A Name in the Dirt

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

Bhuti and Sesi - May 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A month went by with absolutely no break-through.

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

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

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

YES, YES, YES.

This WAS the family.

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

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

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

Leah froze.

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

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

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

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

She’d never known a promise to be fulfilled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leah has her own room. Her own bed.

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

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

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

Maria with a whole new countenance

How I Did Church This Morning...

There were sandwiches, bananas, hide-and-seek, the cutest giggles you've ever heard, the deepening of a beautiful friendship, so many baby kisses, a jumping game, and....

What's a Sunday morning without a dance party?

Hope is Like Jell-O

(Written on January 17th, 2012)

Today was the day! Nandi was coming to spend the night, after faithfully staying at her own house for two weeks. She’d been singing, dancing, begging and counting down since the day we found her in the shelter.

Despite the 15-hour rainstorm and wet everything, I was beside myself. I was ready to welcome a perfect little girl into my home, treat her broken skin with the new lotion and medicines I bought for her, tuck her in, pray over her, make chocolate milk when she woke up, pack her lunch and take her to the front door for her first day of the school year – even if she is repeating the same grade she was in last year. I couldn’t wait to celebrate her and make her feel proud to be her.

When we pulled up to the muddy yard, she ran out with a consuming smile.

And then she remembered.

Faster than her smile disappeared, Nandi quickly ducked into the kitchen to cook her family’s dinner. Her mom was in the other room with the door closed.

I scooped up an armful of children, began kissing the raindrops off their perfectly kissable foreheads, and went to Nandi’s auntie’s shack. Ivonne is Mama Nandi’s sister (Charity, Kevin, Given and Karabo’s mama) and lives in the same yard.  Ivonne told me nervously Mama Nandi had changed her mind about Nandi coming to stay with me.

Last time Nandi came over, her mother was relieved. Mama Nandi has welcomed me into her family with hugs and kisses ever since. This time, I found a little girl hiding behind a door while she cooked dinner. She fought back her tears until she managed to turn her face and her emotions into stone, even willing her limbs to be immobile. Mama Nandi locked herself into her room when I came to greet her and shouted to her sister in SiSwati that she didn’t want to greet me.

I decided to give everybody one last kiss and leave quickly to avoid causing trouble for Nandi later.

And now I’m sitting here alone in a cottage I was sure would be filled with laughter tonight.

And I’m thinking about why.

I can’t translate, unravel or make any sense of Mama Nandi’s quick change of heart. But I’ll give you a few background stories…

A couple of weeks ago, the two families (Mama Nandi and Ivonne) had no food. It was heartbreaking to see the underweight children fight over the last morsel of food they found buried in the dirt. One of the staff members from TTH brought over some food. Only Mama Nandi was home at the time. Later we found out she had kept the food all for herself. A local pastor intervened, had what seemed like an incredible talk with the sisters, and they agreed to share the food.

I wonder if Mama Nandi’s change of attitude toward me had anything to do with what she might have felt was us taking food from her when she was asked to share what she thought she had been given?

In a whole new story with a whole new set of people…

We met a group of people nearby who were feeding 120 every single day, but didn’t have much meat or nutrition to offer. We were blessed with extra meat, so we took a few packages to them. Later we found out that the local volunteers had each taken a package, leaving one small packet of meat for the 120 children.

I wonder what my thoughts and motives would turn to if I spent 7-days a week feeding people’s kids and didn’t have enough to feed my own?

And just one more…

I went to a friend’s house today. She is the oldest of a child-headed household at 18-years old and the mother of a 6-month old. We built her and her siblings a home last year. She begged me to come inside and away from others to tell me she wanted to go back to school but needed someone to care for her baby. And she was out of food. Her eyes filled with hurt and frustration as I explained I had no money with me nor the ability to care for her baby full-time.

I wonder what hope and home are shaped like to her, beyond the four walls of the house we built. Can she even imagine not having to depend on people who she thinks have money and power? Can she grasp feeling value and worth in who she is and escape the oppressive lies of poverty?

