The Perfect Thanksgiving Prayer

Happy Thanksgiving!

On the heels of my second Thanksgiving in South Africa, I’m thinking about what’s happening in American homes right now. The relief provided by the tryptophan-induced naps is probably wearing off, and the last laughs of the night are being shared with a healthy dose of football banter and just one more slice of pie. Alarms are being set for Black Friday shopping escapades, and, if you’re anything like my family, you’ve made a map, a list and have organized the ads.

At my house, my alarm just went off to have a little time with you, Jesus and Pike’s Place coffee before the most perfect little boy wakes up and we get ready for school.  I have to confess that I’m thrilled to not be Black Friday shopping, but even more thrilled to be right where I am on this couch with Lifa sleeping soundly and the birds singing the sun up. I’m overwhelmed with thankfulness this morning.

Yesterday, as we left a feeding program to go eat Thanksgiving dinner together, Lifa said, “Thank you Jesus for eating. Thank you Jesus for play, play, play. Thank you Jesus for kids.”

A perfect Thanksgiving prayer.

We have more than those calories that don’t count on holidays and a day to come together to be thankful for. But if all our hope is in a roasted bird (or pig in my case!), or even on family all being around a table together, we’re going to get hungry again.

All of those good things are good. And I never want to stop saying thank you for them. But I never want to think it’s the pumpkin pie that fills me up. It’s the everyday and the eternal part of Thanksgiving that I want to feast on. Every good thing on earth is just a taste of the Kingdom of God – a reminder of how good He is that comes in our favorite flavors, memories and colors (because He knows all of our favorites us and He knows we need to be reminded). Even the very best baby kisses and family moments are an image of the affection we were made for, the Family we belong to and the hope worth holding onto.

I want to learn from Lifa’s Thanksgiving prayers.

He doesn’t know what Thanksgiving is. He’s never cut out construction paper replicas of the Niña, the Pinta or the Santa Maria. And he’s pretty sure Texas happens through a computer screen. But he knows it all starts with “Thank you Jesus…”

Last weekend, we sat on a swing – I did all the legwork and he just leaned back into me and giggled. It was beautiful. He was in the perfect posture for thank you’s. And I just listened and delighted –and finally couldn’t help but join in – as he started his thank you’s.

“Thank you Jesus for swings.”

“Thank you Jesus for swings high in the sky.”

“Thank you Jesus for slides.”

“Thank you Jesus for playgrounds.”

“Thank you Jesus for friends.”

“Thank you Jesus for Blessing and Tshepiso.”

“Thank you Jesus for GoGo Rosa.”

“Thank you Jesus for Texas.”

“Thank you Jesus for Mama Lifa.”

“Thank you Jesus for Baba Lifa.”

“Thank you Jesus for you love me.”

“Jesus I love you soooo much.”

The perfect prayers from the perfect place to pray.

Sitting in the lap of Love you couldn’t stop if you tried.

Fully aware you don’t have the strength or the control to make that swing go, or how fast, or how high it will take you.

Just leaning back and enjoying the ride, knowing Love won’t let you fall.

Thanksgiving and delight pouring out of you just because you’re in the right posture to receive it.

(just a little picture of the giggles and squeals!)

Thank you Jesus for showing me more of who you are through Lifa.

Thank you Jesus for doing the legwork and letting me enjoy the ride.

Thank you Jesus for a million ways a day to encounter You, know You, and be thankful for You.

Jesus, let me and every person who reads this today be stuffed full of Thanksgiving.

“Thank you Jesus for you love me.”

Forks and Spoons

I have a South African friend who loves to wear gold hoop earrings. And I, being the appropriate missionary-type that I am, make catcalls when I see her in them and ask her what kind of hott date she's dressed up for.

There are so many reasons this is culturally inappropriate - she's my elder is the biggest one, and the fact that the culture doesn't "date" nor do they EVER disclose personal information like that.

Last week, while I sat on Keri's couch, this friend came in giggling and nervous.

As she closed the door and covered her mouth, she told us, "I have a date on Saturday."

