Secrets from the Sweatbox: How to become a Next Level Ninja

I have a hero for a husband. 

Lifa, our 8-year old, constantly watches and listens, trying to absorb Chris' super-powers. On the heels of our household hero, Lifa is discovering his adventurers heart. Just like Dad, he is developing a love for animals, camping, hiking, fire-building, and 4x4’s you can do man stuff in. My guys are awesome adventurers. 

Look at what we do:

Lifa's first camping trip. Kruger National Park.

That’s the Defender. The icon of rugged adventures, manly manliness, and a movement in itself in South Africa. We love that thing. It screams CHRIS LADD, and it makes his wife drool and want to go off-roading for dates. Lifa has built at least a jillion Defenders with his Legos. It’s become a thing in our family. We are those people. 

Well, we were those people. Until the fateful day my handsome husband climbed into the hammock with me and the afternoon sun. He told me it was time to sell the Defender. WHAT!?!

Chris told me that the Defender is his adventuring dream car, but now his biggest dreams are for family adventures instead of his own. His dreams still include rooftop tents, 4-wheel drive, and lots of manly words I don’t even get. But now they include the ability to talk to Lifa in the backseat while we adventure, and to eventually expand as a family. (Swoon.) 

Yesterday was the day. We dropped off the Defender and said our goodbyes. 

We swallowed our emotion, gave thanks for new adventures ahead, and headed back home in my car.

Until we broke down. Less than a mile later.

Boom. Just like that. 

We went from a 2-car family to a no-car family in less than 5 minutes.

Can you feel the tension potential as we sat on the side of the road and stared at each other with question marks in our eyes?

Lifa wasn’t even wearing his cape. We simply were not prepared for this. 

Luckily, I married a hero. 

Chris jumped out of the car and started dad doing stuff - the kind of stuff dads do when cars break down and there is not a back-up plan or a cape in sight. I looked at Lifa and told him we’d better pray for Dad. He closed his little super hero eyes and asked God for Dad to feel His peace, for our protection and that everything would be fine. As soon as we amen’d, an angel in a little red car pulled up and offered to help. Chris locked Lifa and I up safely in the broken car while he went in the little red angel car to get help. 

Luckily, it’s winter in South Africa… which means the high that day was only EIGHTY DEGREES Fahrenheit.

Let me set the scene for you: 

We were baking inside of a broken car on the side of a road in notoriously un-safe South Africa. With no cars left in our family. I hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. I was existing on nothing but prayers and crazy. It was 1:00pm, and I hadn’t eaten anything all day. Lifa only had 1 of his 4 giant meals that day. We had no water. And did I mention the sweat? I don’t mean a forehead glisten… I mean armpit fountains and vertebrae rivers. A ROADSIDE SWEATBOX. Oh, and we had just said goodbye to our beloved Defender.

So that’s what we were working with... 

I looked at Lifa and said, “This is awesome Lifa. This is like we are inside a big, giant secret.” He wiped the sweat out of his eyes, leaned in, and we took it from there.

First, we created a reality TV show about ourselves, taking turns commentating and creating save-the-day scenarios. Then, as he began to wilt and worry, we started talking real talk. 

“Lifa, who’s job is it in our family to save the day and solve the problems?"

“Dad’s."

“Who’s job is it to take care of us and take care of our cars?"

“Dad’s."

“YES! So our job is to listen to what Dad says. And his job is really just to listen to God so he can know how to save the day.  If we do our job, Dad can do his job, and God takes care of us all."

Lifa beamed and relief filled the seat-belted sweatbox. “That’s pretty cool."

Instant freedom. It replaced the sweat spews and hunger groans. It filled up every nook and cranny that could have been a cranky space with radical thankfulness. 

I leaned in to my sweaty ninja-child and told him that this was actually a secret training sweatbox. God was giving us a chance to become Next Level Ninjas for Him.

“Whaaaaat!?!”

“Oh yeah. Are you ready for the next level, Lifa? Can God trust you with His next-level secrets?"

All 8 years of him were IN. I was just as eager to hear what would come out of my mouth as he was! 