I started the day floating in God’s provision, swimming in hope. I started the day in a posture of Thanksgiving for all the goodness flowing out of Him. And then I left the sanctuary of my fluffy couch, oversized coffee cup, iTunes and Bible.

I encountered the orphan crisis today.

I know their names. I know where they live.

Some of them are parents. Some of them have parents.

But they are each under the same crushing arm of that tagline we use – The Orphan Crisis - that makes us think of cute, little brown babies eating under that perfectly-shaped silhouette of “the Africa tree”.

The orphan crisis is the voice that seethes and slithers through Africa and says:

You’re on your own.

There’s not enough for you.

Nobody’s really here for you.

You’re alone.

You will live your life scraping from the bottom of the bowl and from the bottom of the rich man’s shoes.

You will never be anything but poor. Orphaned. Alone.

If that was in my ear…

If I was born into a culture that breathes and breeds these statements as reality…

If that’s all I ever knew…

I would shut a foreigner out of my family for stealing from me...

I would take the only meat I could get my hands on and feed my kids...

And I would shamelessly beg for handouts, selling my self-respect for a full stomach…

But we’re here to shut that voice up, and stomp out the orphan spirit.

We’re here to build a Home, create Hope, and raise up the Family of God.

You probably grew up in a family that had enough meat. You probably have, at one time in your life, sat around a dinner table, family-style and shared a meal… for the very experience of sharing the meal. It’s probably rooted somewhere in your culture’s values, even if it’s been buried in the past few generations, that there is something to family – something about sharing meals, experiences, life and provision. Something that’s worth it and something that’s good.

The people I encountered today didn’t.

How can we end the orphan crisis if we don’t model family? If we don’t spread the news about the Greatest Adoption? If we don’t give more than the meat we have – but give love that doesn’t stop and comes in whatever form it takes.

Love that keeps coming back to knock on that door you’re locked out of…

Love that offers to cook the meat and dish it out to everyone...

Love that sits down and helps a young single mom find resources to empower her to make her family thrive…

So, at the end of a hard day, and from the quiet of this empty cottage, I’m going to choose to find the hope. The possibilities.

We’re here to create hope.

We’re here to speak Family to the orphaned. To welcome them into the Family where they’ll never be orphaned again. To be His voice. The ambassador of His Family.

My right hand upholds you.

There’s more than enough for you, and I will never run out.

I am here for you. I desperately want you.

I will never forsake you.

The Kingdom is coming. The poor will inherit the earth.

You belong to me. I want you to be mine. I will never stop loving you.

Despite what I feel like after a day like today, Africa is not hopeless.

There is endless potential for hope to be released through this nation and the entire continent.

Today I got insight into how to love, how not to love and the atrocious lies the orphan spirit burns into hearts.

Hope is like Jell-O…

There’s always room for more.

Manicure of the Heart

She’s 22-years old with two-beating hearts and four extra hands and feet following her, reminding her that she’s not like the other girls in class. She doesn’t go home to do homework and hang out with friends. She goes home to do the wash and to expectant, hungry cries from the most beautiful and most needy little faces.

She made some choices and had to grow up fast, at least enough to turn off her own life to sustain another’s for 9 months. And once you’re the one who’s not in school and the one who has a baby, why not keep doing what grown-ups do? Even if it leads to 9 more months of growing, stretching and another sacrifice.

But she’s back for a re-do. She signed up to return to grade 9 at age 21, not totally sure if she would stick with it. But at least she would have something to do and a break from the kids and the chores.

What does redemption look like for a woman who is both a mother and a child? For a woman with a “used” mark on her body, holding her hand and strapped to her back? For a woman who’s been almost completely given up on by her family? To a woman who feels like she has to find family elsewhere – even creating her own?

Photo by Carly B

She still dreams like the young ladies she’ll start grade 10 with tomorrow. Prince Charming will come… Won’t he?

Zodwa is my African sister. I love her dearly. We’ve hit our share of cross-cultural, sisterly bumps along the unending road of relationship-building, but yesterday we took a turn.