We immediately went into slumber party mode in the middle of the day: I kicked my shoes off, Keri brought out the food and the giggling girl-talk commenced. It went a little something like this:

Me: Oooooohhhhhhhh!!!! Ow-Owwwww!!!!


Her: hehehehehe

She gave us al the romantic facts about meeting him in line at the hospital, how often he text messages and sends airtime (cell phone airtime is very expensive in South Africa), and how she thinks he's a good man but needs to find out if he is married (men often have at least one wife and many girlfriends). We were beaming with pride at her high counter-cultural standards and her approach on a relationship.

And then we got to my favorite part:


Her: I've never been to a restaurant. Do you eat with a spoon and fork?


Me: Yes. 


Her: But which one do I use?


Keri: It depends on what you eat.


Her: But what do I order?


Me: NO pasta! It's too messy for a first date!


We finally decided on chicken and rice. And that she would use a fork and a knife if she needed it.


Keri: You don't want to order the highest item on the menu or the lowest. Order something in-between.


Her: What do I drink? 


Keri and I in unison: Coke! 


Keri adds a sassy: You're not the tap-water kind of girl.


Me: YEAH, you're a classy cold-drink kind of girl!


Her: (giggling and taking mental notes) Ok, ok...


Me: What are you going to wear?


She's definitely thought about it.


Her: A short blue jean skirt (gesturing knee-length), with summer sandals.


Me: If you are wearing a short skirt, don't wear a tight shirt.


Her: Oh ok. I won't.


Keri: Yeah, you're not THAT kind of girl.


Me: Yes, you are beautiful. He can see that without you showing off your body.

Such a simple conversation. Which silverware to use. What to order. Her time to eat at a restaurant.
A mother and grandmother, finally getting taken out for a date and treated like a lady.

What an honor to get to have giggly conversations and be counted as a friend. I love living here today to talk about forks and spoons. It's pure joy to talk about wardrobe and cold drinks. And to tell her she's  beautiful and worth delighting in. To be invited into her personal life.

I feel God delighting in me by giving me this giggly, girly moment. And I want more of that.

Thank you Jesus for girl talk, friendship and feeling like I belong, barefoot on that couch with your daughters. 

THIS is Church

Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this:
to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world. James 1:27


Busi's Church. Thursday Church. Church in the Yard.
We call it a lot of different things. But something is happening in Dwaleni that only the Living Word can begin to capture.


It started just a few weeks ago when some high school seniors from my church in Mbonisweni came to visit the construction site of Ten Thousand Homes' first house to build in Dwaleni. Read here for more about that afternoon when the Holy Spirit landed and started building Home right where we were building a house. Hope started rising as we spent an afternoon singing, dancing and praising our God right there in front of the neighbors and construction crew. 


People are catching on to the Truth that there's something worth catching onto in Busi's yard on Thursday afternoons.

Photo by Lindsey Kaufman

Last week, God took this barefoot gathering to a whole new level. 


Contagious worship. 
Relentless hope. 
Heaven came to earth for an hour in that yard.


As soon as I greeted Busi and slipped her a jumbo bag of groceries we'd collected upon hearing she had no food, I saw a little girl named Nandi waiting at the edge of the gate. She was calling my name. Nandi has had a rough 7 or 8 years on this planet. I believe her family is being touched by God and is changing, so I won't share the details of her story... I'll just talk about the HOPE part. 


I went to invite Nandi in, only to be surrounded by a group of 7-9 year olds clinging to me. They told me they all lived in that little corner of Dwaleni, so I asked Nandi if I could go to her house. 


Suddenly, I was overwhelmed by shrills of delight, linking arms with little girls in school uniforms and skipping down red-dirt roads. Just me and them. It was the sweetest gift and intimate exchange as they sang out my name and pointed to the shacks they call home. "Kacy! Kacy! Look! That's my house!" 


God spoke to me while we skipped.  "This is being KNOWN."


Last week, I posted pictures of the tiniest little boy named Kevin. He is Nandi's cousin, and, though he makes no sounds, he greeted me with big "I know you" eyes upon arrival. I scooped him up and asked if he could come with me. Nandi would bring him home later. (Disclaimer: it's normal in the culture for an 8-year old to care for a 2-year old. Last week Kevin walked a 15-min walk to the feeding with his 4-year old sister.)