I explained to him that true training only happens when it’s hard. You get really strong when your muscles - or your super powers - have to work really, really hard. We assessed our situation and made an action plan of how we could do the very best at our job of helping Dad. 

We made a pact:

1. No complaining about anything. Ever. Even after we finished sweating and had all the water we could handle, we would never complain about how hot or thirsty we were. 
2. We would be thankful. Not for the stuff we wanted to happen, but for the stuff that was happening. We would be thankful for God trusting us in the sweatbox and for giving us a chance to become Next Level Ninjas for His Kingdom. 
3. We would pray. For Dad, for our circumstances, for all of our needs to be met. 

It was our sweaty secret. 

We felt so empowered. SO joyful. So sure of God’s presence. 

We practiced for a little while. And then we did the only thing left to do: We took Next Level Ninja photos. 

Moments later, that heroic husband of mine showed up IN OUR (former) DEFENDER. 

Lifa and I winked at each other, put on our smiles, and listened to the series of events and problem solving my husband had been busy with while we’d been praying, playing and flexing in our sweatbox full of secrets. 

We ended up using the Defender to tow my car, and Lifa lost his ever-lovin’ Ninja mind. “THANK YOU GOD! THIS IS GOD’S PLAN! HE KNEW THAT I ALWAYS WANTED TO SEE THE DEFENDER DO THIS AND WE SOLD IT BEFORE WE EVER PULLED A CARRRRRRR!” (Read that really fast and loud and with outrageous ninja-like giggling, and you’ll be close.)

Totally an appropriate time to take pictures. They call me Mamarazzi for a reason.

“This is awesome Lifa. Now get it together and play it cool. Next Level Ninja style. Ready?"

Game faces. ON. 

We smile at the handsome hero as he continues to sweat, save days and solve problems. Lifa goes deep into this next level thing, and I can almost tangibly feel the Holy Spirit equipping our family for any and every form of future sweatbox we’ll face. We keep whispering to each other: "No complaining. Be thankful. Pray for everything.” And we did. 

Lifa having one last goodbye while the men did men stuff with my broken car.

When our friend picked us up, we played The Thankful Game. Lifa poured out his thankfulness for the adventure, for the talk with Mom, for Dad saving the day, and for everything good he had seen. And then he leaned over to me in the backseat, whispered, and winked, “I made sure not to talk about the sweating.” 

We exchanged a solid thumbs up, and that’s when I knew: Lifa was a Next Level Ninja. 

We let God change the shapes and sizes of our adventure dreams, and we run after them. He loves that. Yet even in the middle of that obedience, we break down. With no backup plan. Because He loves us. 

Because when we break down, wait and have to remember what our job is, we become strong enough to live out the dreams we were chasing and to dream bigger ones. 

We enter into secret, sweaty, hungry, thirsty spaces, and we find nothing to complain about and everything to celebrate.

We find out that angels drive red cars and that when we all do our jobs, nobody is on their own. We keep secrets deep inside of us, only occasionally winking them out in the backseat - the good kind that swallow up sorrow with joy. The kind that make super powers swell up and stress dry out.

I never want to stop sweating and secreting and needing to remember my job:

No complaining. Always pray. Be thankful.

 

I want my plans to keep breaking down on the side of the road, so He can save the day and pave His way.

 

I want to be a no-car family that goes places. 

What's In Your Hands?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was so free, so empowered, so capable.

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

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

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

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

Mind. Blown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I looked at those hands. I looked around.

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

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

“Kacy, what is in your hands?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's not your fault.

White mom problems strike again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it’s not just Lifa.

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

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

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

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

My mama heart reflex is to protect my kid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now go put on your cape and fly.

Two Kinds of Normal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lifa, what does normal mean?”

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

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

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

“No.”

Thoughts whirring.

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

Whoa. Thinking. Silence. Whoa.

“Want to hear a secret, Lifa?”

“YES.”

And we’re back. Because secrets are awesome.

There are two kinds of normal.

There are two Kingdoms with two different normals.

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

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

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

Here’s the catch:

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

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

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

Heaven is forever.

