KNOWN.

A Drop in a Bucket

2012-02-17T02:17:00.000-06:00

I had a sleep-over with a 4-year old on Wednesday night.

Charity is from the local community, Dwaleni, and is part ofa family that is becoming like my own.

She speaks and understands no English at all. She wouldn’tbreak physical contact with me. She soaked up every moment of touch as thoughshe hasn’t received any affection since her 20-year old mother had twins whenshe was less than 2 years old. (It’s not a far-fetched reality.)

She took multiple baths from the big bucket in my bathroom,and we treated her dried out and damaged skin.

Her teensy, malnourished bodyweighs less than the 18-month olds toddling around base, but she managed to eatseveral very small meals. She ran around the cottage in a naked flurry ofSiSwati-spoken excitement when she not only found Lifa’s toy box, but learned how to play.

The next morning, her eyes, that look like they’d seen60-years of pain, started looking younger. The cottage filled with visitors,and Charity found herself in the lap of someone combing out her hair, with herlimbs spread out for primping, pruning and nail polishing. I secretly rejoicedas she went from silent and solemn to sassy and wiggly.

By lunchtime, she was disobeying. And I was thrilled!

So what if my camera has 400 pictures of her fingerscovering the lens?

And so what if my coffee table is covered in granola andthere’s juice on the floor? (Not the timeto mention the volume of creepies and crawlies I host in the cottage on a daily basis…)

Home is the place where you are comfortable enough to make amess.

Home is a place where you want to be safely and securely hemmed in.

Home is the place where you know the boundaries, so you candance all the way to the edge of them.

Photo by Charity

I was hosting just one little girl for just one night.

She came with clumps of dirt in her matted hair, withtoo-small clothes that carried a festival of odors.

She left with a new hair-style, sparkly pink nails, and asparkle in her eyes.

Just one little girl, and just one night.

But now there’s one more little girl in the world who knowswhat it means to be a daughter and a princess, to be plucked out from chaos andto be called worth it. Now there’sseveral groups of people who know this little girl’s name because she spent theday driving through communities with me, because she felt home in the tightly-knitTTH community, and because I post videos of her on facebook and write blogsabout her.

One little girl in South Africa is like one drop in a bucket…

A bucket that can holdthe oceans.

But how can we ever fill up that bucket if we don’t start,one drop at a time?

I’ve been completely caught off guard in the past two weeks,swept away by the passion of one itty-bitty drop.

There’s power in noticing one person, even for one moment.

We were made for this.

At 20-years old, Nesisiwe is raising her four orphaned andsick siblings, sacrificing her education to raise her 2-year old baby sister.She was silent, broken and hopeless, somehow managing to hide behind the weaklayer of skin that wraps around her frail bones.

Two days ago, she attacked me with affection and wrapped meup powerfully in her arms and her delight. Somebody responded to her. She feltknown. She met joy.

One more drop.

Kevin was invisible. So tiny, withdrawn and malnourished,you could hardly see him.

God told me to bathe him, clothe him, and profess a KingDavid anointing over him. Today he giggles, runs and leaps into my arms when I seehim. His community knows his name, and he pushes others out of the way becausehe knows he’s always got a spot reserved on my lap. He feels worth it.

One more drop.

Given’s body is broken, inside and out. He doesn’t know whohe is, and his family doesn’t know what to do with him. Shame is draped overhim like the darkest night.

Photo by Carly B

I asked one question. I broke one cultural rule. A floodgateof family has opened. We’re beginning a tremendous and unfathomable process ofrestoration and being known, one looooong doctor’s appointment at a time.

Photo by Carly B

One more drop.

The God Who giggled with joyful inspiration at the verythought of knitting you together in your mother’s womb…

The God Who almost couldn’t stand the ecstasy of writing outyour story, ordaining your every single day before He even breathed life intoYou…

THAT God… MY God… knows you and made you to be known.

He notices you all the time.

He's enthralled with you.

