I taught him "Please". He's teaching me "Thank you".

I've been huffing and puffing about the darkness and broken parts of the world all around me... and then becoming REALLY unpleasant when I realize I'm one of those broken pieces too.

Lifa came home for what might be a very short visit. For most of the days of the year, he lives in the sharp edges, infirmity and smoldering oppression that I kick and scream about living around. For most of his days, Lifa has no voice or height to rise above his current circumstances.
Right now I'm listening to him fight off the bad guys in his sleep.

But- For this two weeks, I hear him. 
And- Every single day of his life, MY GOD hears him.  

And- Today, I'm learning from him.

That little 4-year old voice that only speaks English when it comes to mama's house... that starts off silent, then turns to a whisper, and is now uncontrollable shrieking and laughing...
That big voice has a lot to say.

Lifa prays aloud all the time. Kids here learn lengthy, memorized prayers. I have no idea if he knows those.

I've listened to him all day today as he prays in his comings and goings.

He remembers to thank Jesus for everything... things I can't remember happened. He thanks Jesus for people who don't remember to say thank you. And makes sure everyone has a turn to say their thank-you's. He celebrates every piece of playground equipment, every puppy, every friend, every moment, and even says thank you for the things that haven't happened yet.

So today I'm going to take a big lesson from a little voice and bask in the glory of some of the beautiful moments God gave me this week. Bask in them and boast of them. And bring them to Him as a sacrifice of thanksgiving. (Psalm 50:23)

Thank you Jesus....

for Charity's first bubble bath.

for a hug and a hat.

for Hope and Home in progress.

for a mohawked, striped reminder of Your extravagant creativity.

 for a new cupcake pan.

 for Nandi's first birthday party... and a gazillion dazzling sprinkles from Texas.

 for role models... no matter who's influencing whom most.

for a fish pedicure and a friend to share moments with.

for this face.

for two boys and a blue balloon.

for three perfect children giggling through dinner together.

for that split second of surprise and delight when you see a monkey running right in front of you.

 for freshly-cleaned and painted 11-year old toenails.

 for a brother who does the dishes for you at the end of a long day.

"Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn't rescue the suffering. The converse does."

One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp

Why We Call It Miracle Week

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was Monday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Weary and revived.

Longing and satisfied.

Desperate and thankful.

This is what Miracle Week looks like.

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

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

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

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

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

In making the promises, they have been fulfilled.

The Truth has come and the Truth is coming.

That’s the miracle.

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

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

There’s no magic wand. Not even glitter.

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

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

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

I couldn't resist...

Call out the miracles with praise.

Cry out from the in-betweens in thanksgiving.

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

He hasn’t forgotten and He will not forsake.

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

2 Peter 3:9

Faithful local volunteer carrying donated food to the family of 5

Party People

Humility... sweet and holy and to the tune of my favorite worship song. That's how I like it.

Yesterday it came in the tune of house music, SiSwati speeches and culture shock.

I've lived here almost two years, and I find myself continuously surprised. I count it as an honor that I don't stand out as the only white person present anymore and that special allowances aren't made for me. I feel my way through language barriers, unspoken and unexplained norms, and things that sometimes make me grit my teeth and stomp my feet.

Yesterday I experienced a gamut of feelings and reminders that I'm created for heaven, as I live and love completely out of place-  from right where I belong. 