I love Kevin. When I prayed for him last week, God told me Kevin is His little King David. The tiniest, scrawniest, most unnoticed giant-slayer, fit for royalty. I know that's True. And I'd come prepared to talk about it and honor it.


So I scooped up that feather-weight child. He's turning 3, but fits a size 6-12 months clothing. The neighborhood children lined the bed of the truck as I held Kevin, announced his anointing, and poured a warm bath for him. I had come that day with hot water and a bath bucket. 


Right there in the back of a truck, I gave that baby a bath and rubbed his dry skin with Vaseline, telling him how loved he is by His Father.

Before I knew it, his mother and Nandi's family were there peeking over the truck. Adrenaline and the Holy Spirit were working double-time by now... something big was happening and this little boy's life was never going to be the same. 

I told his mother, his auntie, and everyone I could find (no matter what language they spoke) what God said about this anointed little shepherd boy. 


And then I dressed him in brand new clothes. 

Fit for a prince. 

In the intensity of the moment, I hadn't even realized that Busi's church was over and the worshipers were surrounding us.

Suddenly, I heard Keri say, "THIS is Church."

And it hit me.

Capital C.

Church.

In the yard.

Where Home is being built. 

People from the nations gathered.

Feeding the hungry.

Loving the orphaned. 

Uniting in passionate worship.

Visiting homes and encouraging vulnerable families.

Speaking Truth over the forgotten.

Bathing babies in buckets in truck-beds.

Realizing that nobody needs me here, but I'm part of it. 

I GET to be part of THIS.

THIS is Church.

I get to be a part of a neighborhood Church.

So do you.

It's in your living room, your front yard, your passenger seat, your workplace, and even in those four walls you sing in on Sunday mornings.

Get out the bucket and call out the princes around you.

Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this:

to visit orphans and widows in their affliction, and to keep oneself unstained from the world. James 1:27

All Fired Up About Paper Chains

I love paper chains.

I mean it - I love them.

There is a paper chain-decoration movement at Ten Thousand Homes that I might have had something to do with. The 2-jillion pack of construction paper in my house, taunting me and the kids on base, leaves us with no other option but to create celebrations. How can you not have fun with a rainbow of school supplies hanging above your head? 

But I really love paper chains for another reason: countdowns.

I make them to countdown all things worthy of counting down – holidays, events, moves, transitions, celebrations - whether I’m plucking off a colorful strip of paper in excited anticipation or in trepidation of what happens after the last link is gone.

Coming to Africa:

When I left for the States last December, I made one for Lifa to count down the time until we’d see each other again:

But here’s the thing.

It’s not about getting to the end of the chain.

It’s about being aware of every part of the journey.

Every link matters.

Every piece means something.

I did not want to graduate from grad school – it meant getting hurled into “the real world” from the safety of a seminary bubble, padded by the most incredible spiritual community on the sandy, sunny West Coast. So I made a paper chain and hung it, obnoxiously and against my friends’ wills, in the hallway of our apartment building. (Amanda even wrote a song about how much she hated the paper chain. But she’s now embraced the countdowns.)  

I made it to remind us that we needed to live every link all the way.

It’s worth it to count each link.

A few weeks ago, I invited my GoGo and family over to the Ten Thousand Homes base. The base is called University Village, and it’s both the place where I live and the home base for a group of people believing in building hope and homes in South Africa’s orphaned and vulnerable children.

It was GoGo’s 60^th birthday! We rolled out the red carpet that night – the entire staff came out for Texas Tacos, cake, singing, dancing and joyfully celebrating a lady who lavishes love freely, despite the evidence of a wearying life etched deeply into her features.

Photo by Lindsey Kaufman

With tears in her eyes and her hands clasped around mine, she told me in SiSwati that night that she’d never had a birthday party or cake. Sixty years had come and gone with no acknowledgement.

In fact, we had the party on the wrong day because she hadn’t remembered her birth date correctly.

Sitting under paper chain decorations on GoGo’s first birthday party, I remembered why I love paper chains.

