"I just do this."

Million-dollar mountainside views peppered with wildflowers and sweet, sweet baby smiles take our breath away every single time we drive into Dwaleni. A very different reality surfaces when you enter the homes, stories and lives there. Dwaleni has an incredibly high level of violence, abuse, a version of Christianity that is confused with ancestral worship, and a reliance on witchcraft.

 Ten ThousandHomes has built two houses there for young ladies who’ve overcome more than they should have ever known. Busi has been on her own since she was 12 years old, living in a shack and raising her 8-year old brother. Now she’s 21-years old with her own child. 

Busi in October 2011 in front of her former home.
Click here and here to read more stories. 

As a teenager, Neli was left to raise her three younger siblings and her own child in a house the size of a queen-sized bed. Both Busi and Neli, children left to lead adult lives, dreamt only of going to school. They both had to drop out when they had babies.

Neli's family at their Welcome Home party.
Click here, here and here for more stories. 

School is required by law in America, and there are a thousand theories on best educational policies for our children. School attendance is required in South Africa up to grade 10 as well… but you’re not actually welcome if you don’t have a birth certificate. Or if you can’t afford to buy the uniform.  If you don’t have enough food, medicine or supplies to physically get there, you just don’t. There are certainly no truant officers or repercussions.

You go until you get pregnant, and then you stay home and do what everybody else does. Nobody dreams of what they will be when they grow up because they already live grown up lives.

Last year, thanks to good love and generous donations, TTH was able to send Neli and her family back to school with new uniforms and pay preschool tuition for her baby. This year, we sent Busi back too with her baby in preschool. They are the most motivated, committed students I’ve ever seen because they need something to hold onto. They need life to look different than this because they are barely surviving this.

This past Sunday, Busi came to me covered in stress. “I can’t pass, Kacy. I try soooo hard. And I failed two subjects last term. I can’t pass. I don’t know what to do.” She meets with Neli’s family to study together, and we try to give them study tools and help with homework as often as we can. But they can’t pass.

I started to ask Busi questions to try to grasp the root of the problem, and, in true high school fashion, she threw Neli under the bus. “I failed two, but Neli failed FOUR!” A secret part of me smiled that they were acting like real sisters, and Busi was not alone in this anymore.

Yesterday, we gathered together in Neli’s dirt yard around a chocolate cake and report cards. Four high school girls and two primary school boys – one was Neli’s little brother Mpendulo and one was Macbeth, who is from Dwaleni but lives on the base with us now because his mom is on staff with TTH.

They showed me their overwhelming school exam schedules – exams start today! Busi had followed my suggestions, but said her teachers refused to give her study tools or exam reviews. The overwhelmedness sat heavy in that circle – even on me. I didn’t know how to help. What could we do before tomorrow if they didn’t even know what to study?

 

Neli and Phepile's exam schedule. 

Busi and Thully's exam schedule.

So… we ate cake.

And sat together.

Until what was really going on started to pour out.

Neli and Busi started, with clouded eyes and shaking hands. And then the other girls added in.

“There’s demons. The teachers tell us we have demons in our minds.”

“My eyes hurt so bad. I can’t see when I get to school. I open my books, and I can’t read. It looks like there’s nothing there.”

“My head hurts when I try to study or go to school. It makes me not think. I can’t understand.”

“Me too. My head hurts too much.”

“They are taking our books to the sangoma (witchdoctor) and calling our names out (casting spells or curses).”

“I don’t sleep at night. It sounds like there’s baboons banging down my house. I’m so scared. It’s my enemies. I wake up and try to pray.” 

“It’s the demons.”

I’m sitting on the ground with Busi’s baby in my lap. And the girls are all up pacing, fretting, with fountains of fear flowing from their mouths. Both their normal worlds and their deepest secrets finally being aired out. Macbeth and Mpendulo say they hear and see they same things, “but not too much”.

I ask everyone in the yard what they do when these horrible things happen. The pacing girls say they pray, but “it’s not working”. Mpendulo shrugs.