I had flurries of feeling angry that no one had translated or helped me understand... that I had shown up not knowing I was supposed to bring a gift for Lifa.
I laughed to myself as I hung up my cheesy construction paper decorations, with the kids and moms oogling over the sparkly glitter, only to watch them come behind me and hang up everything they could get their hands on with the help of my stapler and tape.
I felt even more out of place when I started following the herds of parents, hand-in-hand with their children, only to realize they were going to change their kids into their traditional clothing for Swazi culture dancing. I didn't even know that stuff existed in such small sizes, much less have anything for Lifa.
I celebrated that, for at least two months, Lifa was going to a school where he was learning his culture traditions, dance and beliefs since he comes home to an English-speaking mama from an American culture.
I was proud to be living with him and attending his school parties amongst his own culture, rather than heading straight for the red, white and blue.
I felt sad and a little embarrassed that, between his dad's house and mine, Lifa had only been to this school for a patchy 2 months of the year, so he didn't know all the songs and routines the other kids did. And he wasn't given an award.
I was thrilled to hear his laugh and watch his resilient joy as he sang and danced with his friends, oblivious to any differences between their houses and his.
I was shocked and mortified to see a bunch of 4-year old girls put on bathing suits for a beauty competition - and to be asked to be the DJ for it because I was the one with the car that had a radio.
I felt used and thrilled to wait in my car, away from the beauty competition, with all the other kids who didn't have a seat as I waited for the teacher to come scream, "MUSIC!" or "VOLUME!" as my cue.
I was relieved and frustrated when I couldn't understand more than a hand full of words during the entire 6 hour party. I resorted to reading my Bible, taking photos and kissing kids.
I felt completely like I belonged as part of the family and community, and completely embarrassed and out of place at the same time.

(Click slideshow to see bigger pics in new window)

At the end of the day, exhausted, thankful and about 4,800 other adjectives, it got me thinking about the real Jesus-style humility.

On days when I am just reading or praying or listening to music, humility is sweet baby Jesus wrapped up in swaddling clothes in a manger, sleeping to the lullaby melodies of donkeys and sheep. It's not so much the part about a teenage virgin carrying the Messiah, being rejected at every inn and forced to give birth without her midwife in a dirty, flea-infested barn with little protection from the weather.

When I'm praying and giving praise, humility is like the sinless King of Kings taking on my sins and yours to pay off debts we could never repay for our forgiveness and to usher in grace so that we could be adopted eternally into the Family of God... and live happily ever after. It's not so much that part about him being publicly mocked, stripped, beaten and murdered with people casting lots for his clothes standing below him and a sign with the last insult, "King of the Jews" hanging above him.

There is now something even stronger and deeper between Lifa and I as a cross-cultural family who chooses to stick together, even though there's no comfortable balance between cultures. One day of overwhelming partying was just a morsel of a reminder that humility is a posture of holiness... but is still humiliation. That those swaddling clothes were itchy, infested and uncomfortable. And there was nothing flashy or bedazzled about that crown of thorns Jesus wore that Friday afternoon.

Today I am thankful to remember that I am being folded into a family, just as I have been folded into the Family. That I am chosen, predestined out of His perfect love... Just because He wanted to. (Ephesians 1)


So I hope you enjoy the pictures of the most beautiful children, the most enchanting culture and the sweetest reminder that we are citizens of heaven.
We get to enjoy the glimpses of heaven on earth in every tribe and every tongue on the way Home.

Click here to see the videos! 


There's always a party in reveling in the creativity of our Family and our Creator.
Let's alway be party people.

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.”

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!

CAAAAANNNNONNNNNNN BAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!

Everybody whose been within splash-radius of a swimming pool has been affected by a cannon ball.

Slippery feet running on wet cement to the official cannon ball battle cry – a haphazard slurring of syllables, as loud and as reckless as the skin-slapping, wave-making that follows.

CAAAAANNNNONNNNNNN BAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!

It’s all about technique.

Timing the tucking in of arms and legs to create the perfectly perilous splash machine: a human cannon ball.

And finally, the satisfaction that, although you now have a wedgie and water up your nose, you were able to successfully get the attention of and soak everybody at the pool party.

Such a sweet victory in riding the waves you just made into the congregation of cheering kids and moms complaining about the towels you just soaked.

It's springtime in South Africa! The flowers are waking up, the sun is shining and the pool on the Ten Thousand Homes base where I live is finally at a tolerable temperature – at least for the kids.

Last Friday we had a pool full of kids:

2 Brazilians

2 Afrikaans-Texans

3 Sesotho-speaking South Africans

2 SiSwati-speaking South Africans

Our own little UN meeting – proving play to be the international language.

Our South African guests spoke no English, didn’t know how to swim and didn’t even have swim trunks.

No problem.