He's captivated by you.

He loves you.

And He gave us all of Him. IN us. And we can give it away.

We can give one moment of seeing, knowing, loving… justnoticing… and be part of a Family being restored. Living Water rushes in like a tidal wave when we're willing to put our one drop in the bucket.

Photo by Carly B

One drop of blood from one spotless Lamb knew me and knewyou in that moment He decided it is worth it and it is finished.

I want to make drops. Everywhere I go.

I want to make drops because it matters.

Photo by Carly B

I am a drop called Beloved, swimming in an ocean of grace.

Why We Call It Miracle Week

2012-02-09T02:48:00.000-06:00

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

Instead of saying the words that might have popped into these oh-so-holy missionaries’ minds, westarted the morning giving thanks. The visiting team was borrowing the vehicleand 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 thebaby that would be carried in the carrier. The mother even said that althoughher first instinct might have been torip the baby-carrier away from someone if she saw it walking down the road, shewould, instead, give away the extra accessories that hadn’t been in the vehiclewhen it was stolen.

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

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

Their father is dead. Their grandmother abused them. Themother 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 whatthey wanted prayer for, they asked if we’d pray that they could getelectricity. They’ve been waiting on the electric company since 2010.

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

That was Monday.

And Monday was the day we started calling this week MiracleWeek.

The same Monday we woke up to find that something had beenstolen from us, God gave so much morethan 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 weekthe money was wired over to purchase University Village - $77,000 in the last 2months!

And the same Monday we found a house full of orphans withnothing of value on this earth, we called them family and wrapped them in loveand new blankets.

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

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

On Monday, there were empty eyes. On Wednesday, there werestreaming 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 welooked 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 finishedby His death on a cross. And it’s all coming.

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

I haven’t seen him in 7 weeks. The news I received thisweek, during Miracle Week, says that the times we’re together are only be gettingshorter as the times we are apart will get longer. There is not a document atall, much less one that calls us family. Nothing on this world seems to alignor 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 thefullness of heaven, all promises completely fulfilled, His Kingdom Come… andwe’re here on earth bringing it as best we can.

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

There’s no magic wand. Not even glitter.

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

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

Miracle Week is pregnant with promise. Miracle Week gavebirth 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 someunderstand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, buteveryone to come to repentance.”

2 Peter 3:9

Faithful local volunteer carrying donated food to the family of 5

How I Did Church This Morning...

2012-01-29T03:54:00.000-06:00

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?

TODAY

2012-01-23T05:30:00.000-06:00

TODAY is an important day in South Africa, America, the endsof the earth, and in the Kingdom of God.

TODAY we are wearing our Ten Thousand Homes t-shirts andbelieving.

Photo by Lindsay Loveless

TODAY this movement is bridging the supernatural with thenatural, as the Kingdom of God touches earth, permeates all five senses, andspeaks every language.

TODAY we are fasting and praying – and hoping you will too.

TODAY we need $15,000 to complete the purchase of University Village by the approaching deadline – It’s the property we live on, and where thenations gather, one team at a time, to impact the orphaned and vulnerablechildren in South Africa.

TODAY we believe God will respond to His children, fastingand on their knees, for provision for our home. He has called the land ours.

TODAY the heavens will open – not manna, but a banquet. Awedding feast as His promises are consummated.

TODAY we’re not waiting for the rocks to cry out.

TODAY we won’t be too busy or anxious to enjoy Hisdelight, His blessings and His gracious responses to those who respond to Him.

TODAY is a day where we have the honor of ravenously callingHis Kingdom down to earth, starving for more of His glory, and being morehungry for His will to be done than we are for lunch.

TODAY you and I are called to look after the orphans and thewidows, to love the least of these. Today.

Photo by Carly B

TODAY is the day to respond. You're invited to be a part of His promises and plans.

TODAY is the day you find your unique place in the Body.

You have a place. You have a seat at the extravagant banquetingtable. TODAY is the day to take it. We believewe’ll have a home TODAY if everyone takes their place in this Kingdom call.