Macbeth, with all the innocence and childlikeness a little boy should have, puts his fingers in his ears and says, “I just do this.”

I was suddenly so aware of the chasm. It had nothing to do with geography, upbringing, language… Macbeth was coming from the same place and same schools as they were. But Macbeth has a family of faith. He lives in a community of people who know the power of the name of Jesus and the perfect love that drives out fear.

Everyday, handfuls of people at Ten Thousand Homes ask Macbeth how his day at school was, are willing to help him, and will celebrate his victories – and amazing dancing and lip sync skills.

I looked at the girls who were parenting, running a household, battling oppression, prejudice and their own bodies just to stay alive.

I said, “Your life is hard, isn’t it?”

Shoulders dropped. Heads nodded.

I said, “You’re raising families, and you need someone to raise you.”

Eyes filled with a longing even stronger than the fear that had just been there.

I said, “It’s hard not to have a mom or dad to talk to when you’re scared.”

Decompression. That was it. That was the epicenter.

Remember the monster under your bed?

Or, in my case, Count Dracula in the closet with dynamite?

Remember the bumps in the night?

And remember when your mom or someone came in and turned on the lights?

Remember when you told someone about your bad dream, and then it wasn’t so bad or so vivid anymore? Remember when somebody reached for you and it helped you reach reality?

What if no one had ever turned the light on for your little kid self, and all of that fear, all those monsters, and all those bumps grew up with you and became the head of your mind, body and household?  

We all need someone to turn on the lights for us.

Because where there is light, there can be no darkness.

Macbeth put his little fingers in his little ears and said, “I just do this.”

We prayed over each person, read Scripture, taught them the power of speaking the name of Jesus out, helped them understand that, through Jesus’ blood, they are overcomers and darkness has no dominions over their minds. We spoke Truth until their eyes weren’t so cloudy and they believed they would be able to think clearly the next day.

And then I asked Neli, “So what can you do when you go to school tomorrow and the teachers or students are talking to you about demons?”

Neli put her fingers in her ears and said, “I can just do this.”

A little boy from the same neighborhood put his fingers in his ears and cast out the boogie monsters.

They just needed someone to hear the stories of the nightmares they live in so they could open their eyes and wake up and know the Father of Lights has never forsaken them.

They just needed to hear a little voice say, “I just do this” to remember how much power in within them.

We’re up against a big battle here, y’all. School exams and the end of the year amp everything up. Please pray for Neli’s and Busi’s family fervently – as well as all the students taking exams.

And then go turn on the lights. Remind them of Who is real and Who has won.

You can change the world with two fingers in your ears. Just do that. 

Macbeth

What if love was a rodeo

Facebook is currently obsessed with pumpkin spice everything.

Fall is in the air on the other side of the world, and all the snuggly flavors and colors and smells to go with it make me dream of curling up into an oversized chair with an oversized mug of snuggle and taking a dramatic, feel-good, cinnamon flavored deep breath. Friends in America rejoice as the heat of summer gets turned down and the holiday festivities begin to start up.

This time of the year feels slightly less snuggly in South Africa.

It’s that time of year.

It’s the time where the entire country seems to hit the slump of weariness from the hard work of surviving, and even the sky starts to cry. The rain begins and ushers in the summertime infantry of creepers and crawlers in the cottage. In the communities, discontentment and drudgery start just enough grumbles for wildfires and riots to explode. And everyone seems to just try to make it until the country shuts itself down in December.

Myself included.

My silent blog is a symptom of a disillusioned heart. It seems like the wildness and weariness of the land are overtaking all these heart-sown seeds and all these beautiful people. It feels like I’ve poured my heart and soul into the everlasting promises I believe into a land that is destined to turn on an axis of chronic chaos.

When I look around, though spring flowers are blooming, I see tired, backsliding people.

Myself included.

We’ve crossed a million milestones this year.

We’ve done a hundred happy dances and eaten at least that many pieces of cake.

We clear away the crumbs, and we slip and we slide.

