelisha.
To stay in touch with Blanche, click here or follow her instagram at bkonmission. 

As we lounged that Tuesday morning, I asked the ladies how Kid’s Club Training had been for them. Suddenly the lounging was OVER! Edith, the leader at the Dayizenza CarePoint, turned on the hip-swaying sass as she shared with confidence how good the training made her feel about herself. She was proud of what she was doing and happily boasted about Nokthula’s participation.

“Blanche was calling on us to help her teach, and we learned how to teach our children.” Edith’s enthusiasm and pride pulsed. “You should have seen Nokthula. She did a PRESENTATION.”

Nokthula beamed. A beautiful beaming smile from a mother living in two tiny rooms with her 4 kids and another teenage girl she just took in. A mother dealing with a family in conflict, an injured child, and burdened with mental health concerns for another child. She beamed.

Nokthula tells me, “I can teach the Bible with anything. Look for anything you see, and I can teach you.”

They excitedly recounted their Saturday training, where they had learned and practiced object lessons. Blanche showed them how anything around them could be a teaching tool, and it opened up a whole new world.

Edith re-recounted the training in their native tongue, SiSwati, to GoGo and Edna, the other cooking mamas who had not attended the training. Suddenly, that lounging, lazy Tuesday morning turned into a energy-charged classroom.

Edith commanded her class (GoGo and Edna) where to sit and how to participate, including the sound effects they should make and when they needed to respond. The giggles and the genuine interest were equally astounding.

Nokthula grabbed a matchbox and taught the class that Jesus is the Light of the World.

Edith, Edna and GoGo appropriately cheered, clapped, giggled and responded. I sat in awe.

Nokthula proceeded to share that she could do this with anything, from a mirror at her house to the cooking oil, cell phone, dishes and shoes that were in her direct line of sight. 

She was so free, so empowered, so capable.

She’s never had a place to teach something, so she’s never wanted to know anything.

Suddenly, because of a Saturday morning demonstration of object lessons, Nokthula had eyes to see and was constantly scanning for a way to teach God’s love. I told her that the more she read her Bible, the more she’d be able to teach it. Something had been unlocked in this mother, despite her incredibly difficult life circumstances.

Edith was next. That's right; this show was not over, folks.

Edith held up the keys in her hand and taught about the Kingdom of God.

Mind. Blown.

As Edith shook her hips and shook those keys, I listened, videoed, cheered. And then I looked. Edith had just made the Kingdom of God reachable for those ladies and for all the children she cooks for everyday.

I looked around us and saw a vegetable garden to feed their families. I saw outdoor toilets and a water tank where people fetch water to live on, a few liters at a time, because there is no running water. I saw a giant pot of food cooking on a fire the mothers had built that morning, and all the trimmings it took to spend a whole day preparing a meal. I saw a broom made of sticks for sweeping the dirt yard, buckets for washing dishes, and tires half-buried in the dirt for sitting and for playing. And in that key-shaking, hip-swinging moment, I saw the wealthiest place on the planet.

Tuesday morning came to life with the confident joy of these empowered women, and then Life Himself came and left an eternal stamp on that place.

I looked at Edith’s hands with those keys. And Nokthula’s with those matches.

I watched those strong, well-used hands clap in celebration and grab onto each other’s in overcoming joy. Hope was at hand for them.

Someone had shone Light, and now they could see what was around them. They see the same things everyday, but now they have sight beyond the matchbox and they key ring. Their everyday jobs became tools to build the Kingdom of God.

I looked at those hands. I looked around.

“The Kingdom of God is at hand,” Jesus said.

And I felt a question, a challenge, an invitation resound through me…

“Kacy, what is in your hands?”

Many days it is keys and a box of matches. Some days it’s a steering wheel heading to soccer practice. Some moments it’s a sick, hungry child, and some moments it’s the most smokin’ hott husband on the planet. (hubba, hubba)

Just in case I haven't said it yet,
HUBBA HUBBA

Every day, every moment, whatever is in my hand, I pray that I remember…

The Kingdom of God is at hand. And my hands have everything to do with that.

