Why We Call It Miracle Week

On Monday morning, we woke up to find that a vehicle had been stolen from our property in the middle of the night. It was there when we said goodnight, and it was gone when we said good morning. Nothing left behind except broken glass.

Instead of saying the words that might have popped into these oh-so-holy missionaries’ minds, we started the morning giving thanks. The visiting team was borrowing the vehicle and lost a credit card and an expensive baby stroller and carrier in the theft. They set the tone by praying for the thieves. And speaking blessings over the baby that would be carried in the carrier. The mother even said that although her first instinct might have been to rip the baby-carrier away from someone if she saw it walking down the road, she would, instead, give away the extra accessories that hadn’t been in the vehicle when it was stolen.

We sang to our God and declared him the victor and the giver of good things. We gave no credit and no attention to the one who comes to steal, kill and destroy.

As the dust settled on University Village (the property we call home) on Monday morning, we headed straight for the red dirt of Dwaleni. I took a team to visit a family of five – five children living within four windowless walls, which enclose just enough space for the queen-sized bed they all sleep on. HIV has wrecked their immune systems, and none of them has been able to escape TB (Tuberculosis) in their cramped quarters.

Their father is dead. Their grandmother abused them. The mother steals money and disappears. They are 20, 17, 15, 9 and 2 years old. They cook on a pile of sticks on the days they have food. When I asked what they wanted prayer for, they asked if we’d pray that they could get electricity. They’ve been waiting on the electric company since 2010.

With tiny, 2-year old hands wrapped around me, we prayed for more than electricity. For the Power and the Light that are everlasting… and for electricity too. And food. And comfort. And provision. Prayed for a way to build them a bigger house. For the oldest to be able to go back to school. And for the perpetual abandonment by their mother to be cut off in the name of the Father’s Family.

That was Monday.

And Monday was the day we started calling this week Miracle Week.

The same Monday we woke up to find that something had been stolen from us, God gave so much more than that. He provided in full, on that day, enough to secure our home, this fertile soil for discipleship, community and a hope to rise up. This week the money was wired over to purchase University Village - $77,000 in the last 2 months! 

And the same Monday we found a house full of orphans with nothing of value on this earth, we called them family and wrapped them in love and new blankets.

“Africa time” was overcome by the agenda of the Kingdom this Miracle Week.

Within one week of meeting this previously forgotten family, God provided food, education, school uniforms and supplies, the beginnings of a process for financial and physical security, and tear-streaked hope.

On Monday, there were empty eyes. On Wednesday, there were streaming eyes and a trembling voice saying, “I am happy.”

 

Weary and revived.

Longing and satisfied.

Desperate and thankful.

This is what Miracle Week looks like.

We live in the middle of miracles every week. This week we looked for them. We had to.

Jesus kept his disciples confused by saying things like, “The Kingdom has come and the Kingdom is coming.” The promises, the provision, the hope, the everything has been finished by His death on a cross. And it’s all coming.

Lifa and I love each other completely. His biological family calls me his mother. So does the Father. We are family. A Miracle family. That has been fulfilled. Finished.  

I haven’t seen him in 7 weeks. The news I received this week, during Miracle Week, says that the times we’re together are only be getting shorter as the times we are apart will get longer. There is not a document at all, much less one that calls us family. Nothing on this world seems to align or agree with the promises we know.

The promises have been made. He does not conflict Himself. He cannot be unfaithful.

In making the promises, they have been fulfilled.

The Truth has come and the Truth is coming.

That’s the miracle.

It’s full of tension because we were designed for the fullness of heaven, all promises completely fulfilled, His Kingdom Come… and we’re here on earth bringing it as best we can.

Miracle Week isn’t full of rainbows, butterflies and fairy Godmothers.

There’s no magic wand. Not even glitter.

Miracle Week started on a week called Passover 2000 years ago, and now it’s every week. Miracle Week has come and is coming.

Miracle Week has left me with swollen eyes, a sunburned face, a broken heart, a consuming peace, a lot less gas in my car, sticky kisses, and a new playlist on my iPod.

Miracle Week is pregnant with promise. Miracle Week gave birth to hope.

I couldn't resist...

Call out the miracles with praise.

Cry out from the in-betweens in thanksgiving.

He’s faithful. He’s good. And He’s the only Constant.

He hasn’t forgotten and He will not forsake.