As I run out of strength and words and vision, I cry out to the anchor for my soul. I prayed this week for vision... for something. Because “where there is no vision, the people perish…” (Proverbs 29:18 AKJV) And I felt like I was perishing.

My Vision and my Anchor reminded me of the words that have been there all along.

“My angel will go ahead of you and bring you into the land… I will make all your enemies turn their backs and run…

…But I will not drive them out in a single year, because the land would become desolate and the wild animals too numerous for you. Little by little I will drive them out before you, until you have increased enough to take possession of the land.”

Exodus 23:23, 27, 29, 30

What if it’s not really backsliding?

What if it’s just really good love?

What if He’s just a really faithful God even when my vision is blurred because I’m looking the wrong way?

The land is good and is made for a crazy-good, snuggly, overflowing cornucopia of greatness, abundance… of REAL LOVE. Not just the love I know how to look for. 

There’s promise for this land.

There was another Promised Land in which a lot more people spent a lot more time slaving, fighting, walking, praying, wandering, hoping, crying, battling and backsliding toward. Finally, when they made it to the great SHEBANG and crossed over miracle-style into the land of milk and honey, the glory of God came down and said…

…Wait for it…

I love you so much that you can’t have it all right now.

I love you so much that you have to keep fighting battles.

I love you so much you have to keep losing a little bit so you can gain a whole lot.

I love you so much I won’t give you the whole wide world today because the whole wide world is just too wild for you today.

I love you so much I want you to require me, to beg me for my vision, and to bring me to every battle line.

I love you so much I’ll let you backslide until you find me.

Ishya

There are too many wild animals in the land.

There are too many severed families, defeated hearts and broken bodies.

There are too many loud sounds, and all the people would not be able to hear the battle cry or the victory shouts yet.

So maybe backsliding is really just backtracking to get back to the real vision, the real promises, the real love.

What if love was a rodeo?

8 seconds at a time.

One hand up high. One hand holding tight.

When we are released out of that chute into the arena, we fix our everything on the battle before us, never losing our ability to hear that victory buzzer.

Then we wait for the next go-round.

We wear our shiny belt buckles to remember the wins while we go into the next one.

One bull and battle at a time, we hold on.

He knows the grand prize that awaits us, and He wants no one to miss out. He won’t let the wild animals overtake us, even when we think we just want to take on the whole rodeo in 8 seconds and get it over with.

Real love holds on tight and rides 8 seconds at a time. Real love gets dirty, gets hurt and gets bucked. Real love holds on to what’s real.

So, today, I am just holding on. And counting on that real, good love that is better than I can understand.

“I am coming soon. Hold on to what you have so that no one will take your crown.”

Revelation 3:11

It's Heritage Day

“It’s normal to us. It’s just something that happens in our communities.”

Violence. Riots. Fires. Destruction.  Anger. Oppression.

It started around 1:30am last Monday morning right outside of Lucricia and Ruth’s house. By the time the sun came up, the rioters were setting fires to entire tree farms, provoking other communities to rally against authorities by striking and blockading, and had started a picket line of fire on the main road into town, ensuring they were seen and that even their own neighbors couldn’t break the line to make it to work.

The people in the neighboring communities around us, the ones we call family, wait outside for the government water truck every week with big barrels. An all day affair, many travel back and forth from their homes with smaller buckets to get the water from the roadside into their houses. It’s the only water source most people have.

The water system has never been known for its reliability. Ten years ago, the community of Mbonisweni welcomed running water from community taps three times a week. When it suddenly stopped without explanation, life just carried on one bucket and one water truck delivery at a time. Now the water truck has been delivering dirty water, and the people are drying out. 

Finally, something snapped and a match was struck.

What does it take? Where does it start? Who lit that match?

Someone hiding in the darkness of night, too afraid to speak in the daylight.

Someone whose grumbles and hunger for vengeance caught ablaze amongst all of those dehydrated souls.

Someone whose fight for rights brought death instead of life.

I kept asking our friends who cook for our after-school program in their own community, Mbonisweni, what it was like during the strike and why the people decided to strike for water.