If it’s through making a financial donation toward the$15,000 we need, click here.

If it’s through fasting and praying, take a knee and startnow.

If it’s through spreading the news and needs, start typingand start talking.

If it’s through fundraising ideas or you need moreinformation, contact Lindsey Kaufman today.

“This is the day the Lord has made;

let us rejoice and beglad in it.”

Psalm 118:24

Hope is Like Jell-O

2012-01-20T07:01:00.000-06:00

(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 wasbeside myself. I was ready to welcome a perfect little girl into my home, treather broken skin with the new lotion and medicines I bought for her, tuck herin, pray over her, make chocolate milk when she woke up, pack her lunch andtake her to the front door for her first day of the school year – even if sheis repeating the same grade she was in last year. I couldn’t wait to celebrateher and make her feel proud to be her.

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

And then she remembered.

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

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

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

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

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

And I’m thinking about why.

I can’t translate, unravel or make any sense of Mama Nandi’squick 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 overthe last morsel of food they found buried in the dirt. One of the staff membersfrom TTH brought over some food. Only Mama Nandi was home at the time. Later wefound out she had kept the food all for herself. A local pastor intervened, hadwhat seemed like an incredible talk with the sisters, and they agreed to sharethe food.

I wonder if Mama Nandi’s change of attitude toward me hadanything to do with what she might have felt was us taking food from her whenshe 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 everysingle day, but didn’t have much meat or nutrition to offer. We were blessedwith extra meat, so we took a few packages to them. Later we found out that thelocal volunteers had each taken a package, leaving one small packet of meat forthe 120 children.

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

And just one more…

I went to a friend’s house today. She is the oldest of achild-headed household at 18-years old and the mother of a 6-month old. Webuilt her and her siblings a home last year. She begged me to come inside andaway from others to tell me she wanted to go back to school but needed someoneto care for her baby. And she was out of food. Her eyes filled with hurt andfrustration as I explained I had no money with me nor the ability to care forher 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 todepend on people who she thinks have money and power? Can she grasp feelingvalue and worth in who she is and escape the oppressive lies of poverty?

I started the day floating in God’s provision, swimming inhope. I started the day in a posture of Thanksgiving for all the goodnessflowing out of Him. And then I left the sanctuary of my fluffy couch, oversized coffeecup, 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 taglinewe use – The Orphan Crisis - that makes us think of cute, little brown babieseating under that perfectly-shaped silhouette of “the Africa tree”.

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

You’reon your own.

There’snot enough for you.

Nobody’sreally here for you.

You’realone.

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

Youwill never be anything but poor. Orphaned. Alone.

If that was in my ear…

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

If that’s all I ever knew…

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

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

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

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

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

You probably grew up in a family that had enough meat. Youprobably 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 beenburied in the past few generations, that there is something to family –something about sharing meals, experiences, life and provision. Somethingthat’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 morethan the meat we have – but give love that doesn’t stop and comes in whateverform it takes.

Love that keeps coming back to knock on that door you’relocked 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 findresources to empower her to make her family thrive…

So, at the end of a hard day, and from the quiet of thisempty 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 welcomethem into the Family where they’ll never be orphaned again. To be Hisvoice. The ambassador of His Family.

Myright hand upholds you.

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

Iam here for you. I desperately want you.

Iwill never forsake you.

TheKingdom is coming. The poor will inherit the earth.

Youbelong 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 nothopeless.

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

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

Hopeis like Jell-O…

There’salways room for more.

Manicure of the Heart

2012-01-17T07:11:00.000-06:00

She’s 22-years old with two-beating hearts and four extrahands and feet following her, reminding her that she’s not like the other girlsin class. She doesn’t go home to do homework and hang out with friends. Shegoes home to do the wash and to expectant, hungry cries from the most beautifuland 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 onceyou’re the one who’s not in school and the one who has a baby, why not keepdoing 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 grade9 at age 21, not totally sure if she would stick with it. But at least shewould have something to do and a break from the kids and the chores.