“The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.” 

2 Peter 3:9

Faithful local volunteer carrying donated food to the family of 5

I have an extra child tonight...

I have an extra child tonight.

I'm writing you from South Africa tonight with the perfect view from my couch: an almost-4-year old in a big-boy bed with "L I F A" hanging on the wall above him, and a long-legged little lady sprawled out in borrowed pj's across my red sheets.

Nandi's spending the night with us tonight.

There are so many versions of so many stories about Nandi. And about her mom.
None of them start with "Once upon a time..." and none of them are worth repeating.

Nandi's been showing up at TTH feedings since before I even got here. She's one of those kids that everybody notices, knows her name, and knows there's a story behind.

I don't know how old she is. But I know better than to measure her age by the way she carries herself. Or by the way she's learned how to use those long legs. Or by all the hard-knock life lessons that flicker through her eyes. It's only her childlike, ear-to-ear grin that betrays her when she gets shot by a water gun, surprised by a new pair of shoes, helped into a warm bubbly bath, or takes her first ride in the front seat of a car that show she's younger than her life experiences say she should be.

Nandi carries a lot of labels with her. She's a "runaway". She's been found sleeping in graveyards and in the doorways of strangers. Her mother's been an elusive figure in a Lifetime movie kind of story. I always notice the weeks when Nandi doesn't come to the Dwaleni feeding.

I've started building a relationship, slowly but surely, with Nandi's family.
(Background for those who know how much I love little Kevin and his family: Kevin's mother is Nandi's mother's sister. They live in the same plot of land.)

I found Nandi's mother and auntie waiting for me at the feeding program when I pulled up this week. Through a translator and deep burden, they explained Nandi had been gone for a week. Some of the children at the feeding knew where she was. It was too far to walk and they needed my help.

Absolutely.

A 10-person car ride later, we had our girl back. She climbed into my car looking like she was made of stone. Her mom wept all the way back to the feeding. This was a mess. And, by the icy emotions chilling the summer day, I knew it would only get worse in their house tonight. And we'd probably be looking for Nandi again tomorrow.

So, I asked if Nandi could come to my house tonight.

I explained that we were family, and we would take care of our kids together. And maybe tonight, Mama Nandi needed to rest with an extra helping of peace knowing her girl was safe. I wrapped my arms all the way around Nandi's slender frame and cracked a joke about how tight I would hold her all night long.

Instant relief.

And somehow, within moments, we were worshipping together at a neighbor's house, sharing snacks, and I had a lap full of sleeping babies. All was well. We became family.

There was a birthday party on base for 5-year old Caleb tonight. Our yard was filled with children, laughter, good food and swimming. For one night, Nandi was not a "runaway". She was a giggling, beaming, delighted little girl who was only running from the splash of a water gun as she passed off her new shoes to me so she go faster. 

I've been running away from God all week.

He used the f-word to me.
Rosa - don't freak out.

He called me to be a foster parent for his Kingdom. For the "least of these".
Foster parent... that's the f-word.

He asked me to love them with full-throttle Mama Love... all the way, every single day. To make their families stronger because of it. And to trust Him in all the moments - even when they go back home.

I've been running away from Him all week because it gets a lot more personal when they have a bed with their name on the wall. And when you've said ni-night prayers over them. And when they've bathed in your bath bucket. And when they call you Mama. It felt like all this love was backfiring.

I said "God the Father... I'm mad at YOU." I let that Abba-God have it.
And He whispered right back that He gets it.

Christmas is coming. What sometimes seems like a commercial holiday is really a sparkly hoopla over the beginning of the most personal and painful parenting experience in the story of Creation. And that He said it was worth it.

It's worth it to be a foster parent  and let my kids go home, so His kids can come Home. So me and the mamas and babas and gogo's and babies can all go Home together- fully adopted, fully sons and daughters of the King of Kings! 

We are learning together what His Family looks like. Our Family.

Today Mama Nandi learned that, no back-story required, she's not alone. And she's worth being taken care of. Today Nandi probably had her first-ever real bedtime routine. After fearful uncertainty and wiggling, she's sleeping hard and peacefully. Today Lifa learned that there's still room for more and that he'll always matter. Today I felt the most satisfying kind of exhaustion I've ever felt and decided that getting to feel this kind of love and be a part of this kind of family really is worth it.