How much joy…

How much devastation…

How many moments…

How much of God’s love was enclosed in every link of GoGo’s story?

WHY didn’t someone… or EVERYONE… make a paper chain link for every year of GoGo’s life, one link at a time, rather than waiting until there were already SIXTY!?!

I met another 18-ish orphan yesterday, living in a shack made of wood and plastic. She had two or three children and no ID – which means her children probably have no ID. That means no funds, no job and no education. No identity. Nothing to even acknowledges their birthdays. Not even a starting link to say their life is worth a paper chain… or even visible.

WE WERE MADE TO BE KNOWN.

WE WERE MADE TO COUNT.

I know you know that.

Because you’re reading this. And you’re doing this with me.

I help write weekly Ten Thousand Homes updates that come with creative prayer challenges – Want to sign up?

But today, I want to use this space to challenge, to beg and to shout. (Caps lock is no accident.)

Make a 7-link paper chain today. Every night before you go to bed for the next week, remove a link and pray. 

PRAY HARD.

Pray for everybody who’s never had a link. 

Who doesn’t have a piece of paper to tell them their birthday. 

Who has never been counted, much less had a reason to countdown.

Pray for Bongi, the orphan I met.

Pray for Busi, whose home we’re building now.

Pray for Lifa and his family members without ID’s.

MAKE EVERY LINK COUNT. 

Guess Who's Coming on Saturday!

Pray for us as we go on the long drive to pick up Lifa on Saturday! His father suggested him staying for 2-3 weeks. Please pray for all of our hearts to be united as family, for God's voice to be louder and clearer, and for miracles throughout the next month. I can't wait to see him again!

Be Careful What You Pray For

Thursday morning I prayed for God to renew my heart and vision to be more like His - for the nations, for the orphan cry, for one heart and one face at a time. To be a servant that is unseen but known. 


"I submit to your eyes, ears, heart ways and thoughts today, Abba. They are higher than mine."


You gotta be careful when you pray for those kinda things. Because He always answers.

Thursday afternoon He answered with pictures.
Glimpses of the depths of His broken-hearted cry for justice and compassion for His kids. And heights of His abounding provision and plans for them. The highest highs and lowest lows. Same moments, same places, same God. More of Him than I could measure or try to understand in a few hours in the hungry community called Dwaleni.

I hope you see what I see. Or something even beyond that.

Such a tiny little body - This little boy can hardly keep 12-month clothes on and will be turning 3

Children giving their leftovers to the ones who needed it most

A 5-year old feeding his 2-year old cousin

Eyes of a 4-year old say they've seen more than a typical 4-year old. (Pictured below)

A high school student from Mbonisweni came to our feeding in Dwaleni to share God's love with anyone who would listen.

A house almost finished and Home coming down to earth

Just a few weeks until completion! The shack with the green tarp behind it is this orphan-headed households current residence.

Found Anthony hiding behind the shack listening to the worship songs we were singing

Shy and reserved, 18-year-old head of the household, Busi stood up before new friends and shared Scripture to us with Lennon translating. A miracle of Hope and Homes!

A future Hope and Homes miracle...

The ONE Thing

The longer I’m in South Africa, worshiping side-by-side with my SiSwati-speaking church family and visitors from around the world, the more I see that it takes every person from every place to get the job done.

I’m not talking about building a house for every homeless person, satisfying the hungry groans of every empty belly, or even finding a family for every orphaned child.

I’m talking about the job, the greatest commandment: Love God with all you’ve got and love your neighbor as yourself. (Mark 12:29-31) That job of bringing heaven down to earth. All that other house-building, belly-filling, orphan-ending stuff happens on the way.

The specifications of the job are unlike any others, and they seem pretty upside-down:

The Boss comes in washing your feet, laying it all down so you can have an equal share in what He’s created… on your first day.

There are 66 canons of the Manual – more than half of which tell stories about dead kings, seas splitting and people pouting in deserts. 

And the Guy who shows up to walk you through your new daily life speaks in red letters and in parables instead of just getting to the point!