And YOU get to choose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the days you don't take pictures

Red dirt breezes, preschool play sounds, a freshly swept yard, and a pot of beans cooking on an open fire in the heat of the day. I love walking into the Dayizenza CarePoint site. There’s something so right about the instantaneous welcome of a full-body dust film, tiny little thumbs shooting in the air waiting to meet yours, and the most beautiful-hearted, happy mamas who spend five days a week giving of themselves to feed their community.

Chris started this project from the ground up with these women years ago and has a special place in his heart for them. When we enter the Dayizenza CarePoint gate, I watch the warm breeze blow fresh vision and deeper purpose into my handsome husband while he cracks jokes with GoGo and plans playgrounds with SesEdith.

It feels good there. They love so deeply and so fully. No matter who you are or where you come from. I can’t help but snap photo after photo of the loving, the loved, and the to-be-loved. There’s a Kingdom being built up and dished out in that yard.

Every once in a while, though, there’s a day when I don’t take pictures.

Last week, we went to visit the mamas in the middle of the day. All the kids were still in school, and the mothers cooked, chatted and giggled. It was a hot, hot day, and we noticed a little boy sprawled on a mat in the sun with a gob of tissue in his hand. Chris asked who he was and if he was sick. He offered to take him to a clinic because the little guy, who couldn’t have been more then 3- or 4-years old, was not looking well. The mothers said that he was ok, but his nose had been bleeding so his family had left him there to be cared for during the day.

The women didn’t have to think twice about making space for a little guy who needed a little extra. It’s just who they are. Those are the moments that make the sweetest pictures.

But something was missing in that photo.

It was a picture not to be taken that day.

Chris was worried. He kept asking, checking, seeking information about the little guy. My husband wanted to help the little boy. He wanted the ladies to do something for him. But as far as the mothers could see, this little one was fully loved and cared for by them because he was there amongst them. When you’re with them, you’re part of them. That part of the culture is beautiful.

However, another part of their culture is the reality that, if a child is not your own flesh and blood, the same standard of care, maternal instincts, and even basic needs to protect someone’s life do not apply. Life is certainly valued, but someone else’s only takes second place to yourself and your family.  You respond to a need with what’s on hand and otherwise don’t interrupt the smooth and steady flow of your day. And it’s not because you don’t care. It’s because that’s the way it is and the way it always has been.

It’s a survival instinct. But we weren’t made to survive. We were made to thrive.

We walk a fine line everyday, not wanting to replace their standards with ours, or expecting them to care in the exact ways we do. We are here to find the pictures, the fingerprints of God, in the midst of the strengths and struggles of different histories and lifestyles. We gather up all of God’s images to captures an image of the true culture of the Kingdom of God. 

Some things are done differently in their culture, and it doesn’t make it wrong... but it sure does feel different. And then sometimes, you get down, get dirty and disciple because the Word of God makes it clear how Heaven’s culture would respond.

It was time for us to leave on that picture-less day, and the boy still lay there seemingly unattended. He was under a blanket, wearing a jacket and the blazing sun was shining right on his sweet, sweaty face. The ladies insisted he was ok. He was not ok. Not because I have a first aid pack with all the finest products or because I would throw all those clothes in my washing machine right away.

Not because I think their love is broken. But because God loves that little boy enough to give up His Boy for him and would want somebody to bend down over that body and give of theirs.

We grew up in a culture and families that showed us how to do that.

They did not.

They needed us to be the picture that day, not to take one.

Past time to go, I sat on the ground with that boy and pried the tissue out of his hand as I checked to make sure his nose had stopped bleeding. He was dehydrated and hungry beyond the ability to move or speak. I pulled his mat into the shade, took off his jacket and wiped the sweat away from his body. I spoke soothing words over him as I cleaned off his face, and told him what a handsome young man he is. The ladies watched, first only noticing that I sat down completely undignified-like on the ground in my dress. Finally, they started to see there was more to the picture than the extra laundry I would have to do when I got home. They watched my hands on that tiny, sweaty body. They watched me change his circumstances, and they heard me speak over him.