Home Is Where the Hope Is

In the past year and a half that Ten Thousand Homes has partnered with Pastor Sthembiso to host a feeding program from his church, I’ve watched Wednesday afternoons in Mbonisweni transform from a handful of chaotic kids climbing the trees, walls and anybody who’d stand still long enough into a family of 200+ who laugh, play, learn, sing, dance, and sometimes just sit together.

A real and beautiful family.

And here at Ten Thousand Homes, we’ve had a growing awareness that we need to know the children beyond the churchyard. We need to call them family in the places they go home.

Culturally, talking about home-life, need or even revealing parts of your story is a no-no here. In fact, Americans have a reputation for asking too many questions that seem completely irrelevant or inappropriate. (Remember that time I went to grad school to become a therapist and learned to think in questions? I’m that American.)

I’ve been loving, squeezing, feeding, kissing and holding many of these children for over a year and know very little about their post-4:30pm lives. What do they go home to? The spoken language is a barrier, but not as large as the difference in cultural languages.

How do we speak love, belonging, value and Home in a language they can receive?

Steadfast relationship-building. 

Consistent love.

There’s a foundation now. 

We’ve been speaking of the Rock, and we’re ready to build a Home on Him.

And we’re ready to go deeper. 

It’s time to call them known where they live. 

Lindsay Loveless helped jumpstart this call when her heart was jumpstarted during a trip to Ten Thousand Homes in May. Her heart latched onto a little heart whose need for love was louder than any language. Lindsay fell in love with 7-year old Siyabonga.

She sent a suitcase full of clothes, shoes and winter wear to replace the too-small, too-torn and too-dirty clothes and shoes he pieced on every day.

I rallied up a group of SiSwati-speaking volunteers and some TTH representatives after a Wednesday feeding and asked Siyabonga to take us to his home.  Instantly, he was overcome with anxiety and that sweet smile and little voice that usually follows me around singing my name went icy. We walked and walked and walked – far enough to be “malungu” (white people) that stood out, partially because of our skin color and partially because of my incredibly graceful slipping and sliding up and down every rock and hill.

Finally, after avoiding every short cut and taking the longest way possible, Siyabonga runs ahead of us to warn his mama we were coming. She stands outside of a house that isn’t hers - she says she is watching it for someone else and didn’t know where she’ll live after that – and she just stared.

Siyabonga’s shivering from the winter evening chill setting in and the arctic-temperature of the  environment.

So far, so good….

You know… if good is defined as painfully awkward.

Awkward is kinda my new normal since moving to Africa, though. Some would be more politically correct and say "different'.

This is when I started praying that we weren’t getting Siyabonga in trouble or putting him in danger. Maybe we should have respected his anxiety?

Too late now.

Pass me that bag of warm fuzzy treasures.

I’m going to try to not look like a ridiculous American, but rather a messenger of God’s love for His children.

His provision. His comfort.

He meets needs. Even when we’re reallllllly awkward about it.

I got down on eye-level with the man of the hour, shaking in his sole-less shoes.

I told him he’s loved.

He’s valuable.

He’s a dearly loved child of God.

I told him God loves him so much, He’s speaking about him to the heart of a woman on the other side of the world.

I told him Lindsay loves him and prays for him everyday.

I pulled out a card with photos that Lindsay had sent. She even wrote it in SiSwati.

Siyabnga was overwhelmed.

All the expression had washed out of his face. Usually, you can read him like a book.

He almost looked empty.

But the second he saw Lindsay’s photo and remembered – when he really knew what I was saying – I saw the tiniest yet brightest flicker. 

It’s what feeling loved looks like. 

It was a piece of Home taking root in him.

The moment he got it.

My friend Tersia read the card to Siyabonga and his mama.

I turned to the mama and explained how happy we were to know her son and how he makes the feedings better just by being there.

I went in for the arm touch… We’re getting there.

Siyabonga's mama looking at the photos and my friends from church, Witness and Tersia 

I crouched down and dressed shivering, stony-faced Siyabonga in winter clothes. Everything fit perfectly. I could see behind his overwhelmed eyes, eyes that were unsure what his mama was thinking, that he was over-saturated by love. 

I would guess he’s never had an encounter with grace, love and provision like that before.

Hand-me-downs and an extra baggage fee changed one little boy’s life and experience of family.