We can lounge and look, or we can stand and shake. The Kingdom is coming.

Are you going to use what is in your hands to build it and bring it?

It's not your fault.

White mom problems strike again.

Did you see my last post about Lifa being embarrassed about having a white mom?

[Side note: My sister won the blue ribbon in Best Blog Response for the last post when she responded that she was also embarrassed for Lifa, but it was because of his white dancing and not his white mom. Please stay tuned for proof.]

This time, I have more of a “white mom problem” than Lifa.

Lifa is eight. He cannot possibly eat enough rice and beans, tuna fish or corn on the cob to keep up with the rate his legs are growing. He wears capes and plays with his puppy. He’s learning how to throw a frisbee with Chris and lives for Saturday mornings, when he’s allowed to sprawl out on the couch with a cup of tea and Tom and Jerry. He eats dinner INCREDIBLY slow because he loves having the family sit at the table, and, sometimes, he falls asleep between bites. He is thriving and so full of joy that we often catch him happy-dancing by himself when he thinks no one is looking. Lifa is perfectly eight.

He is also beginning to understand things that are different and things that don’t feel right. He sees the missing element of family and safety in the culture he was born into, and he doesn’t know how to reconcile the two types of families and cultures he belongs to. He cries in his room when he realizes he’s behind in his new school and cannot understand what the other kids understand. It’s starting to weigh on him when adults speak about adult things to him instead of us because he is the one in our family who understands their native language the best.

Chris and I tell Lifa all he has to do is tell anyone asking him to do something that's not a "kid job" to please ask his mom or dad. He does not have to translate or make sure that we understand anything. “It’s not your job Lifa.”

That is the reigning truth and reality in the Ladd household: We love God. We love each other. We take care of our marriage and our kid. Lifa obeys his parents and gets really awesome at knowing how to be a kid. There is a whole other reality and truth, however, in this world and in this country we live in.

South Africa has 11 national languages and calls itself the “rainbow nation” because so many cultures and colors co-exist. All these side-by-side languages and people have crossed wires but not paths. They have oppressed each other, and there is a lot still to overcome.

People often don’t look so they won’t see each other.

They don’t speak so they won’t be spoken to.

It’s not respect. It’s not language barriers. It’s not culture preservation.

It’s fear. It’s shame. It’s bondage and lies.

This weekend, Lifa and I went on an exercise outing while Chris was out saving the world. (It’s his actual day job.) Lifa rode his bike while I jogged to the gym just down the road. When we arrived, a gym employee began speaking to Lifa in SiSwati. I told the employee I could not understand what he said to my son and asked how I could help him. The man was visibly uncomfortable, looked past me and said, “No, I was just speaking to that boy,” and begun to walk away. Once he understood that boy was my son, the employee explained he'd been telling Lifa where to ride his bike. I thanked him and was able to help Lifa make an alternate bike track. It was no problem, really. Except my heart was pounding.

“Lifa, just remember, if someone is ever speaking to you in SiSwati about grown up stuff, you can always tell them to go ask your mom or dad. It’s my job to make sure you know and follow the rules, so I have to know them too. It’s not your fault I don’t speak the same language as you do.”

“It’s not your fault that people think they should talk to you instead of me. It’s not your fault, Lifa. All you have to do is say, ‘Will you please go ask my mom and dad?”

Gratitude flooded his eyes. He zoomed off on his bike while I did burpees and thought about that “It’s not your fault,” pounding through my heart.

Lifa didn’t choose to have a white mom and dad or to straddle two cultures.

Lifa didn’t choose what language he speaks, the nation he was born into, or how the history of that nation would ravage personal dignity, the right to safety and the value of family systems.