And then I invited them in. I told the ladies they needed to give him food and water right away. They had a full pot of warm food already prepared, just waiting on the kids to get out of school. And fresh running water from the well on site. It had been accessible and available all day, but they just never thought to change the order of the day. They would have certainly fed this boy when they fed the others. His urgent, critical need in that moment was just another urgent, critical need amongst the hundreds of other people, stories and households’ they knew about.

It only took a moment for the air to change though. Suddenly, their eyes were opened to this beautiful boy. They brought him food and water, and they happily and lovingly fed him. Because it feels good to do good.

These mamas are made of love by Love Himself. And they love to love.

Just days before this day, I had asked SesEdith what she would learn to make her life better if she could only learn one more thing in her whole life. She leaned in and from the deepest place in her, she replied, “Teach us how to take care of our children. Our own children and other people’s children. Teach their parents too. We don’t know how. There are so many parents that are so young, and they never had parents. We don’t know how.”

You can LOVE swimming, but never take a swim lesson or be taken to the water. You have to see the water, and then you have to dive in.

You can’t be held responsible for what you’ve never seen and never known. But we are held responsible for what we don’t show, don’t do, and for our tiptoeing around other people’s values as to not cause a ripple or make a wave in life as we know it.

We aren’t made to take pictures of hopelessness and despair for shock value or to make ourselves feel guilty for that $5 latte.

We are made to be the picture.

You don’t have to be in the middle of Africa’s HIV orphan crisis to bend down, get dirty and be the love people need to know about. You’ve seen. You’ve known.

Some days, stop and take a picture. Most days, stop and be the picture.

BIGFOOT IS REAL: Ladd Family Big Announcement

Seven months ago, I took the strongest, safest arm on the planet, and we walked.

He wore Converse. I wore boots. While we walked, we dodged giant giraffe footprints. We also laughed when Lifa’s big feelings and big feet led to a big face-plant on his first step down that wedding aisle with us. (HILARIOUS!)

Just weeks after that, I still held that strong arm as we walked into our new church together. Lifa ran this time, blissfully plunging himself into the yard full of children playing cricket, rugby and climbing trees before worship began.

We were walking into more than we could have ever imagined, more than being the kid in a cape with the white mom. We were being led as a family, into a big yard, into worship, and into a whole new level of living.

And did I mention that the man leading us is SO handsome!?!

There was a baptism that day at church. The church owns the big house next door to it and rents it out to tenants, while reserving rights to the backyard pool for baptisms. It was my first time to set foot in that yard. I fell in love with the huge tree that bowed down to just the right height for a swing and a slide. I was enchanted by the porch that wrapped around the back, overlooking the perfect picnic yard and mango trees. Something was welling up in me as the church marched in for that baptism, and it was bigger than just my some-day dream of rocking chair porches and hammock-strewn gardens.

I looked at my new husband and, without realizing what I was saying, told him, “This is our house. And I love it.”

Blink. Blink.

Baptism!

Back to the car.

“This is our house. I think God just showed me that.”

We just got married. We just moved into the perfect newlywed home – safe, secure, within our means, and just the right size to learn how to be a family.

Our small home was perfect for our small family. But what about God's Family - the One we were made in the image of?

You see...

Before we got married, God said this:

“I will fill whatever space You give Me.”

That means we have a responsibility to make space – more space than we could even imagine – and trust God to fund it, fill it, and make Himself famous in it.

If we give Him little, He’d do a little.

But if we give Him A LOT? He’d do even more than that.

Bring it. We’re totally in, Lord.

Increase our imagination, and then do more than we could ever imagine.

(And please, oh please, let those mangos taste awesome. We are mango people.)

After the baptism, the blinking and my mildly apprehensive claim, Chris said, “Ok. Keep praying about it.”

Oh boy did I pray.

We walked miles and miles through our neighborhood in the first months of marriage. Lifa mastered riding his bike with no hands (and falling like a boss) during those walks, and Chris and I put our minds and imaginations together. With every step and every walk, we were making more space for God in our marriage, our words, our dreams, and our vision.

I remember the walk when I told Chris, “I’ve been praying about the house. I’m sure. And I think it’s going to be sooner than we think we’re ready for.” That was in early November. I said I thought something was going to happen in March. I also told him that God had asked me to drive by that house everyday and thank Him for what He’s already done, and I’d been doing that for the past month.