It was time to get outta there. The mama was getting increasingly uncomfortable and Siyabonga didn’t know how to handle it.

We prayed together and invited them to church.

We left hoping for the best. And in total shock . We’d never seen a kid who didn’t know how to feel when receiving to that degree before.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t smile.

I don’t think this is uncommon.

And I wonder how receiving hope translates.

I found him Sunday morning when I pulled into church  - he was waiting at the gate dressed from head to toe in his new clothes. Beaming. The happiest little boy at church. He was standing there modeling, wanting everyone to notice and ready to be thankful.

Mr. Mbonisweni himself - the proudly-dressed welcome committee!

His mama was standing in the road. We watched her inch her way closer to church. She looked like Siyabonga did when we asked him to take us home.

Meanwhile, he was busy having photo shoots – with a watchful eye on his mama’s whereabouts. Finally, pastor pulled her in, greeted her and the mothers took her in under their wings.

Somebody get this guy an agent

Siyabonga sat with me. She sat with the mamas. He watched her nervously. She clapped awkwardly to the music, but eventually started singing.

Three weeks later, she’s still coming.

As a family, they are slowly settling in as part of our church.

Siyabonga’s less nervous.

She’s more social.

He went to Sunday School.

She came on her own.

God is moving.

God started moving through a feeding, a suitcase and a card written in SiSwati.

I don’t know what Siyabonga’s life looks like when he goes home everyday. 

But I know that we went to that house and spoke love over it. And something changed. 

I know that one person responding to one Christ-breathed whisper was enough to start a change that I think will transform Siyabonga’s life.

Now we get to join in together, as a family that believes this family is worth Hope and Home…

Pray with us.

Speak with us.

In your own home, speak home into Siyabonga and his mama. Seeds have been planted, and now it’s time to intercede. Let’s lean in together and watch Home grow.

The sparkle of hope is growing in that sweet little boy, and his mama is beginning to experience the warmth and the glory of His grace. His welcome. His provision.

Let’s build Home together. 

A bigger, brighter and more hopeful smile

Persons, places and things... Oh My!

I'm Here! I'm Here!

I've been back in the States for a week now, spending time in California with my mom and friends from the two years I spent in LA while studying at Fuller Theological Seminary. It's been a perfect transition place before heading back to Texas... TOMORROW! (see pics below!)

I've hopped around from place to place and person to person since my arrival, surprised every time at the waves and degrees of feeling known that have washed over me in moments, memories, hugs and conversations. God truly has given me family so many times and in so many ways.

God truly has pieced my story together perfectly. 
Incredibly. Beautifully. Lovingly. Extravagantly.
And I want to be a part of His story in that same way. 
Incredibly. Beautifully. Lovingly. Extravagantly. 

Through visiting parts of my story, He spoke to parts of me I didn't even realize I needed to connect with. He inspired me and reminded me of the intricate ways He fashioned me.

For the next two months, I'll be revisiting the people and places that shaped my story. that encouraged, inspired and spoke into who I am. The adjectives, nouns and conjunctions of Christ's story in me.

My people and my moments matter so much to Him and to me. He's given me an undeserved favor in connecting my worlds and showing me how well and how deeply He knows me, even when I've tried to run in opposite directions.

My everyday nouns - my people, places and things - are on the other side of the world, in South Africa.

My daily life looks a lot different from everyone else's here, in America.

But it's all part of the same story. 

The Bible is a book of stories that all tell one big story: One of grace, salvation, adoption and love.

Jesus walked around with his friends telling stories with the same moral: We belong in the Kingdom of God, and it's worth all it costs.

My head and my heart are still swimming with jet lag, San Diego sand, woo woo coffee, the right side of the road and all of the people and places that have made a profound impact in my story - just in California alone!

But today I am clinging to my anchor and the deep-down understanding that we were all created to be His most delighting and perfectly-chosen nouns, adjectives and conjunctions into the Greatest Love Story. 

I am overwhelmed and confident in the belief that I've been given such a gift and unique opportunity...

It's conjunction time, people!

I want to tell YOU all about my nouns. YOU who have shaped, inspired me and YOU who will.

We've all been invited into the same Big Story. The same family.
All of us. All around the world. It's time to connect the dots... to connect the parts of His story and get the whole family around the dinner table together.