Lifa didn’t choose to be born in a rural government hospital and then to be abused, malnourished and abandoned. He also didn’t choose to be made different from the other kids like him and get scooped up by a Texas lady who hugs, kisses and cooks too much. It’s not his fault.

And it’s not just Lifa.

There are stories, struggles and pains we do not choose.

You did not choose to have the parents you had or be raised the way you were raised. You did not choose the lifestyle you were born into – whether you are the one with the picture of the sponsored African child on your refrigerator or you were the child on someone’s refrigerator.

You didn’t choose to be touched there, treated that way, or to see what you saw.

You didn’t choose to lose a family member too soon, to deal with the medical conditions you deal with, to be left alone, or to be in the exact situation you are reading this post from.

My mama heart reflex is to protect my kid.

I want to throw a big, fat “It’s not his fault!” frisbee at life and at God. I want protect him, cover him, hide him from all the broken.

But Lifa was made to be a warrior and not a victim.

And I’m made to be a mom and not a Savior.

We tell Lifa to say, “Please go ask my mom and dad,” because he’s covered. It’s our job. We’ve got him. Whether he does something wrong, is afraid, or just doesn’t want to deal with the stuff that’s not his job to deal with.

Jesus came to say, “Please go ask my Father.” 
He’s got us. When we do something wrong, when we are afraid, and when we think we just can’t bear the burdens of it all anymore.

I want my kid, my household and this nation to know they are covered, protected, and that they matter. Not because of a mom or a dad or a circumstance change, but because of the Father who sent His Son to cover us and carry the grown-up sized burdens. I want you to know that too.

I want you to know that it’s not your fault; it’s your victory.

It’s not your fault; it’s your platform to find your freedom.

We were made to step up and stand tall on the things we didn’t choose. It’s from that vantage point, we find the freedom to race wildly beyond the world, the things that weren’t our fault, and the things that were.

You weren’t created to be a victim to life’s circumstances.

You were created to be a kid in God’s family.

You were created to be a kid who knows he’s super, who wears a cape and does super stuff with his family because he belongs there. 

You were made to know the feeling of a cape flapping in the wind.

When the urge to save, hide, protect, lash out or lose hope creep in on us…

In the lowest of lows when the lies get so loud…

We were made to look at those lies and tell them, “Can you please go ask my Father?”

Now go put on your cape and fly.

Two Kinds of Normal

Lifa’s teacher asked me to come to his new school in a couple of weeks and do a Bible lesson for all the third-grade students. I’M STOKED.

Lifa, on the other hand, is slightly less enthusiastic. (He almost rubbed his entire face off in 8-year old horror when he found out.)

When I taught his second-grade class last year, we talked beforehand about how to keep appropriate boundaries and not embarrass him. He ended up loving it, so I started up the same conversations on our car rides to school again… Only this time I had to clarify that it was my job to do what’s best for him, but not my job to cover up the tall tales he’s told to his new friends. The jerk-mom deep down inside is super tempted to show up and say, “Hi, I’m Lifa’s mom, and we do not have a pack of dogs or an airplane.”  

Don’t worry guys… I promised to be good.

Mental note: Perhaps the Bible lesson should be on lying. Or how not to be a jerk-mom.

This invitation came out of a meeting I had with Lifa’s teacher to find out what was really going during school. Lifa’s imaginations and exaggerations had become full-on lies, a coping mechanism that squeezes out people and real life one slipped-in story at a time.

There’s a reason he’s stretching stories and embarrassed, so I started asking questions on that short ride to school.

“It’s a little bit embarrassing because my mom is white, and I’m normal.”

Ok. Good starting point. Control your face, Kacy. Focus on the road.

“Lifa, what does normal mean?”

English is a second language, and it’s especially tricky when you live in a nation with 11 national languages and deep levels of cultural conflict.

I shared with our sensitive boy that when he says that he is “normal,” it sounds like he thinks there’s something wrong with me. I told him it hurt my feelings, and asked if that was what he was trying to communicate. Lifa quickly said no, and then I felt a heavy silence fill our car. He didn’t know what to say or do from there.