“Strike is they language they understand. If you don’t do anything, they don’t do anything. They are writing lies.”

Even though they were afraid and in danger, and even though they shine like the brightest lights from behind the serving line in the churchyard, the strike was as far into problem-solving as they could imagine.

Striking is the language they understand.

The same people standing at the strike lines last week were crossing over them victoriously twenty years ago as the legal separation of apartheid ended. After years of violent protests, and at the hand of one man who used his voice for peacemaking, black South Africans were given a vote and a new chance.

We do what we know.

We do what we see, what we hear, and what we think works.

Even if it ends in death.

Today is Heritage Day in South Africa, where the many cultures of the “Rainbow Nation” are encouraged to celebrate their diversity, traditions and beliefs. Our actions and worldview stem from our cultural heritages.

One of the most celebrated holidays in South Africa is Youth Day. June 16 commemorates an uprising by young black South Africans for the end of apartheid and equality amongst races. It began on June 16, 1976 with a 13-year old boy being killed by police and continued through the end of a bloody, violent year during which hundreds losing their lives.

Now the communities dress up on June 16 with pride, joy and a sense of powerful freedom.

Who taught us that death sets us free?

And why do we keep making holidays and national news with it? For it?

One man used his voice for peace and set South Africa free 20 years ago. So why do we celebrate and recreate the riots, the danger, and the violence when the real victory was when the prisoner was set free? When Nelson Mandela walked out of jail to bring unity instead of draw lines and eventually to assume authority over a free nation?

Thoughts were racing in my mind in that multi-cultural post-riot circle last week. Where do we start? Where do we stop? Do we draw lines or erase them?

So I just asked, “What do you want for your children?”

Silence.

Then Ruth spoke. “Talking is the only solution. We have to teach them to talk if you have a problem. Go direct to them, and talk to them. When you strike, some things are damaged. We have to change that, and teach them now.”

It’s Heritage Day.

And the next generation only knows what this generation teaches. And this generation only knows violence and an oppression masked as liberty. But if we’re looking at history, let’s look further back than 20 years.

Let’s look 2000 years.

Let’s look at the heritage, the legacy, left by the One who is the peacemaker. Who became the oppression and bowed low as injustice spikes shot through his hands and adorned his head. He walked out of a tomb so the captives could be set free. All they have to do is drop the chains and take off the grave clothes.

Freedom is our heritage.

Beauty for ashes. Joy for mourning. Praise instead of despair.

Vengeance has no place.

Justice came down and did so much more than level the playing field. He gave us His heritage instead of the world’s.

It took one person to light a match that ravaged South Africa farmlands last week.

It took one bullet to start a half year’s bloodshed in 1976.

It took one man to use his prison chambers to write freedom’s songs.

And it took One to change everything forever and ever – and to set real freedom free in every circumstance, every conversation and every culture.

We started with just a question and a conversation that day in the circle. Because we have to start somewhere to connect the chasm of His Kingdom come and His Kingdom coming.

It’s Heritage Day. Everything we say, do, or don’t do conveys a culture and leaves a legacy. Start something. Let Light shine by the Word of the Father instead of the flames of a fighter.

I will proclaim the Lord’s decree:

He said to me, “You are my son;

today I have become your father. Ask me,

and I will make the nations your inheritance,

the ends of the earth your possession.”

Psalm 2:7-8

Real Men Talk About Pads

Sam gets up really early every morning, along with a few others, and catches a bus from his community to the Ten Thousand Homes base for work.

Sam's here for more than a pay check though. He has embraced the vision of TTH, is living with integrity, and strives for excellence and beauty in everything he does. He takes pride in overseeing our grounds, and he leads the other workers and staff toward valuing what we've been given.

Including each other.

Sam's team, a group of local South Africans coming out of the very survival-based orphan crisis that brought us here, have been transformed from workers to servants, from employees to family. They take up a collection, host a mini-party and buy a personalized gift for every person on the base for their birthdays. These guys grew up in a culture that doesn't typically celebrate birthdays and doesn't know how to operate as a family!

