Middles and Moments and Easter Thoughts

On this quiet Easter morning in South Africa, I’m very aware that I’m on the other side of the world than most of the other Easter mornings I’ve celebrated. It’s a crisp, but warm, fall morning. The birds outside my open windows are the ones dressed in their Sunday best and singing creation’s songs. There’s no church today, and I plan on finishing deep-cleaning the cottage, maybe while listening to an Easter podcast, and having a meal with some friends.

There’s still something awe-inspiring about today though. Even if the congregation is just an iPod, a mop and myself.

Today, together, one time zone at a time, the Church will rise, sing, praise, and give thanks for the God who entered time and gave us eternity in a weekend.

That’s the Church I’m a part of.

And, Church, today, as we sing completion, redemption, revelation songs, I find myself in the middle of a lot of stories, with pieces of my heart being stretched almost too thin as it gropes to stretch all the way around the world.

One church is not meeting today. The ones who could afford it are gathering at an out-of-town conference, praying in a language I don’t understand.

One church is worshiping in a home I’ve never seen, singing the songs I long to sing, and is full of people I want to hug.

One part of my family is coming home next Sunday! After only being together for 2 weeks in the first 3 ½ months of the year, I’m praying, begging and aching for miracles.  For completion.

One part of my family is gathering around Easter dresses, Easter baskets, my perfect NaNa, and a tiny Easter onesie, capturing the moments on a camera that I wish I were there to see in person.

One family I love here is being fed by death – a mother selling her body to make ends meet. Her daughter, Nandi, runs from – or maybe into – abuse. Nandi comes home with me once a week to eat, bathe, receive positive attention, and to learn how to sew from a local, SiSwati-speaking woman that has a God-breathed passion for helping this little girl. In months of attempts, Nandi’s had five lessons; five weeks where she hadn’t run away. But God says to keep going. Keep finding her. The same way He does with us. He says it’s the middle of a long, long story for Nandi.

One family that has become like my own is in the middle of an identity-changing story. A rare and taboo medical condition of a 2-year old left a 22-year old mother of 4 silenced, shut down, and living in shame inside a barely-standing shack. We’re scheduling one appointment at a time. She’s not doing it alone anymore. And she’s even inviting me into her shame. We’re standing together at a fork in the road that will author the identity of a child and a family, and that will pave the way for understanding their identities in Christ.

It’s almost too many middles to stand in the middle of at one time.

Too many stories.

With my heart wanting to be in too many places at once.

So we go back to the One Story.

The story of this weekend.

Death conquered – in the name of love.

Free-flowing, undeserved, life-saving, soul-redeeming Grace, standing up and walking out of His tomb – in the name of eternal life.

And Grace, whose body left our presence, the second time, only for the sake of a seal better than skin. A living, loving, moving, speaking, pursuing, responding, Living God – who chooses to be passionately involved in our every breath.

This whole story – this whole adoption – this whole faith hinges on one weekend over 2,000 years ago.

A God outside of time did it in one weekend.

And now that it’s done, He keeps doing it again and again in me.

It’s hard to wrap my head around, but my heart’s all in.

I’m sitting on my couch in the quiet of an Easter morning, while straddling handfuls of stories of longing, believing and wavering – my own and others’.

There’s something good – something right – and something indescribably holy about a God outside of time who never gets tired of walking through moments with me.

So, on this Easter morning, I sit on my couch and stand with my Church. And I say, “Thank You Jesus. “

Thank You, Jesus, for entering time over 2,000 years ago and never leaving me in a middle or a moment without you. I rest in the abstract and completely natural comfort today that You know the middles and moments, and you glorify them outside of time and in just the right time. You already took care of them when you walked out of that tomb. You’ll never stop taking care of me as I walk through them. Thank you, thank you, thank you Jesus.

I take heart, because you have overcome the world. (John 16:33)

Learning How to Breathe Again

I took a dip out of this worldwide reality that keeps us connected for a while. Honestly, I just got tired. I've been dancing with burn-out, straining to overcome weariness, and trying, trying to make it all count. We're a quarter of the way through the year. Whew. Instead of listing all the reasons why I couldn't breathe, much less bring myself to anything that ending in .com, let's just start with today. 