Since I’ve known her, her kids have seen me as a parent. They are faster to call me "Mama" than her. She’s leaned on me, begged me for things, and hidden things from me like I was her parent too. She signed up to return to school upon my refusal to meet her material needs, insisting she was capable of earning nice things for herself if she got an education and a job. We even set goals with rewards to help her make it through each quarter of school. And each quarter, she created an amazing story of how she lost her report card on the way home from school.

In December, Zodwa proudly thrust piece of paper in my face and began dancing wildly at how she was going to get a special treat from me. She passed grade 9!

So yesterday, 2 days before grade 10 started, we waved goodbye to her two crying children, and I taught Zodwa what a manicure was. We went to a side of town she’s never seen, and she tried to play it cool. It was awesome. Almost an hour later, Princess Zodwa came out beaming… coolly… and trying not to stare at her purple fingernails.

Over a latte and a hot chocolate, I started pouring out my heart to her. I didn’t want her to leave with only her fingernails manicured. We were starting a year together, and we were going to make it count.

Dreaming into the future and Kingdom-sized hope is hard to come by in her culture…. So you are who your family says you are and live how your family lives. But we all have the invitation to live in the Kingdom culture.

And in the Kingdom culture, you are who your Family says you are and you live how your Family lives. In perfect love and full inheritance.

In Zodwa’s culture, if she were to find a husband, he would negotiate her labola, or dowry, with her family. She would be worth less cows because she has children.

In the culture of the Kingdom of God, we talk lamb instead of cow. And the worthy lamb, the Son of God, paid the full price for the full worth of His Bride. She can’t do a thing to change the value of the lamb that was slain, or the fact that He was slain for her bride price.

When I started talking to Zodwa about the new year, she rattled off an answer that would compare to marking “C” in a multiple choice pop quiz. “I want to make better marks in school and become a social worker one day.” I asked for more than that – for heart talk.

I read God’s word over her and the words of my TTH family and my church family to remind her who her Family says she is. And I told her that I wanted this year to be different for us.

I told her that this was a year for God to be who He says we are. I confessed that I get insecure and nervous living out this calling to impart the intimacy, teaching and gifts of a mother when I’ve never conceived a child. And I’m completely embarrassed and insecure that I don’t speak the local language. I typically feel inferior, unworthy and like I don’t do things right.

Then she started listening.

I told her I saw that she was different because, no matter what the other girls in school, or even at church, do in secret, her “secrets” recently turned 2- and 4-years old.

Something in our relationship changed when I told her that we were equals. That I’ve made as many mistakes as her. That I’ve got 5 years of sin and brokenness on her, and I’m sure she couldn’t catch up if she tried. And I told her that we were both made clean, the same kind of righteous in the same kind of family. 

Photo by Carly B

I listen to what people say about me and try to make it true, just like Zodwa.

More often than Zodwa

I try to fill in the holes in my heart by my own strength, just like Zodwa.

More often than Zodwa.

I try to earn my worth and author my identity, just like Zodwa.

More often than Zodwa.

So I spoke to both of us:

“Even now,’ declares the Lord, ‘return to me with all your heart, with fasting and weeping and mourning.’

Rend your heart and not your garments. Return to the Lord your God, for he is gracious and compassionate, slow to anger and abounding in love…

‘I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten…’

from Joel 2

I asked her again what she wanted for this year. This time she said, “This year I’m going to be clean. I’m going to be an adult.”

And she is. And she will.

Believe with me with her and for her.

It got me to thinking.

This year, I want to be clean. Because “there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus…” (Rom 8:1) I want every part of me to live in freedom, so there’s more room for love to pour in and out.

And this year, I want to be an adult. Is there a higher pinnacle of spiritual maturity than being absolutely and completely childlike? With His kids. With Zodwa, with Nandi, with Lifa, with Baba Lifa, with the congregation of them I’ll speak to this Sunday, and one-on-one with the Living God in me.

 

Zodwa got manicured fingernails. I got a manicure of the heart. The buffing, trimming, polishing and shining in my spirit gave glimpse to a little more Truth, a little more authenticity, and a little more perspective on this perfect Family I live in. 