Sam stood up during our staff meeting a couple of weeks ago with a whole new confidence and determination. He spoke up with expectancy and purpose.

And he told us to go buy some pads.

It took me a minute to make sure I had it right through that accent and through that man voice of his.

Sam... did you just tell me to go buy pads? Like, lady things?

Oh. Yes. He. Did.

Where I come from, men don't typically stand up and talk about feminine hygiene.
But where I come from, a man who is a voice for the voiceless is a real man. 

Sam stood up in front of a variety of cultures, ages and genders and dispatched us to the lady aisle. From the bottom of his heart, Sam explained this is what he knew we had to do because young girls are suffering in the school all around us. He wants to collect 300 pads to take to a local school because young women are filled with shame when they are unable to buy pads when needed and they cannot go to school.

It costs about $4 for 20 pads - which is about 40% of a day's wages, for those that have a full-time job.

God has definitely put this passion is Sam... I have no idea why.
But it doesn't even matter. He is passionately pursuing it, and he's reminding me that, whether it's through finances, family counseling, or feminine products, we were designed to pursue the purposes of God with all of our hearts.

Here's a message from Sam! If you would like to help buy pads, click the Paypal link on the right hand column of my blog. After the Paypal fee, 100% of donations specified for Sam, will go toward buying pads.

This is the House that Hope Built

In the last post, I wrote about Zinhle. You need to read it.

Because a resurrection doesn’t mean anything without a death.

There was so much death. Too much death.

But there’s a story of sovereignty for grieving mothers in the hands of the healing Father.

Sifiso and Lizzy, the family we took a chance on, know Zinhle.

Their worlds turned upside down when Ten Thousand Homes showed up into the pile of ashes that used to be their shack, and built a beautiful home and even more beautiful relationships. They got more than a house… They got hope.

They kept asking how to repay us, and we kept saying to love others the way they’ve been loved.

That pile of bricks started a movement in a community called Mbonisweni. Sifiso and Lizzy have become first responders, head lifters, and family to the familyless. They aren’t just paying it forward… they are multiplying our investment exponentially. They’re making Zinhle family.

Despite the talk of the town, the backsliding and the broken pieces, they wanted to build a shack on their property so Zinhle could have somewhere safe to live for free – with family. They asked us to pray with them for enough provision for Sifiso to build it after he gets home from a long day’s work at Ten Thousand Homes.

We huddled up with Holiness himself. We prayed together. We rallied the troops.

People who know hope build homes.

People who know family do family.

So we did.

Money came from North and South America.

The men from the church came from right down the road.

Pastor Sthembiso put on his work clothes and worked ALL day...
but please note that he kept his pastor shoes on.

A church from the UK, Discipleship Training School students, and the TTH staff came in a caravan.

And we built a shack.

We built with prayers, hugs and kisses, and hammers and nails.

We built that shack with hope. Because we had met Hope. And He builds Home.

 

People who weren't even there built Home through generous giving
and by sending a knitted blanket.

It took just over a day to build the first safe place Zinhle’s ever known. The first place to call her own. It costs about $150 US to build life where there was death.

  

This is the house that hope built.

Zinhle standing in her new doorway.

This smile is priceless.

The end of the first day of the shack. Zinhle on far right.

And you can't build a house without a welcome home party! 

Impromptu UK takeover and home party!

Too much goodness to worry about my photography skills... oops.

But you can still see the smile!

Praying over Zinhle, Lizzy and the new house of hope.

And then BACKIN' IT UP in the name of hope!
Please note how deliriously happy I am that Zinhle is smiling and dancing.

And y'all... she put some BOOTY in it.

It began again.

In June, she slumped into the churchyard when it was time to feed the children, her head and her very existence practically dragging through the dry, red dust. Ringworm was devouring her body, defenseless without an immune system. The baby on her back left her fragile frame hunched by the extra weight, but was the reason she was willing to take those shame-laden steps.

Adults don’t come to the kids program. Not unless they’re desperate.

Her name is Zinhle. She needed a family.