I've missed you. The "I" part isn't supposed to be about me at all. It's "we" and "us" and "Him". 

And we need each other. We were made to be known. By each other and by Him.

I remember that today after a 2-hour conference call with some of the women I'm closest to - and who live the furthest away from me. Four years later, they still know me. It's through their words and their prayers that I'm taking a fresh breath today. Being breathed into by His Spirit. 

I don't know how to catch you up on the millions of milestones and stories. But I will, one post at a time, to invite you back into what we are doing by His strength. Today, I'm just inviting you into my heart and my journal. 

To my giving, loving, never-stopping God,

Something started uncoiling yesterday. Sadness, loneliness and despair were brought to light. And they needed to rain. They needed to bleed. Like thick storm clouds, I've been stuck under their shadows. A cloud that looks like Lifa, my child so far from home. A could of exhaustion, of broken families, of unfulfilled promises. Clouds of doubt and sickness. Clouds of prejudice and violence looming all around me. A cloud created by distance. And a cloud of trying to make things that are not ok to you, ok for me to see and walk through and live in everyday. 

How do I live here God?

ONE DAY AT A TIME.

What is supposed to be ok???

How do I breathe here???

How do I live like it's "normal"???

How do I not set myself apart from them, and then come home to the luxuries of a comfortable bed, running water, electricity, and a well-stocked mini-fridge???

I want to know you more. 

You're letting me.

My friends opened something in me- they told me I'm experiencing Your grief and Your sorrow. Because You're not ok with it either. 

Somehow, I can breathe if I know You're breathing this air too. If I know it's not just me being exhausted, weary, and lonely. I can breathe if I know I'm feeling it with You, and on behalf of You, as an ambassador for every part of Your heart. 

It's NOT OK for Your kids to live like this. 

You're not ok with them starving, sucking nutrients from the soil when there's nowhere else to get them. 

But it's about more than their daily bread to You.

And it's about more than what I do. 

I want to know every side of Your heart. I want to taste every flavor of Your character.

The part of You that cries out for justice, with righteous anger and merciful tears that flow over the starving orphan, the little girl who keeps running from the house where her mother is selling her body, the children ripped out of life and put into the death of slavery, and the little boy missing a piece of government-stamped paper that could open a door to a name, an education and a lifetime of opportunities... if someone would just sign that dotted line. 

I want to experience that ravenous pursuit of wandering hearts pulsing through my own body, never exhausting and never running out of infatuated compassion, the way it authors Your Word and exudes through Your Being. 

I want to touch the foot of the mighty, erect throne of the King of Kings, willing to dethrone to become a compass as a pillar of fire, a whisper in the wind, or the very breath inside of us.

I want to feel Your hands and Your heart, bleeding every time we choose an idol that You already crucified. 

I want to know what it feels like and what it looks like to know, and to have, and to be a love big enough to see and feel and dwell in all the broken...

And, in response, to just love more. 

To know with every part of me that, in 3 days, it'll be undone. It'll be healed. It'll be conquered. It'll be good.

I want to know you more. 

Every part of you. 

Broken for what breaks you - in the ways it breaks you.

Because you never let it get all the way broken. 

You did once, and then you said Never Again.

You didn't want me to get all the way broken. Or them. Or us. 

"It is finished." That's what you said. 

And Your Word can never be broken. 

It is finished. And it will be finished. 

I am new. And I will be made new. 

Show this body and soul, groaning for the completion, how to live and love as a new creation. Here. Now. Today. Show me how to breathe by grace and hope. 

Amen.

"Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." He who was seated on the throne said, "I am making everything new!"

Rev 21:3-5

AND...

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come! All this is from God who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation

2 Cor 5:17-18

We are new. He is making us new. 

It is finished. It will be finished. 

He has risen. 

In 3 days, He will rise again. 

There's a Fine Line...