The Most Worthy Rescue Mission

I can’t get Nandi off my mind.

One month ago, I went to visit this 10ish-year old little girl and her family, only to find a mildly distressed mama telling me she had run away… again.

So, we loaded up her mama, her auntie, their additional 5 children, and a couple of Nandi’s friends who knew where she was hiding, and went to go find Nandi. I brought her home with me that night.

Lifa was ecstatic to have a sister for the night. Nandi took two showers just because she could. And there was a 4-year old birthday party on base that night, so we had a pool full of laughing kids… Nandi included. 

We gave a ride home to a woman who lives in a neighboring community, and she said, “I know this girl.” Nandi had shown up knocking on her door one night at 9pm looking for a place to stay. The woman had called the police, but they dismissed it saying, “She always does that.” Another young woman from another community looked her over and said, “Oh yes, I know Nandi.”

People know Nandi.

But nobody knows her story.

Nobody knows why they know her.

I was beside myself the next morning when I got to make two glasses of chocolate milk and two plates of cinnamon toast for my two kids. On the way to school, I did my best to communicate clearly to Nandi that she was to go home to her mama’s house right after school. She got it. She said yes.

My Dwaleni princess and the king of the car

Playing in the car on the way to school

 And they all lived happily ever after…

I wish we were to that part of the story. I can’t wait for that part. 

But today, we’re still somewhere between the “Once upon a time…” that took place in the purity, nakedness, and perfect relationship in the Garden of Eden and the “Happily ever after” of when the fullness of His Kingdom comes.

We’re still looking for leaves to cover ourselves and trying to make life work in a back-and-forth, Hokey Pokey kind of relationship with our Creator.

Today I can’t get Nandi off my mind.

I went to visit her again a few weeks after she spent the night with me. Her mama greeted me by saying, “Where’s Nandi?”

Uh-oh.

I told her I didn’t know and asked when the last time she had seen her was. She never came home after school that day. The mamas said they hoped she had been staying with me. It was easier to hope that – even though they knew it wasn’t true. Now the truth was in the yard sharing brownies with them, and they had to face it. Nandi had been gone for weeks.

One more time, we loaded up and hit the road. Nobody seemed phased. House after house with no luck. We never found Nandi that day.

We had to have Christmas Eve without Nandi.

Because she’s The Runaway. It’s just what she does.

Heads shake. There’s a generalized, “tsk, tsk, tsk.”

And people worry about the stress she’s causing in the family and community.

She always runs away.

And nobody knows why. It’s just what she does.

Yesterday we went to visit her again. Her mama came bounding out, cheering, clapping, dancing, and hugging all over me. Nandi came home on Christmas Day! I knew it was true because she was wearing the new shoes I had bought for Nandi. But Nandi wasn’t there.

They gave me a detailed explanation of where Nandi was… in SiSwati… so I just got in the car and trusted they’d tell me where to go.

Our third trip this month to find Nandi.

This time we went far.

A 15-minute drive. Then crossing over a major highway. Then entering a dirt-road, tin-shack community I never knew existed. To the end of the road, the back of the community, and into a bunch of warehouses.

Big warehouses full of beds.

And children. 73 children.

And a couple of 20-something caretakers.

Nandi came out with an unsure smile but with a sparkle of a little girl who was being rescued and redeemed. For the third time this month. She ran into her mother’s arms. They hugged each other deeply, and then her mama quickly pushed her away and sent her over to me.

I thought our hug would never end. And I never wanted it to.

You know how much I like words – especially adjectives – but there are no consonants, vowels or syllables that I could craft together to give you even a picture of what this place was like. Not if it’s good or bad, dark or light. It just felt like another world. I tried to ask so many questions. Conversations went something like this:

“Some other white people dropped her off. We think maybe her mother is dead.”

“I’m here with her mother. I’m friends with her family. But I need to know if she has said anything about being in danger, being afraid, or why she would rather stay here than in her own house.”

“If she wants to stay, it’s fine. If she wants to go, it’s fine. Let me show you our rooms!”