Before we knew it, pants were dropping and kids were flying.

And I was snapping pictures. Don’t judge me, Sister. It was awesome.

They hadn’t all mastered the art of assuming the perfect cannon ball position. But we watched with amazement as the experienced swimmers helped our new little fish go from being afraid to get their toes wet to creating arm-flailing splash machines. No common language or common life experience required. They all made a splash together by the end of the day.

Cannon balls.

We’re made for it.

Complete abandonment. Completely submerged.

It’s like that one time in the Jordan River when a guy named John completely submerged a guy named Jesus and everything changed. (Luke 3)

We’ve got it in us – whether we’re afraid to get our toes wet or we’ve been in the pool for so long that our toes are crinkled and pruney.

I watched the evidence in the perfect poolside picture of the Kingdom of God – the nations coming together and making a joyfui noise… with a resounding splash!

I moved to Africa.

I boxed things up. I gave things away. I said goodbyes to the people and the places that have defined and described the pool party of my life.

It made a splash. My family and I are still feeling the waves… and sometimes get motion-sickness from them. Even those most-important poolside people are still dealing with the wet towels and soggy sandwiches.

On some days, every part of me just wants to get out of the waves and put on a big fluffy pink bath robe… 

ok, maybe not the fluffy pink bath robe part.

We’re made to cannon ball. We’re called to cannon ball. It’s written all over the Book…

Hey Noah, build an ark in a desert and have a couples-only party for every animal species on earth…

CAAAAANNNNONNNNNNN BAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!

Hey Moses, lead your people straight into the sea with an angry army chasing after them and nowhere else to turn.

CAAAAANNNNONNNNNNN BAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!

Hey shepherd boy, take that slingshot and go slay a giant.

CAAAAANNNNONNNNNNN BAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!

Hey Daniel, double-dog dare your insecure coworkers, who also happen to be the king’s right-hand men, to throw you into a lion’s den.

CAAAAANNNNONNNNNNN BAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!

Hey Ezekiel, go hang out in a graveyard and try to wake up those dry bones.

CAAAAANNNNONNNNNNN BAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!

  

And then there was that one time, when the Son of Man came and did that Jordan River cannon ball. Three years after that, he changed the history of cannon balls. His cannon ball came in the form of outstretched arms and legs with nails through them. A deal-sealer that turned the chlorine into Living Water and saved you a place in the Kingdom-sized pool instead of getting a sunburn on the sidelines.

A promise that there’s always enough water and that the deeper you go down, the more refreshed you’ll be. 

I promised God I would run and jump with both feet into His promises that wrap around his 3 ½-year old greatest artwork yet.

It’s been 8 weeks since I’ve heard that little voice.

And some days I feel like I’m drowning from the waves inside of me. On those days, I honestly would rather just sit in the kiddie pool.

There are hundreds of children at our feedings every week with hidden stories and with toes that have never felt the cool waters of the pool. They’ve never had a chance to cannon ball and need an invitation to the pool party.

Look around where you are. Those children are around you too – whether they’re wearing business suits, football pads or the latest and greatest fashion statements.

Now that we know what we know. And now that Jesus came, we can't and we won't stop cannon-balling.

My arms and legs are tucked in tight to all that I can hold onto: His ways are higher than mine, His thoughts are higher than mine. (Isa 55:9)  And He works for the good of those that love Him. (Romans 8:28)

I’ve got water up my nose and a wedgie.

Yeah, I just said that.

It’s not comfortable to keep on cannon-balling.

But we’ve got a job to do that John remembered during Jesus’ first cannon ball:

“Prepare the way for the Lord,

make straight paths for him.

Every valley shall be filled in,

Every mountain and hill made low.

The crooked roads shall become straight,

The rough ways smooth.

And all mankind will see God’s salvation”

(Luke 3:4b-6)

Please pray for me to understand how to patiently cannon ball… how to keep on running and screaming and persevering in the times where HE says, “Wait” and during the times where I just feel sick from the waves.

And please, please, please, make a splash today!

Spidey-style

Welcome to the superhero edition of "Known". 