It started with dramatic taglines, banners of injustice proclaimed in “Africa Red”:

THE ORPHAN CRISIS

THE AFRICAN AIDS PANDEMIC

So I came.

I came armed with hugs, kisses, and a few children’s books.

There were mobs of perfectly-brown faces with eyes that spoke of hope and hopelessness, joy and sorrow, broken and whole. And I was right-smack in the middle of the mob with my hugs, kisses and stories.

One on my back, one on my front, at least two clinging on to whatever fingers I had to spare, and two climbing up my legs. I was always covered in children.

Is this what it looks like?

THE ORPHAN CRISIS

It didn’t seem right. Good pictures and warm and fuzzy moments were plentiful. But that’s just how it started.

Then it got personal.

I became part of a family. 

Families.

I became part of a church.

I became a mother.

I no longer go on missionary-appropriate “home visits”. I go visit my friends.

I don’t go with a goal. I go because I love them.

(And because I get cranky if my baby-kissing quota doesn’t get met everyday.)

And I don’t just go to their houses. I bring them home to mine.

We’ve been hosting outreach teams non-stop since the beginning of the year, so I will often bring a few team members along to each “home visit”.  I love watching them love the people I love.

I love when they get to meet THE ORPHAN CRISIS and fall in love with the way Kevin hides behind the door, waiting for someone to come find him… or the way Charity wants to climb you like a jungle gym, taking risky moves, just to make sure someone’s always holding her tightly… or the way Tommy is like a tornado of destruction until he can find some way of getting out everything inside of him, and real joy and laughter wins out… or the way Lifa becomes the DJ and the choir in his backseat throne when he feels at home again… I love when THE ORPHAN CRISIS has names, faces, quirks, kisses and a story. Just like you and I do.

In-between teams this week, I got to visit my families and friends alone… and the personal, most-broken parts of them flowed out like secret fountains.

A 22-year old mother of 4 that I adore told me she’s getting kicked out of the tiny shack she calls home and her and her children, even her 6-month old, are getting beaten by her own sister. She doesn’t know where to go or what to do. She’s out of money and doesn’t even know how to feed her children.

A 22-year old friend and mother who went back to high school after quitting when she had children told me “there are demons at school.” The school is turned upside down by young women “slithering on the ground like snakes” and “screaming, screaming, screaming.” Students are traumatized and having nightmares.

THIS IS NOT THE ORPHAN CRISIS.

THIS IS NOT THE AIDS PANDEMIC.

THESE ARE NOT STATISTICS.

THESE ARE MY FRIENDS.

What do you do when it gets personal? When THE ORPHAN CRISIS is calling you “Mama” and when THE AIDS PANDEMIC is falling asleep in your arms because he’s just so malnourished?

There’s a fine and God-breathed line that answers that question, I think. I usually trip over it instead of walk on it…. Or kneel before it. I don’t think I should be losing this much sleep, or feeling this oppressed, or even feeling this lonely in the middle of it.

Maybe if I trip over that line enough times, I’ll learn where it is. And learn how to build an altar there. How to exchange my yoke for His there. Learn how to love and be loved there.

It’s supposed to be personal.

Jesus didn’t die for a statistic.

And there’s supposed to be enough. Enough arms, enough love, enough grace, enough healing, and enough of us to bring what we have to those who do not have.

One time Jesus and his disciples saw a mob. Mark 6 says their tagline of injustice was something like SHEPHERDLESS. The crown remained a nameless mob and a tagline to the disciples, so they told Jesus to send away to find something to eat.

But he answered, “YOU give them something to eat.” Mark 6:37a

It’s supposed to be personal.

They said to him, “That would take eight months of a man’s wages! Are we to go and spend that much on bread and give it to them to eat?”

“How many loaves do you have?” he asked, “Go and see.” Mark 6:37b-38a

There’s supposed to be enough.

There was a miracle that day, and well over 5,000 ate.

They took what they had, Jesus blessed it and broke it… and there was enough.

That’s where the line is. The point where power and provision meet.