I tried to understand if Nandi wanted to go. She wanted to come to my house. But finally agreed to stay at her mama’s house if I would come visit her at her house.

We left Nandi at her house yesterday with a hug, a kiss, a promise of returning the next day, and a drive home filled with silent prayers for God to do what He does bigger than He’s ever done it.

It felt undone. Because we’re in the “…” part of the story. You know, the part between the “Once upon a time…” and the “…happily ever after.”

On this third “rescue mission”, the third time we were going to get a little girl who wasn’t sure if she wanted to be rescued, I thought about the story of Hosea. The book of Hosea in the Bible is a story about a wayward, adulterous harlot who married and had children with a man of God. She had safety and security in him. She was pursued, loved, rescued and wanted by him.

But being the harlot had become her normal. Her identity.

Just like being the runaway. How can you quit who you are?

How can you quit your identity- even if it’s prostitution or running yourself into unbearably dangerous situations?

Hosea’s wife, Gomer, kept running back into her old ways because at least she knew it. It was the easiest way to feel known. Everybody knew Gomer.

Everybody knows Nandi.

She’s The Runaway.

But nobody knows why. Probably not even Nandi.

Gomer had Hosea’s babies. The Lord told Hosea to name his daughter Lo-Ruhamah. It means unpitied. Lo-Ruhamah was the symbol of the plight of Israel. A wayward people who wanted to be known skin-deep, and didn’t care why or how. It was just easier.

But here’s what the Lord says about his wayward girls. His daughters. His Bride. About Israel. About Africa. About Church. About me. About you. About Lo-Ruhamah and her mother. And about Nandi and her mother.

“Call her Lo-Ruhamah, for I will no longer show love to the house of Israel, that I should at all forgive them. Yet I will show love to the house of Judah, and I will save them- not by bow, sword or battle, or by horse and horsemen, but by the Lord their God.” Hosea 1:6-7

“I will plant her for myself in the land; I will show my love to the one called ‘Not my loved one.’ I will say to those called ‘Not my people,’ ‘You are my people’; and they will say, ‘You are my God.” Hosea 2:23

Hosea had to chase Gomer over and over again. He continuously rescued her when she didn’t know if she wanted to be rescued. Because God knew her true identity – His Bride.

I have a feeling that yesterday wasn’t my last rescue mission with Nandi. And that the more I learn about the family, the more tangled and dysfunctional it will become.

But she’s worth it every time.

To Nandi, to me and to you:

I know you deeper than your skin. And deeper than the identity people write on you. I won’t stop coming for you. And I won’t get tired of it. You are worth it. You have been redeemed. And I can’t wait for you to know it all the way, to live in THAT identity: Pure, Renewed, Dearly Loved and Mine.

Language Lessons

Merry Christmas! It’s a week to celebrate! A birthday week!

I kicked off birthday week last Sunday by standing in front of a sweaty church full of SiSwati-speaking South Africans, telling them we were all going to speak the same language that day.

They’ve heard me try to pronounce the name NhlaNhla and have seen me ask repeatedly how to say the same things…  So they didn’t have a lot of confidence in me preaching in fluent SiSwati that morning.

I told them we would start speaking the language of Thanksgiving.

Just like infants practice mirroring faces, gestures and sounds… That’s how we would start speaking Thanksgiving.

We stood up together and read line-by-line a psalm of Thanksgiving in SiSwati. (Psalm 100) We gave thanks through song and dance… and Thank You Jesus for that dancing in Your House. We spoke thanks through talking Truth.

We dwelled on the most commonly recited and most commonly glazed-over Truth that reminds us we have reason to be thankful in all things:

“For God so loved the world, that he gave his and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.” John 3:16

“Nkulunkulu walitsandza live nkanga waze wanikela ngeNdvodzana yakhe lezelwe yodwa, ukuba ngliyohaloya akholwa ngiye angabi nekubhubha kodvwa abe nekuphila lokuphakadze.” Johane 3:16

We gave all our thanks to a God who gives so deeply, so completely, so extravagantly. The author of the language of Thanksgiving. The very reason to speak it.