When people come here and decide to make themselves vulnerable enough to join in the work of something bigger than themselves…

willing to see God in the ways that hurt…

It starts to hurt when you can’t figure out what to do.

I came to save the world, one orphan at a time.

When I got here, I didn’t know how to do it.

“What’s the ONE thing we need in Africa to make a change?”

We want to be effective and excellent for the Kingdom.

As much of heaven down to earth as quickly as possible.

We’re willing to do it - we just need to know the ONE thing.

People have been asking it since the very beginning. Jesus just kept talking in parables until they were ready to hear it his way instead of theirs.

Because the ONE thing isn’t from ONE culture.

The ONE thing can’t be scribbled on a check, processed through PayPal or be written off on your taxes at the end of the year.

The ONE thing can’t be delivered through the finest doctors the nations have to offer.

The ONE thing can’t be grown in a garden or served on a plate.

The ONE thing can’t be built by human hands and doesn’t have a roof or walls.

The ONE thing is un-seeable and un-doable...

The ONE thing is hope.

Full bank accounts with no hope buy their way into deeper hopelessness when you can never buy enough to fill up that ONE part of you.

The finest medicines in the world can never heal the broken parts of our spirits.

Plentiful food and water could be literally raining from heaven and pouring out of rocks (it’s been done – Exodus 16:4) but can't fill the ravenous hunger for something more.

The most comfortable and secure house can’t build Home in your heart.

The more I see that it’s really all about the unseen, the more I realize how far I really am from “doing it”. But HE keeps inviting me in to get a different and undeserved view. And in those moments, I feel an overwhelming relief in the Truth that I’m not needed for ONE thing in heaven… but I’m wanted and I’m invited into all of it.

Last Thursday, I got front row tickets to the real thing. The real job being done. Hope and Homes coming to earth better than I could have ever planned it.

Ten Thousand Homes is building a house for a child-headed household in a community called Dwaleni. Busi, the head of the household is now 18 years old, had been unable to finish school yet, speaks no English and has spent the last few years since losing her parents, caring for her four younger siblings.

We all have the same design: the image of God.

We all have the same needs: to be known, to be loved, to belong.

But sometimes fulfilling those needs on earth look different to different cultures.

So some ladies in Texas knitted squares to make blankets and prayed over the recipients before shipping them to Ten Thousand Homes.

Then some high school guys in a neighboring community, Mbonisweni decided to spend their Friday night having a dancing/sewing party, and somehow made it cool to knit blankets.

Sewing Party with Mbonisweni Youth from Keri Dodge on Vimeo.
Then the Ten Thousand Homes crew got together with the only social services organization in Dwaleni, a group of ladies who give all of themselves with no pay.

On a hot Thursday afternoon, we all met up to deliver the knitted blankets to Busi and her siblings.

I had no language.

I had no blanket in my hand.

I had nothing to bring except for just being there.

Busi is shy. And her oldest brother, Anthony, wouldn’t even come out of the house. The guys from Mbonisweni gently got Anthony to come out and presented them with new blankets, covered in prayers from Texas and possibly a little salt from the popcorn at the sewing party.

Photos from Keri's blog

It could have been finished there.

But the guys, full of that ONE thing, decided to sing a worship song for Busi.

And then another.

And then the tired, hard-working volunteer ladies – who live in shacks themselves- jumped to their feet, clapping and shouting: “ANOTHER!”

An hour later…

We were still in that yard singing to our Lord.

Proclaiming and calling down that ONE thing.

The entire neighborhood came out and saw what it really looks like to build a Home.

Some of the kids even came over to dance.

Anthony came out again, hiding in the back so we wouldn’t notice him singing.

And then, all of a sudden, Busi stood up, dancing, clapping and leading the songs.

Something changed forever in those young leaders, those sacrificing women, the building crew, the neighbors, in me, the work of Ten Thousand Homes, and, most importantly, in Busi and her family that day.

It was the most incredible display of Hope and Home I’ve ever been a part of.

We brought her a blanket.

We’re building her a house.

But it was when everybody came together and called down that ONE thing, that Home and Hope happened.

Call it down.

Sing it out.

Dance all over it.

Everything else happens on the way.