The harmony of Family, the faith in bringing everything I have, and realizing that it’s supposed to get personal between Jesus and I first - because He’s the One who made it personal, and there’s always enough in Him.

Jesus, here’s what I have. Bless me. Break me. Let there be enough.  

A Name in the Dirt

Two little faces – I’ve watched them for over a year now. I’ve asked everyone at the Mbonisweni feeding about them, and have received no answers. I’ve kissed them. I’ve hugged them. I’ve only known them as Sesi and Bhuti (Sister and Brother). They’ve been mysterious little angels with that infamous “orphan cry” written all over their faces.

Bhuti and Sesi - May 2011

I first noticed them when they began showing up to the feeding very early. And when it only took a glance or a wink for their entire bodies to wrap around mine. After one day of hugs and kisses, we were like family, and they knew they had a place on my lap.

They smelled like filth. They were so, so dirty – every week. Their clothes never fit. They would inhale a heaping plate of food in what seemed like a single bite, and then run back to beg for seconds. I don’t know how it fit into such tiny bodies.

Sesi and Bhuti. I just knew there was something about them… Something for them.

Recently, at TTH, we hosted a group of 13 young adults who came, armed and ready, with a clear direction from God and the plans to make it happen. They would pay for and build 2 homes with us, and then return back to their mission base in Los Angeles to build a model home to raise awareness. They gave us advance notice and asked us to start making plans with families. We were thrilled – and all over it. We couldn’t even wait for the TTH ministry break to end before getting knee-deep in that red dirt again.

This was it! This is the dream! This is how it works! We were building relationships that wanted to spread the movement throughout the nations. They were coming with willing hands and hearts. And we already had strong relationships with just the right families! Praise the LORD!

But then there’s the people-factor. You know, the fact that we’re all broken people. And culture-factor. And allllllllll those broken parts of this earth.

The same factors come into play all over the world, in every stage of life, in every body and every church… and it’s just as disappointing every time. We were made to be redeemed people, designed for the Kingdom culture, and belong as citizens of heaven.

The team arrived, and so did a cyclone. Rain, rain, rain.

We ran into a cranky headman (a tribal chief or community authority) who was unwilling to open his door, much less help.

For the first time ever, we could not secure a plot of land to build a home on. We had people; we had money; we had plans… We just couldn’t get a piece of dirt!

A month went by with absolutely no break-through.

Over and over again, the team set out to pray through the communities, trusting God to fulfill the words HE spoke into them. We didn’t know what to do. It’s our policy and a core value to know the families we build for. Relationship creates Home, not money and not four walls with a roof.

They came to us and said they’d found the home. Three times God brought them there. I was nervous. Filled with doubt. And disappointed that my families, the people I visit and pray over, weren’t getting a home over a matter of whose name was written over a piece of dirt.

As I pulled up to Leah’s plot, to a pitiful shack inhabited by a reportedly welcoming and broken woman with three young children, I could hardly unbuckle my seatbelt before bolting out of the little blue Mazda… SESI AND BHUTI!!!! And Samkelo – a child whose eyes lit up, greeted me by name, and whom I didn’t even know was related to Sesi and Bhuti.

YES, YES, YES.

This WAS the family.

They are all the families. They are all the children. They are all spoken for, planned for, and in line for a Home. But this WAS the family for today. For these people. For right now.

The excited team huddled around Leah and her children. They told her that God knows her, sees her and has not forgotten her. They told her He cares about every need. She is so valuable to Him that He changed the plans of an entire ministry; He rearranged everyone’s schedule; He began speaking to a team and hundreds of generous hearts around the world months before; and, starting the very next day, the strangers-turned-family that filled up her piece of dirt were going to build her a house!

Her reaction wasn’t exactly one you’d write a blog about. She didn’t turn on the waterworks. Ty and the gang at Extreme Home Makeover might have been disappointed.

Leah froze.

Her name was written on a piece of dirt. That’s it.

She had 3 children with an abusive father who had been kicked out of the community because of his violence and danger.

She had nothing to offer her children – no food, no money, no hope.