With her dried out heart and her dried out hope, she whispered desperate words onto the dried out winter soil. She was sick. So, so sick. And desperate. She was renting a room she couldn’t afford and sleeping on the cold concrete ground in that room. She had no food, and, as a result, couldn’t take the medication she desperately needed.

She was at her end. So we prayed. And, it felt like a firework show inside of me. 

I knew God was just at His beginning.

We found Zinhle again, and we brought her people, prayers and provision. We asked if we could be family, knowing she’s bounced from abuse to abuse, never knowing a family she could trust. She said all she wanted was for her son to come home. He was living with a man who was abusing him.

There was no space, no food, nothing that said he should come home… except a mom who loves hard. How could this woman, broken in body, mind and soul, still love? Still long?

We all need family.

It’s our connection to each other that keeps us alive, even when there’s nothing else.

We made a way for her son to come home. Even in the not enough, there was love and happiness. The first time I met him, he snuggled his big body into my lap like a kitten, desperate to be held and full of joy because there was family.

The only family photo I have. Her baby is tied on her back.

A few weeks ago, Lizzy called me on a Sunday night.

“I’m just calling to tell you Zinhle’s baby is dead.”

Shock. Silence. Until I could finally say, “I’m coming tomorrow.”

The next morning at 7:30am, Lizzy calls again.

“I’m just wondering when you’re coming. Zinhle is still with her baby. She doesn’t know what to do. Can you come take the body? We have no money to bury her.”

Shock. Silence. I don’t think I can do this.

Soon after that, another phone call came saying an auntie had come to take the baby to the mortuary. There were tangles of shame, cultural traditions and broken family dynamics we waded through over the next week. Zinhle called me that evening and just wept.

She was considered and unwelcome financial burden in her auntie’s home, and she just needed someone to weep to.

I almost couldn’t bear the burden of a wailing mother on the other end of the line. I couldn’t even imagine…

Zinhle fell off the map for a while, hiding in old coping mechanisms and too consumed by the darkness to be able to stand the light.

This felt like the end again. But still, it was only the beginning.

It began with desperate dragging, a broken body, and a child leaving the loving arms of His mother to go back to His Father.

And when He got to the top… to the very bottom of death…

He said, “It is finished.”

That’s when it began again.

And it keeps on.

Zinhle was not the first and will not be the last to lay her child in a grave.

To weep and to wail.

To drown herself in her own depravity.

But there was one Child who rose from the grave.

And He said, “I will never forsake you.”

He said family is waiting at the ends of the earth and right here at this gravesite.

He said the Family has come, and the Family is coming.

It’s been finished, so now you can begin.

And so we began.

I’ll show you what it looks like in just a few days. 

To be continued...

Dancing in the Deep End

I’m probably going to sound realllllly mature from now on. It’s totally because I turned 30.

Birthday Week commenced with that rainbow swirl cake that gave me a perspective and a taste of abundant life far grander than the Texas two-step dreams I had conjured up for myself. (And I really, really love two-stepping.) But that was only the beginning. From that moment on, it was a birthday BAMBOOZLING!

(Rhetorical question: Does my giddiness about rainbow swirl cake and/or use of the word “bamboozling” invalidate my testimony as to how mature and grown up I’ve become?)

It was a week of overflow. I was covered in celebration, singing, sugar, encouragement, gifts, spa treatment, and even dirty mop water. My friend Amanda was here, and she was a greater gift than I could have ever asked for.

This lady continuously teaches me about authentic love.

I was maxed out by all the love. Almost embarrassed because it just wouldn’t stop.

I agreed to go out to a low key, no pressure dinner to celebrate again with Amanda and some of my TTH family. The week had been so full, I didn’t want to put anyone out or wear them out any more than they already were. As Amanda and I got ready for dinner and chatted, just like our grad school days together, we were interrupted by a surprise announcement that came from both my family at TTH and a video from my sister.

There would be no going out for dinner.

There would be nothing low key about this evening.

And there were maracas!