We didn’t gather to say, “thank you”.  We didn’t gather to open up our pockets and just give. We gathered to speak thanksgiving.

Anyone is capable of just giving.

If anyone is aware of her capacity to give, it’s an American standing in front of a House of orphaned and vulnerable children.

I could give them every material thing I have. And I would love to.

I could kiss them until my lips fell off and pour out every ounce of love within me. And I try to.

But if the source of giving is not love, then we’ll all end up with dry bones.

Dry bank accounts, dry lips and dry bones.

Anyone is capable of giving. But giving without love dries you out.

Anyone who loves can’t help but give.

If you love, you give. Love compels us to give.

Take that and rewind it back to your favorite memory verse…

For God SO LOVED the world THAT HE GAVE His one and only Son…

When we started speaking Thanksgiving together on Sunday, I believe it opened us up to give and receive that “so loved” kind of love.

It opened me up. Dry parts turned into fountains.

And there’s room for that dried out part of you to open up and flow freely too.

God can’t help but give because He loves you so much.

He is desperate for you to have eternal life.

No one has to have an eternity of dry lips, dry bones, or dry anything.

He so loved us that He gave us access to Living Water… and chap stick!

The more I started speaking out about His love, the more I wanted to give it to my church. And to His favorites.

And then a handful of you, who love so big, were compelled to give too. And, together, we made books that tell the most perfect story of giving. The story where the “Once upon a time” and the “Happily ever after” are bound up and sealed with True Love’s kiss in John 3:16.

On Sunday, I got a little wound up talking about the birth day that changed humanity and that flooded our eternity with Living Water.

Many people in the culture don’t know when their birthdays are. And there aren’t birthday parties. Or birthday cakes. Or birthday anythings.

They started in shock. They don’t speak birthday. So I started demanding  “Hallelujah’s”. I started begging for the “Amens” for the eternal life, the best birthday gift ever.

And then I threw a birthday party. Right then and there.  A party that didn’t require speaking birthday. It required speaking Thanksgiving. It required speaking the praises of the One who so loved the world that He gave eternal life.

Can I get an AMEN!?!

I asked them to stand up and sing “Happy Birthday Jesus” together. I couldn’t help but giggle at how awkward it was for this white America to lead a birthday song for Jesus with people who have never heard the birthday song with their name in it.

And then, they sang it again on their own.

And again.

I finally had to interrupt them to move on to the next practice round of speaking Thanksgiving.

What’s a birthday party without a paper chain? We called it our banner of Thanksgiving. Everyone added a link with a prayer of thanks written on it. We sang worship songs of thanks while we created the combination party décor and banner of thanks.

I could see the thankfulness starting to flood them. Smiles started to replace sorrows of daily life here as our common language rose to the heavens.

Construction paper and crayons crashed through the typical formality of a Sunday morning to create a tangible and festive proclamation that we can speak Thanksgiving together and in every circumstance.

 

And then I told them there was cake.

For that, they freely offered up their “Hallelujah’s” and “Amen’s”!

And then I told them there were gifts – Christmas stories and crayons for every child. And for every family who didn’t have a child.

I wanted to lavish free celebration on these people that I love, to give them a tiny, chocolate-covered taste of God’s love – with sprinkles!

Every family in my church now has a book written in English and SiSwati. They’ve all been to a birthday party now. And now they all have the story to know why it’s worth celebrating. I asked them to read the story aloud every night this week as a family. The gospel is penetrating homes and hearts throughout Mbonisweni as we speak.

He is so good.

He loves so much.

So much that He gives eternal life.

Together, me, you and the orphaned and vulnerable children in South Africa are trading in our dry bones, our dry hearts, and our dry lips for Living Water, eternal life and True Love’s kiss.

Celebrate THAT on Christmas Day.

  

Check out the birthday party I had with Lifa! 

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.

Because We Say So!

Thursdays are Dwaleni days.