She had neighbors who smirked and giggled as they walked by because of the way she lived.

She’d never known a promise to be fulfilled.

She’d probably never heard a promise with her name in it.

Her name was written on a piece of dirt. That’s it. 

Leah’s heart is not just on a piece of dirt anymore.

Leah’s name is written on a house that is called The Home of Hope.

Sesi and Bhuti are not their names. They didn’t even introduce themselves by their names. How would you know it’s worth it, if your mother doesn’t know her name is worth more than a piece of dirt?

Her children’s given names, Samkelo, Maria and Bennett, are written on plaques over their brand new beds. They each have a place to sleep now.

Leah has her own room. Her own bed.

More than a house and more than a plaque, Leah’s name is written in heaven – as a full heiress, adopted and treasured.

She met Home after she saw a promise with her name being fulfilled. They kept coming back every day for a month. They kept praying and singing worship songs as they put on one brick at a time. Then they gave her the keys – to her brand new door and to heaven as they shared the gospel.

She heard her name. She accepted His Name to redeem her from the dirt and call HIM Home. She took every key offered to her. And now she has a lot more to give her children. And now they answer to their given names.

Maria with a whole new countenance

This Morning's Prayer

I'm taking Lifa back to his dad's house today after 2 weeks of bliss and thanksgiving! 

Inviting you into my prayers this morning... thanks for doing this with me.  

I don’t want to be numb today.

I don’t want to be broken or shut down.

Will You really fight for me today? Even if that does mean my faith is tiny?

I want to worship You in the desert, in the storm, in the in-between and in the all-the-time. These are the parts where You get to flex. Where Your love gets to be big and strong. Where You get to hold all of us in Your one hand – no matter how far apart we are.

You’re fulfilling promises in us over and over again. Thank you, Abba.

I need you more than I need to breathe. More than I need Lifa. More than I need anything. I need You.

I choose to believe You completely.

I believe You sent Your Son to die so Family could be restored.

To end the orphan crisis.

To set free. To deliver. To redeem.

Attune my heart for Your Big Picture. Your Kingdom. Your glory.

Again, today, I release my plans. I surrender my deepest desires and dreams at the foot of the cross, at the foot of the throne, into the sovereign and loving hands of My Maker. You hold my heart. You choose my highest good.

Every breath. Every hair on my head. Every passing thought.

You know about every child with every kind of hair. Every kind of skin. Every circumstance.

You know the child bound by slavery. Lord, let her go. Set her free.

You know the child trapped in abuse. Lord, deliver her.

You know the child set up for hopelessness, in line to perpetuate the orphan crisis. Lord, redeem him.

Savior, save us.

Deliver us from evil.

Redeem us.

Restore us.

Make all things new.

You did. You are. You will.

Receive this contrite heart today. It’s been broken. It’s been given away to others. It’s sought after it’s own dreams. But today it’s Yours completely. Today it’s running after the Healer, Restorer, Lover.

My dreams, my hopes, my plans are to always be closer to You. To know You more and experience You more.

That’s my dream for Lifa – wherever he goes, whatever he sees, whomever he’s with. Wrap Yourself around him like a cloak of protection that shines with Your Radiant Greatness. Let darkness flee at the sight of Your Light on him and in him. Let all the broken, dried out, orphaned hearts around him be compelled by the Light engulfing him and shining through his eyes and that little voice.

Lifa met Family. Let Family prevail everywhere he goes.

Set them free. Deliver them. Redeem them.

Darkness will flee every time this 4-year old, anointed little boy says Your Name, Jesus. Go in power before him. Give him a supernatural awareness of Your Presence with him always.

His Family is always with him. Never abandons him.

Set them free. Deliver them. Redeem them.

Amen.

A Drop in a Bucket

I had a sleep-over with a 4-year old on Wednesday night.

Charity is from the local community, Dwaleni, and is part of a family that is becoming like my own.

Photo by Carly B

Photo by Carly B 

She speaks and understands no English at all. She wouldn’t break physical contact with me. She soaked up every moment of touch as though she hasn’t received any affection since her 20-year old mother had twins when she was less than 2 years old. (It’s not a far-fetched reality.)