I want to be a conjunction for the nouns in South Africa who've become my family to those of you who taught and are teaching me family in the States. I'm amazed at how well you do family already, and can't wait to see it happen around the world, all together.

I'm celebrating all the parts of my story coming together for the next two months. And awaiting the day we all come together for the biggest, Most Glorious Story.

Your Kingdom Come, Lord... 

The parentheses: 
(To work out details on story-swapping, hugging or joining in this story through becoming part of my support team, please email me at kacychaffin@gmail.com. I CAN'T WAIT!)

A few of the memories and moments I've experienced this week....

Rosa! I'm home! Gimme a kiss!

My first new friend turned out to be a South African pastor coming to visit Fuller! He gave the best hug ever.

What else would you do when you've been on a plane for two days?

Reunited with Lily!

Santa Monica Ferris Wheel - I've missed this beautiful scenery!

Back at Fuller. The view of campus from the library with Drea. 

Local coffee shops. My personal little piece of heaven.

Families responding to family. Part VI

One time I prayed about beds.

During our DTS, we were praying for outreach – the mission field ahead of us. So we took some time to listen to the Holy Spirit and pray the words He put on our hearts. I prayed for beds. I didn’t know why. And never really figured it out during DTS. But I couldn’t help but remember that when this happened…

  

Twenty-one year old Colani has been to the feeding programs at the Mbonisweni Evangelical Reform Church that Ten Thousand Homes works closely with once or twice, but attends the Alliance Church down the road most of the time. On a walk to the clinic one Friday, he saw flames engulfing a nearby shack. A family’s home, disappearing into vapors and ashes in moments.

My family.

Colani’s community knows pain. Mbonisweni has seen devastation and disaster time and time again. Beyond sickness, poverty and an orphan crisis, the culture has been intoxicated by deeply rooted and dangerous belief systems. Witchcraft. Ancestral worship. And the fruit of these systems -a host of broken ways of thinking and living.

But God still speaks and moves powerfully in Mbonisweni. And when God speaks and moves in a place like Mbonisweni, you can’t help but notice – and be amazed. You can’t help but believe we’re living for something bigger than ourselves.

On that Friday, God spoke to Colani. And Colani listened.

Colani’s family had just saved up and bought him his own bed. Having a bed is a big deal. Families often pile into one bed or sleep on the floor. And Colani had his own new bed.

As he breathed in the fumes of a family’s dreams disintegrating, Colani heard God’s voice telling him to give his bed to this family.

He went home and talked his parents, expressing an overflow of gratitude for giving him such an incredible treasure- his own bed. And wanting them to understand how much he appreciated it… and how compelled he was to give the gift he’d been given. Immediately, he cleared everything off and moved into his brother’s bed with him.

It wasn’t until two weeks later that we could come pick up the bed, but Colani had not spent one more night on it. It wasn’t his anymore. He knew he had heard God and chose to obey.

 

The family whose home burnt lost everything tangible. They had no assurance that things would be alright. But, in the middle of what looks like a disaster, God is moving. He’s moving in the hearts of the meek and mild. He’s creating Home in community. He’s meeting the needs of His children through children in need.

Colani gets it. And gives it.

It’s not about finding spare change to drop in an offering plate or finding a worthy place for whatever you decided you can do without.

It’s about living for your Home in the Kingdom of God rather than for the comforts of the things you have acquired in your house. It’s about seeing every face and every family as belonging in the Kingdom of God. It’s about hearing God and responding. It’s about moving out of your bed that day because it’s not yours anymore. It’s about believers rallying up together to love others right now with what they have. That’s what family does. That’s what Home is.

“My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you.” –John 15:12 

A Family Surprise! Part V

This family and this fire hit me hard. They are my family. My people.

I have more family and more people in the States. A Home in the Body of Christ. And they know my African family too. They’ve walked though this with me, seen pictures and sent gifts. I asked for prayers because this was more than I knew how to handle.

Prayers were flying around the world, and peace was settling in amongst what was burnt and broken.

Almost instantly, I received a $200US donation from someone I had never even met. Family members responding to faces they’d never seen. This was going to make for one awesome surprise!

I got Zodwa in on the surprise with me and asked her to have the boys ready for a shopping spree. By the time we pulled up, the whole family was waiting outside by the fence. We loaded up a bakkie and were off to town! The boys still had no idea – Zodwa told them I was taking them for a pizza treat.