“Lifa, have you ever thought about what it’s like for Dad and I to live in South Africa and have you as our son?”

“No.”

Thoughts whirring.

“Dad and I don’t speak the same language as a lot of people here, and we are treated very differently because of the way we sound when we talk. We have to use South African money but use banks and pay taxes in America; we only see our parents every couple of years; and even after living in South Africa for a long time, it’s still very hard for us to understand why some things happen the way they do. We love having you, but sometimes people don’t understand why our family looks like it does or why we cannot travel with you. For Dad and I, nothing is normal about living here. Everything that used to be normal for us is far, far away, and we don’t want that life anymore.”

Whoa. Thinking. Silence. Whoa.

“Want to hear a secret, Lifa?”

“YES.”

And we’re back. Because secrets are awesome.

There are two kinds of normal.

There are two Kingdoms with two different normals.

There’s the Kingdom of earth and the Kingdom of heaven. On the Kingdom of earth, all the people around you tell you what’s normal and if you’re good enough. They decide if you should be embarrassed, what you have to say, or how you should act. Other people give you power or take away power.

In the Kingdom of heaven, you still live on earth for now, but you have secret power. Jesus already came to pay the price for you, and that means you’ve been made good enough. It’s finished. You already belong, and you have super-crazy-stronger-than-you-can-even-imagine power that never runs out, just for choosing to live there.

The cool thing about these two kingdoms is that you get to choose which one to live in and to fight for. And, at some point, you have to choose.

Here’s the catch:

If you choose the Kingdom of heaven, you still live on earth around people who may not know about the super-powers of God’s kingdom yet. They will almost always think you are not normal and always think you should be embarrassed. They might even say and do mean stuff. You can see everything in the Kingdom of earth, but heaven has a lot of invisible powers. Some people think it’s easier to just choose what they see and hear. To do stuff that feels normal.

“Lifa, Dad and I made a choice to live for heaven’s Kingdom. Because we made that choice, earth lost it’s power to embarrass us. Now, instead of being upset about all of the earth-normal things we don’t have, we can see that we have THE BEST LIFE EVER. We love the way our family looks and loves, and we love that we get to live in South Africa. When God invites you to do everything that seems not-normal and embarrassing to the Kingdom of earth, it means He’s giving you EXTRA powers for the Kingdom of heaven.”

Earth is just what you see today. And then it goes away.

Heaven is forever.

And YOU get to choose.

We pulled into the schoolyard that morning as he tried to process where he fits in with all this kingdom and normal talk. As he swung his backpack on, I turned around, looked at that handsome boy and told him, “Lifa, Dad and I don’t EVER want to live a life that the earth says is normal again. We choose heaven’s normal, and that means we get to have you in our family. You are one of the very best parts of our life. We love you Lifa, and we are thankful for you.”

I caught a well-loved grin as he bounced out of the car, and I prayed.

Let this be the day that stretched stories and fantasy stop trying to create an in-between Kingdom. Let this be the day that Lifa finds overwhelming satisfaction in the God that loves greater, deeper, higher and wider than his wildest dreams could even fathom. Let this be the day where the Spirit of God fills up that kid and gives him eyes to see the two different Kingdoms.

Lifa, your mom is white. And I hope you don’t stay normal.

It may not be a white mom or a faraway country, but we all feel know the tension, tragedy and trials that Lifa was wrestling with that morning. When two kingdoms collide, conflict is normal.

May we all have eyes to see our lives the way they were written in the original script: Abundant. Complete. Whole. Full of power that is sharpened by others and rejoices in oppression.

May all the not-normals you stumble upon, crash into or get thrown at tell the grandest story of limitless power and happy-ever-after.

May our children understand there are two kingdoms and become warriors for heaven, increasing in number because they know they belong.