They told me they were bringing Texas to me, and I needed to sit down and watch this video… It is deep, hilarious, ridiculous, overwhelming, I-can’t-handle-it birthday love from so many people in so many places.

BAM. BOOZLED.

(This is the point Amanda started regretting allowing me to put on eye makeup for the night.)

It was enough to do me in, but the night was just beginning.

I walked my happy, puffy eyes outside to the song “God Bless Texas” blaring, a fiesta-flavored mob of celebration, and so many smiling people shouting “SURPRISE!” A full-fledged, pulled-out-all-the-stops, totally got me party, y’all.

This is what a Texas-Fiesta-South African-Samoan fusion surprise looks like.
Now you know.

They decorated, prepared and cooked extravagantly. (REAL. GOOD. FAJITAS.)  

There was a photo booth and chocolate fondue.

    

There was a lip sync concert and an art project.

They moved sand and beach chairs into the bottom of our empty pool to bring Galveston beach to me, where they sat me down and showered me with love and the thankful game.

THEY LEARNED HOW TO TWO-STEP.

Look at my ridiculously happy face. Meanwhile, Jared was
shouting, "SHE'S NOT DOING IT LIKE THEY TAUGHT ME!"
So then I tried to let him lead again. 

And we danced and danced and danced. We dropped it low right there in the deep end. (Note: this party was not limited to country music and two-stepping.)

If this doesn't look like heaven in an empty pool, I don't know what does.

Don't judge me... He started it.

Even after everything that happened that week, they celebrated and loved extravagantly.

Deep got different that night.

And deep got deeper the next morning when I woke up to find out that my little sister had been working for months to rally the amazing people in my life to pitch in for A NEW LAPTOP.

It just kept coming. Deeper and deeper.

More than a week later, I am still speechless behind this brand new computer screen. Seriously, I’ve been trying to write this blog for four hours.

In the aftermath of that deep end dream come true that I had never ever dreamt of, I got to be a part of an even bigger party yesterday. We bussed more than 400 children and local volunteers onto the Ten Thousand Homes base, and treated them to a Day of Royalty.

Three bouncing busloads put on their Sunday best and gathered HOURS before it was time to go for the big event. Upon arrival, they were transformed into princes and princesses, bestowed with gifts, invited into a smorgasbord of activities, and were taught that they are princes and princesses worthy of celebrating because they are children of the King.

That same deep end where we danced in 30 was transformed into a prince and princess worship concert. (ahem… slightly different musical stylings)

That same deep love we experienced when family came together and gave all they had in the name of extravagant love multiplied.

I think I’m starting to get it…

Deep end love is exponential.

When we learn how to two-step and when we spend sweaty Saturdays wiping princess snot…

When we splurge our resources, ourselves, and our creative whimsies on someone else…

When we jump in without holding back, even when it’s way over our heads…

When we’re willing to dance in the deep end of someone’s life…

That’s when things change.

That’s abundant life. It’s in the deep end.

We find life and breath when we lay down our own capacities and go further than where we can breathe on our own.

The deep has always existed. That’s where The Creator began the beginning. 

(I checked... it's in Genesis 1:2)

His bottomless, eternity-sized canvas and capacity is where He hovered, dreaming and delighting over each breath of beauty His week would behold... and then He jumped in. His hands, His heart, and even His Son.

He jumped into our deep ends and became them.

And then He invited us into a new kind of deep. The kind where deep dances with deep – and keeps going deeper. The place where we are bestowed with a crown of beauty, oil of gladness and a garment of praise.

I’ll never forget how deeply your love affected me. That kind of love, that started in the deep end of an empty swimming pool, awoke deeper places in me than I knew existed. The first 30 years was just the shallow end compared to what's ahead… Because now I know there’s deeper.

I want to love someone everyday the way I’ve been loved. To continuously roll out the red carpet, bestowing embarrassing honor and extravagance on every little (and big) prince and princess I meet.

Deep end love is multiplying exponentially in me. So I’m asking for a deeper place to dance in.

Me too.

Thank you for the deep, deep ways you have loved me.