We arrived at the mall and stopped at an ATM to pull out the cash and have a pow-wow. I got one twin on each side and explained what we were really there for, with Lennon’s help translating.

“You boys are my family. Everyone I know in America knows that too, and they love you and pray for you often. I was so sad when I heard about your house that I asked my friends and family in America to pray for you. And they did. God loves you boys so much. He loves you SO much He started speaking to people’s hearts on the other side of the world about you. He even spoke to someone who I’ve never met and you’ve never met. And the people He spoke to LISTENED to Him. They sent a donation for you. Because God wants you to know He loves you, He’s providing for you from people who know how to listen to Him. We get to go shopping today! Each of you can spend R400 and buy any kind of clothes you want! And later we’ll get some things for your mom too!”

Eyes lighting up. Smiles so big their ears might pop off. Looking directly at me, in English, they each said, “Thank you, sister.”

Let the shopping begin! There were so many colors, sizes and styles to choose from! Our arms were loaded up. And I grimaced a little in remembering that, when you lose it all and are told you can buy anything you want, you want to buy stuff kids shouldn’t worry about, like underwear. But they got colorful underwear! And they loved it.

We had a fashion show right there in the store and they brought out their best poses. We snuck in watches at the last minute in line – the only thing they actually asked for. And we even did a little happy dance as we left the store with two bags stuffed with new treasures and tangible proof of a God who provides everything we need from head to toe.

  

Then it was time to eat! We sat down at Milky Lane – the equivalent to a Dairy Queen – in the food court, and they ordered by pointing to pictures they liked. Zodwa held my hand and told me she could never say thank you enough. The boys looked like they felt lighter than air. Bongani grabbed my arm, kissed it, and said, “Thank you Sister.” I melted.

Lennon showed Samgelo how to use a knife and fork. They loved dinner – savory waffles – the closest thing to pizza we could find. Then, of course, it was ice cream time! Later I found out this was 21 year-old Zodwa’s and the boys’ first time to sit down at a restaurant.

The mall was closing down and the hallways were empty. We were still waiting on one more person after we finished dinner, so we took advantage of high spirits and an open range. I twirled around the passages with baby Fiona and, while it was just the two of us, prayed aloud over her family. I prayed that through God’s crazy and powerful love, they would experience Him fully. And that this family would be a catalyst in their community, loving others the way He loves them and the way they love me in a contagious kind of way and that the orphan crisis would end in Mbonisweni. Then, Bongani and I held hands and skipped and giggled down the passage until Samgelo caught up and said, “Kacy… gym. Exercise!” So we took off running. Giggling.

Thank you, Lord, for joy that surpasses and even springs forth from tragedy. You win every time. 

I know fires. Part IV

I know fires.

I know what it’s like to remember – two years later – something else you don’t have anymore and you can’t replace.

I know what it’s like to not have the things you once thought represented who you are and where you’ve come from.

But I also know what it’s like to have a community of support made of people with more than enough – an abundance of love and stuff. We slept in spare bedrooms and on palettes made of extra bedding, slightly worn-in and pushed aside for a new look. I know what it’s like to have insurance so you know you’re not starting over from scratch.

I don’t know fires in Africa.

I don’t know what it’s like to be the twin who started the flame that burnt every tangible memory and possession of a family to a pile of ashes. 

I don’t know what it’s like to have nothing and to have no plan for something. 

I know two of the most incredible boys I’ve ever met.

I don’t know how to communicate to them through language, but we know we’re family and we love each other.

I know the two 13 year-old men in an extended family of nine who work harder than any 13 year-old in America would even know how to – with a smile, with dancing eyes and occasionally with full-on dance parties. They love life, from the babies they can’t stop carrying around and kissing, to the passion and pride they have in gardening and growing everything from beautiful flowers they pick for me to vegetables to sustain their family.

Digging trash pit at GoGo's

Part boy. Part ninja. They even make hard work fun!

Samkelo lit the match.

Everything was lost, including the money and materials their mother had saved up to finish building a half-constructed house for the family of three.

Samkelo was angry, disruptive and almost too much to handle. Bongani was broken-hearted and had empty eyes. Their mom, Sharon, looked like she wanted to be invisible.

The entire family carried sorrow in the deepest parts of them through a culture that doesn’t make room and a lifestyle that doesn’t know how to express it. 