Dwaleni is a beautiful mountainous piece of South African landscape, decorated with small shacks made of remnant wood, aluminum and plastic, with a sprinkling of slightly more sturdy homes separated by bumpy dirt roads and pieces of fence here and there. Every Thursday, Ten Thousand Homes joins with a local NGO (non-profit), Sizinani Home-Based Care to feed around 300 school-aged children from the community.

Many of you have heard me talk about Dwaleni before… swarms of crazy kids mimicking the wrestling they see on TV and the violence they watch at home as they “play” together in the yard. Joy, jubilation, and the occasional “you’ve gone too far” screech of pain or scowl get tangled up in skipping ropes that slice the air but cannot penetrate the leathery, weathered feet of the school girls. Piles of boys with torn clothes just barely hanging on their bodies are covered in dirt stains and, if you can get close enough unnoticed, you can get a glimpse of the latest, greatest and usually wildly dangerous daredevil games.

Some days it feels like absolute chaos.

But every single day you can’t help but see the beauty that shines out of the eyes and even out of the battle wounds of these perfectly-created children. These intricately-woven images of Christ who didn’t get to choose their economic status, their parents or the violent messages their society surrounds them with. They don’t have a say in whether or not their house has walls or if it will stand up through a stormy night.  They don’t get to decide how much food they do or do not get to eat that day.

No child does.

I’m struck by that thought today.

After the feeding, the children were still lingering outside the yard for as much attention as they could drink up before going back to whatever their home life is like the other six days of the week. Keri had a child on each hand; Stan had become a human jungle gym; and Lennon was running up and down the dirt road chasing after the kids who couldn’t keep their hands off his new “Texas” hat from Alyssa. I walked up to an excited mob with a 10-year old angel wrapped around me, just needing to be hugged, rocked and sang to.

Another little girl, probably about 9 or 10-years old, named Simphiwe was crying while her girlfriends were taking up her offense and chasing after the bully. Like a typical scene at any elementary school recess.

The big news of the day was Simphiwe’s umbrella had been stolen.

She wasn’t crying because she had lost an accessory. Those tears weren’t accessory-sized tears.

Simphiwe’s umbrella was stolen.

And she was going home to get beaten because of it.

As though we had any doubt what the tears were from, her friends who had lost the chase and let the bully get away, came and explained through wild gestures while they exclaimed a few of the SiSwati words that I actually know. She was going to get beaten at home.

An umbrella.

A child.

She didn’t get a say in what had been given to her or taken away. Or what she was going home to.

Through choppy SiSwati I told her we would pray that she would not get beaten. Keri’s eyes welled with umbrella-sized tears.

Many of you were just waking up or still hitting snooze while Simphiwe’s umbrella drama unfolded. I was right there, almost in arm’s reach. But I could not march myself with the recess crew, still adorned in school uniform, to Simphiwe’s house and explain the umbrella crisis without putting her in more danger. Especially not with this skin and this language.

Today I watched Simphiwe not get to decide who she was going home to and what was going to happen when she got there.

Today I felt helpless and hopeless for the swarms of children buzzing around who didn’t choose this.

Today I felt more aware of the color of my skin, the safe house I grew up in, and that if I lost an umbrella – or even that time I lost my retainer – I never cried those kind of umbrella tears and I never felt that afraid.

Simphiwe and you and I… none of us have a say in the nouns or the adjectives… the types of persons, places and things we’re around as children.

But today, you and I have a say in Simphiwe’s home life and the droves of sweet little Dwaleni angels who don’t even know they are missing safety and security, hope and home.  

We have a say because we have access to the Holy Spirit who knows us, loves us and cares enough to listen. God in us Who’s willing to be influenced by His own creation, moved by His own masterpiece. (Romans 8:26-30)

And is their anything more worthy of speaking for or being moved by than Simphiwe?

So, today… Speak for the ones who don’t have a say.

And know that you’re heard.

And believe that you do have a say.

It is written: “I believed; therefore I have spoken.” With that same spirit of faith we also believe and therefore speak, because we knowt hta the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us with Jesus and present us with you in his presence.

2 Corinthians 4:13-14