She took multiple baths from the big bucket in my bathroom, and we treated her dried out and damaged skin. 

Her teensy, malnourished body weighs less than the 18-month olds toddling around base, but she managed to eat several very small meals. She ran around the cottage in a naked flurry of SiSwati-spoken excitement when she not only found Lifa’s toy box, but learned how to play.

The next morning, her eyes, that look like they’d seen 60-years of pain, started looking younger. The cottage filled with visitors, and Charity found herself in the lap of someone combing out her hair, with her limbs spread out for primping, pruning and nail polishing. I secretly rejoiced as she went from silent and solemn to sassy and wiggly.

 

By lunchtime, she was disobeying. And I was thrilled!

So what if my camera has 400 pictures of her fingers covering the lens?

And so what if my coffee table is covered in granola and there’s juice on the floor? (Not the time to mention the volume of creepies and crawlies I host in the  cottage on a daily basis…)

Home is the place where you are comfortable enough to make a mess.

Home is a place where you want to be safely and securely hemmed in.

Home is the place where you know the boundaries, so you can dance all the way to the edge of them.

Photo by Charity

I was hosting just one little girl for just one night.

She came with clumps of dirt in her matted hair, with too-small clothes that carried a festival of odors.

She left with a new hair-style, sparkly pink nails, and a sparkle in her eyes.

Just one little girl, and just one night.

But now there’s one more little girl in the world who knows what it means to be a daughter and a princess, to be plucked out from chaos and to be called worth it. Now there’s several groups of people who know this little girl’s name because she spent the day driving through communities with me, because she felt home in the tightly-knit TTH community, and because I post videos of her on facebook and write blogs about her. 

One little girl in South Africa is like one drop in a bucket…

A bucket that can hold the oceans.

But how can we ever fill up that bucket if we don’t start, one drop at a time?

I’ve been completely caught off guard in the past two weeks, swept away by the passion of one itty-bitty drop.

There’s power in noticing one person, even for one moment.

We were made for this.

At 20-years old, Nesisiwe is raising her four orphaned and sick siblings, sacrificing her education to raise her 2-year old baby sister. She was silent, broken and hopeless, somehow managing to hide behind the weak layer of skin that wraps around her frail bones.

Two days ago, she attacked me with affection and wrapped me up powerfully in her arms and her delight. Somebody responded to her. She felt known. She met joy.

One more drop.

Kevin was invisible. So tiny, withdrawn and malnourished, you could hardly see him.

God told me to bathe him, clothe him, and profess a King David anointing over him. Today he giggles, runs and leaps into my arms when I see him. His community knows his name, and he pushes others out of the way because he knows he’s always got a spot reserved on my lap. He feels worth it.

One more drop.

Given’s body is broken, inside and out. He doesn’t know who he is, and his family doesn’t know what to do with him. Shame is draped over him like the darkest night.

Photo by Carly B

I asked one question. I broke one cultural rule. A floodgate of family has opened. We’re beginning a tremendous and unfathomable process of restoration and being known, one looooong doctor’s appointment at a time.

Photo by Carly B

One more drop.

The God Who giggled with joyful inspiration at the very thought of knitting you together in your mother’s womb…

The God Who almost couldn’t stand the ecstasy of writing out your story, ordaining your every single day before He even breathed life into You…

THAT God… MY God… knows you and made you to be known.

He notices you all the time.

He's enthralled with you.

He's captivated by you.

He loves you.

And He gave us all of Him. IN us. And we can give it away.

We can give one moment of seeing, knowing, loving… just noticing… and be part of a Family being restored. Living Water rushes in like a tidal wave when we're willing to put our one drop in the bucket. 

Photo by Carly B

One drop of blood from one spotless Lamb knew me and knew you in that moment He decided it is worth it and it is finished.

I want to make drops. Everywhere I go. 

I want to make drops because it matters.

Photo by Carly B

I am a drop called Beloved, swimming in an ocean of grace.

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