Lifa and Tstepiso – for the first time ever – smelled like trash and were playing with trash. The twins stayed outside.

I held Sharon’s hand and, even when every face in the room remained expressionless, I talked. I told her how much I hurt to see my family experiencing loss. I told her about when I lost a home to a fire and how much it hurt. I just kept talking. I talked about what Home means to us, the ways God provides beyond the physical needs, and that she was not alone in any way.

She doesn’t even understand English very well. No one said much. Not even their eyes said much. But the more I talked, the tighter Sharon squeezed my hand. She felt the little bit of love and the little bit of Home I could offer that day. 

The boys, who, keep in mind, are still 13 year-old boys, usually at least try to duck and hide from my crazy-aunt kisses and hugs. On that day, Samkelo held my hand all the way back from church. And they both let me hold them and hug them and speak love into them. They needed it. They were like dried-out sponges.

That evening, we went with Pastor Sthembiso to see where their tiny shack had stood. It was only an outline on the dirt with some melted, morphed wire framing from what had been minimal furniture cast aside. She held my hand tight again. I held Sharon and her sister and prayed Home in the most powerful and providing sense of the word over them in that place in that moment. John and Sthembiso talked details, making a plan of action to take care of my family. I held hands and talked provision.

Then we saw what looked like a pile of tin. Upon closer look, we saw it was a homemade fence protecting the most beautiful vegetable garden. A carefully tended patch of vibrance. Life amongst what looked like – and felt like – death. The boys’ handiwork. Their aunt gushed with pride over the twins and the ways they cared for the garden with such joy and the diligence in which they did everything.

I felt a surge of relief to hear the boys being celebrated, when, so easily in this culture, they could have become the black sheep of the family. I couldn’t bear the thought of Samkelo carrying around the label “the twin who ruined everything” for the rest of his life. I couldn’t stand the thought of even the slightest flicker of life leaving either one of their eyes.

Hearing the aunt talk about them over their garden, I knew God had given this family a special gift. Thinking back on it now, I shouldn’t have been so worried. This family loves so well – they love me completely and as their own. In this small patch of red dirt – the community of Mbonisweni, you have to focus on the present and every person uses every bit of energy to maintain daily life. But God has written somewhere in this family that His love prevails beyond today. Without a single possession to their name, this family was celebrating the life in the garden instead of the pile of ashes beside it.

Please pray with us for finances to restore a sense of safety and a tangible sense of home to the boys and Sharon. We have received a donation to continue working on their home and are so grateful for that. I’m praying for more home for them. They’re my people. I’m praying for beds, furniture, an oven, a couch, curtains, and all the things that we don’t even realize we’re missing on a daily basis. If you are interested in joining in bringing Home to my family, feel free to email me at kacychaffin@gmail.com

Thank you for doing this with us. 

Dirty Dishes. Part III

“Southern hospitality” is its own culture back in the States. We’ll welcome you in like family and serve you with the fancy plates no matter what time of day you stop by. Mom always said, “The guest gets the best.”

You know you’re really family in Texas when you are welcomed into the kitchen with a sink full of dirty dishes and Mom doesn’t have her make up on yet. If you’re hungry, you’re gonna have to look for something to eat – it’s all fair game, but, for the love, please clean up after yourself.

Even more than that, you’re family when you’re invited into all the parts of a family, a place where Mom’s make up can’t cover pain and where clean dishes don’t clean up messy circumstances. There’s something about being given access to the broken and imperfect parts that make you feel really welcome.

In many of the culture groups in South Africa, my family’s included, hospitality is huge. You are welcomed in to do daily life with people without giving it a second thought. On my birthday, I was given GoGo’s chair and Lennon and Keri and I were served a feast on the family’s plates while they waited until we were finished to re-use the plates for themselves. When I visited during my community stay, a friend brought by ice cream cups for the kids, an extremely rare and delicious treat. The twins brought each cup to me and Lyn first to make sure we received the first bite before passing it out to the drooling children.

Over the past five months since I’ve returned to my family’s weekly routine, I’ve felt a deep and remarkable shift from the word family into the experience of family. Part of it is time together. Knowing one another looks different here. Besides the language barrier, there’s not much space in the culture to ask personal questions or go deep in any sense of the word I know how. Instead of face-to-face, eye contact, deep and personal conversations, we’ve spent time shoulder-to-shoulder doing daily life together.