I'm thinking about Spiderman today.

Spidey-sense.... He senses need, intuitively knows how to respond, and, when it's time to overcome evil, he handles business superhero style. 

With an outstretched arm, he has the power in two fingers to extend a web of protection and power - a sticky fortress to bind, to connect, to climb, and to just get it done. 

Lifa doesn't even know who Spiderman is, but he knows his name. He was given a Spiderman shirt and proudly drives through base on his "moto" with it on talking about him. 

(Clarification: Lifa is still at his dad's house. These are pictures and stories from the last 5 weeks he was here with me.)

My own little super-hero... Please disregard the hairbrush.

Spiderman: He's a super-guy. Super-powers, spidey sense, and what-not. Created at the hand of a Marvel man in response to every human being's (especially little boys') desire for something bigger, better, conquering, overcoming... for the good guy to prevail in larger-than-life kind of ways. Throw in a little romance and make him appeal to the normal, even nerdy-ish everybodies, and he becomes a timeless favorite that everyone relates to.

I started thinking about Spiderman because of the webs I'm so aware of today.

A web of family has been cast by the outstretched arm of my super-God. The uncreated one who invited us in to His marvelous creation to be a part of something bigger, better, conquering, overcoming and larger-than-life... eternal life. A divine romance. And it's personal - it's for you. And for me. And for the whole Family to come together. 

I'm blown away today. 

I've slipped away from my normal environment after spending the last 7 months with non-stop visitors at Ten Thousand Homes, welcoming the nations and the most incredible people in as family to participate in the most honoring and vulnerable work with us.

Drew from New Hope Christian Church in Wiley, TX
Photo by Carly B

And after saying goodbye to my church home in League City, Texas, who spent the last two weeks loving on and worshiping in my church home in Africa. They left committing to stay family, to keep coming, and telling me I'm Home with them.

Me and Mary in the kitchen

And after being welcomed in as a mother and a voice for family in my local SiSwati-speaking church in Mbonisweni, Evangelical Reform Church. After speaking on mothers as the bearers of the intimacy of Christ, my GoGo gave me a mama-dress to wear to church. It's traditional, beautiful, and I feel like a walking African-princess-party when I wear it. The congregation was delighted as they welcomed me as one of them. (Pictures coming soon!)

And after being a part of every family reunion on his father's side that Lifa has ever attended... and being welcomed in as family, as Lifa's mama, instead of as the only white girl and English-speaker. Heads don't turn anymore. We're just part of them.

And after learning family through the most unique community I've ever lived in. Living on base at Ten Thousand Homes this year went from feeling like obligation to feeling like home and like family. They are the people I am delighted to do my everyday with and am almost embarrassed by the indelible ways they love me. 

And after the first of many (I hope!) family members came around the world to know me here, to meet Lifa and to make the web of family stronger, thicker and so much more sticky. 

Me, Lifa and my cousin Laura

And after watching one little boy really love and be loved by my family and friends all over the world, and make a lasting impact in the heart of everyone he encounters.

Lifa and Anda

I've never been more convinced that my God is a super-God. 

He is powerfully and lovingly casting the most unique, unfathomable, super-sticky web, weaving the nations together and calling them Family. Allowing these created hands and feet to join in the super-story and be family together. 

I'm reeling in the sovereignty and the beauty of the Family of God. And the undeserved honor of getting to be part of the sticky.

I'm going to spend the next 3 weeks enjoying the stick. 

I'm going to celebrate the God of the outstretched arms and who doesn't need spidey-sense because He's already overcome the world. 

I'm going to live fully and love deeply with the family around me and the places and people He's stuck to me today. 

I'm going to worship with quality time, laughter and love.

And then I'll come back and blog about it. :) 

You're part of the web, and He's weaving you into His story of family. 

Thanks for sticking with me and Lifa. 

We love doing the super-story with you.

I'll miss you for 3 weeks, but am taking some time away from the computer screen. I'll see you in 3 weeks! 

This is just to hold you over....

One of Lifa's many super-powers: the body roll

love, love, love....