Please keep in mind folks that, not long before, this man walking next to me had moved into a new town, become a father, a husband, and nothing had settled into a new normal yet.

Maybe our new normal is meant to be space-making, imagination-growing, prayer-conquering, and ground-claiming.

Maybe the cadence we were meant to march to is the kind that makes mountains cannonball into oceans. The kind that doesn’t just visit during baptisms and look longingly at the back porch, but moves in and flips on the switch for the Light of the World.

That faithful, handsome husband of mine did not hesitate. He contacted the church and shared what God had spoken to me. And he joined me in drive-by thank you prayers. He started claiming the finances and ignoring all the parts that didn’t make sense - like the church having no idea what they were going to ultimately do with the house, the tenants that still lived there, our own capacity and budget, and so on and so on… Details-schmeetails.

Then we went to America. We got to meet our new families, spend time with the people and places that shaped us, and speak. We covered A LOT of miles on that trip and shared a lot of meals with people we love. With every meal and mile, we made space. We claimed what was ours: more than we could think or imagine. Not because we wanted more, but because we could not, would not limit our Maker. 

Like the widow with the jars, we don’t ever want to stop bringing jars because ain’t nobody got time to put a lid on the King of Kings. (2 Kings 4:1-6)

I wonder if the widow ever felt insecure about asking her neighbors for their jars? Or felt too presumptuous about the big stack of empty vessels she brought to be filled? We brought jar after jar of our bare-naked faith for Him to fill by sharing with everyone what we believed, not knowing how HE was going to do it. Only knowing we don’t want it to stop. Chris pursued the pastors of the church; we kept pressing in; we kept asking and thanking. 

“…Go outside, borrow vessels from all your neighbors, empty vessels and not too few.” 2 Kings 4:3

May 1^st.

WE’RE MOVING IN.

Y'all.. there’s a huge kitchen! And a double oven!

(Oh, and don't worry that I'm already prayer-claiming a KitchenAid mixer, food processor,  and dishwasher. Aka: Your Kingdom come, Your will be done.)

A double-oven and a big farmhouse are only the beginnings of spreading out wide and increasing our imagination. You can taste first cluster of grapes after a lifetime of manna and think you’re satisfied. You can glimpse of the Promised Land from the banks of the Jordan and feel fulfilled. And you’ve really only been a taste-tester and a spectator of the Kingdom.

It’s all about what you do from there.

The Lord told Joshua, “I will give you every place where you set your foot, as I promised.” Joshua 1:3

But if they never set their foot there, they never got the promise.

Everywhere they walked was theirs.

After walking around a desert for 40 years, they only walked 1/3 of the lush, life-giving territory they’d been led to, so they ultimately only claimed 1/3 of their inheritance.

Every jar the widow brought was filled to sustain her family and show the neighbors God’s oily glory. The oil only stopped when she stopped bringing jars.

The Ladd family is going to have a big kitchen full of jars and big, big feet.

We aren’t going to stop walking or bringing jar after jar, bucket after bucket to the Promise Maker. He says to bring the Kingdom to earth, and we will. One step, one space at a time.

We will move into a big house on May 1^st, and we will walk the entire perimeter of that territory and claim it – we will claim more than we can see and more places than we can step.

We will watch Lifa grow into his big feet as he adventures in that house, and we will grow our imaginations and take bigger steps together as we gather there, with more and more people to make space for more and more of God.

You’re invited.

Take a walk with us in imagining, in faith, and in practical, real-life steps.

Send us the words of promise and encouragement God gives you.

Invest in the space-making and territory-claiming.

Maybe you’re a part of the way God will fill our space – with curtains and beds and rugs and furniture. Or with the ongoing increased expenses of daily life in a bigger space. Maybe it’s through prayers, partnering with us monthly, or going into your own yard, church, school, office or hometown and taking big, big steps and thanking God for giving you that land. Live there, settle in it, and feast.

Now you know, and you can’t not know.

Big promises are fulfilled with you take big steps and claim the land.

So maybe Bigfoot isn’t actually real.

But it's our big faith and footprints that claim a big space and reveal a big God.