Every Sunday and Wednesday, as soon as we put the truck in park, I head straight to my family’s house to greet, chat, help bathe and pick up the boys. Sometimes I’ll bring the family a treat. Sometimes they’ll send me with fruit. There’s always hugs and kisses. The more often I go over there, the longer I stay. Lifa’s hand in mine, we walk to church while I talk to him, pray over him or play with him.

Photo by Carly B

Something really changed when I invited the family into my home and onto our base for our monthly community night, Taco Tuesday. They dressed their best and picked flowers for me when we picked them up. I invited them into my cottage and Stanley translated “how to build a taco”. Zodwa, Baby Fiona and Lifa spent the night. We had girl talk. We painted fingernails. We read a bedtime story. Lifa took his first shower ever. And snuggled with me all night.

I knew it was meant him be when I saw him devour his taco.

GoGo was in tears when I welcomed her to my home. Best Night Ever. 

Zodwa and Baby Fiona after her first shower.

All of my favorite things in one photo. Bedtime really is the best time of the day. 

Dirty dishes and no makeup. Life together.

Slowly but surely, Zodwa has started sharing stories. Small pieces of her life that I savor, as though I’ve found a buried treasure.

In the past few weeks, Sharon has joined in with Prudence and Zodwa in greeting me with, “Hi Sister!” and giving me a kiss.

Prudence has opened up too – always begging me to bring her chocolate. (I make a mean chocolate cake… I’m just sayin…) And telling me part of her story that completely goes against the grain of the culture to share. Yes Prudence… I will give you as much chocolate cake as you can stand if you’ll keep letting me know you like this.

GoGo tells me stories about Lifa and life in a beautifully excited combination of SiSwati and Afrikaans. I don’t know the words, but I get the stories because I know my GoGo’s gestures and voices and kisses.

And Lifa…

Oh man, Lifa.

He’s perfect.

We have a reputation around church. The GoGo’s call him my baby and Pastor celebrates Lifa Day with me every Wednesday and Sunday. The entire congregation is celebrating with me as Lifa is learning, through consistency and value being spoken into him, how to be loved.

I celebrate the tiniest milestones –the day he started playing with my watch, the day he started comfortably swinging his legs on my lap, the day he smiled with I held him up over my head, the day he laughed, the day he started running into my arms, the day he started clapping during the songs.

Photo by Carly B

Then the day I heard him say my name, the day he spoke to Stanley, the day he started playing with other children, and the day he started to play with other white people. 

The more he is loved securely and the more he sees I’m coming back, the more he knows how to be loved. With our Mbonisweni family, we’re re-writing his story of love – from abandonment to abundance.

Photo by Carly B

I love to see him running around during the feeding program with the other children. When he’s not with me, I see him glimpsing at me for approval or coming over for a kiss to check in. I secretly and especially love it when he gets a little sassy with the other boys. He’s starting to understand that he’s valuable and that he has a voice!

They are my family. Not in that hospitable, fancy plates, GoGo chair sense of the word. They are my people – I feel with them, I love them deeply and I’m slowly but surely being given the most incredible gift… they are letting me know them.

Every week there’s something to celebrate in this shift of welcome. This week, Lifa said “I love you”. I almost threw up. Instead, I attacked him with kisses. I’m not sure he could breathe.

Brokenness and messiness hurts. It’s not as easy to write a blog without something squeaky and shiny. But I never want to go back to what squeaks and shines again. I’m their family and they are mine.

It’s kinda like the Family of God.

You enter in with the greatest welcome – one of salvation that’s better than the very fanciest of plates serving the most delectable piece of chocolate cake. Then, as you start living like you belong, walking into the Kingdom and into knowing the heart of Jesus, you feel His pain. The more you know Him, the more your heart looks like His. The more you belong in His family and they more you're living for eternity. The dirty dishes look like broken families, poverty, orphans and loneliness that don’t line up with “Your Kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven.” His Kingdom came with pierced hands and blood. Of course it’s a mess.

But I never want to go back to what squeaks and shines. I want to be fully vested, dirty hands, broken heart and to completely belong in the Family of God. To know Him and His children and to be known. The treasure of hearing pieces of Zodwa’s story. The kisses and “sister” greetings. The wild gestures and neck kisses. The most perfect lips and the tinest “I love you”. Yeah, that’s worth it.