What does redemption look like for a woman who is both amother and a child? For a woman with a “used” mark on her body, holding herhand and strapped to her back? For a woman who’s been almost completely givenup 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 10with tomorrow. Prince Charming willcome… Won’t he?

Zodwa is my African sister. I love her dearly. We’ve hit ourshare of cross-cultural, sisterly bumps along the unending road ofrelationship-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 washer 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 forherself if she got an education and a job. We even set goals with rewards tohelp her make it through each quarter of school. And each quarter, she createdan 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 faceand 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 wavedgoodbye to her two crying children, and I taught Zodwa what a manicure was. Wewent 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 purplefingernails.

Over a latte and a hot chocolate, I started pouring out myheart 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 hardto come by in her culture…. So you are who your family says you are and livehow your family lives. But we all have the invitation to live in the Kingdomculture.

And in the Kingdom culture, you are who your Family saysyou are and you live how your Family lives. In perfect love and fullinheritance.

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

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

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

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

I told her that this was a year for God to be who He sayswe are. I confessed that I get insecure and nervous living out thiscalling to impart the intimacy, teaching and gifts of a mother when I’ve neverconceived a child. And I’m completely embarrassed and insecure that I don’tspeak 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 matterwhat 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 herthat we were equals. That I’ve made as many mistakes as her. That I’vegot 5 years of sin and brokenness on her, and I’m sure she couldn’t catch up ifshe tried. AndI told her that we were both made clean, the same kind of righteous in the samekind of family.

Photo by Carly B

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

More often than Zodwa

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

More often than Zodwa.

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

More often than Zodwa.

So I spoke to both of us:

“Even now,’ declares theLord, ‘return to me with all your heart, with fasting and weeping andmourning.’

Rend your heart and not yourgarments. 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 locustshave eaten…’

from Joel 2

I asked her again what she wanted for this year. This timeshe said, “Thisyear 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 whoare 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 therea higher pinnacle of spiritual maturity than being absolutely and completelychildlike? With His kids. With Zodwa,with Nandi, with Lifa, with Baba Lifa, with the congregation of them I’ll speakto this Sunday, and one-on-one with the Living God in me.

Zodwa got manicured fingernails. I got a manicure of theheart. The buffing, trimming, polishing and shining in my spirit gave glimpseto a little more Truth, a little more authenticity, and a little moreperspective on this perfect Family I live in.

2012: The Year of Thanksgiving

2012-01-11T09:52:00.000-06:00

We’re 11 days into 2012, and I’m just now getting around tomaking a new year’s resolution.

You might think that waiting a week and a half into the newyear takes away from the sparkly, hope-filled excitement of making thatbehavioral 180° at the stroke of midnight, to the sights and sounds ofcheers, fireworks, and carriages turning into pumpkins. But I’m just now getting around to thistraditionally cliché and spiritually symbolic embrace of the opportunity for anew beginning because I’ve been so busy swimming, laughing, loving andrejoicing with all my heart and all 5 senses in the One who’s calling me closerto Him and to walk into these promises for 2012. Good enough reason, huh?

For my first 26 Christmases and New Years, I was surroundedby the same people, the same kinds of food, and the same language. Gifts wereexchanged with warm hugs in cold weather. Resolutions were made after a nightof laughter, game-playing, and while standing around a bonfire of Christmastrees.

On my 27^th Christmas, I gave summer clothes toSiSwati-speaking children, went to a bilingual Christmas play, ate watermelon,and got sun-kissed while we barbequed leg of lamb. And on my 27^thNew Year, I danced under the stars and fireworks with my toes in the IndianOcean to the sounds of God’s unending, majestic waves and my uncontrollablythankful laughter.

I finished 2011 and started 2012 standing on the edge ofthe immeasurable.

I’ve never been so aware of My Creator and the ways HisLove washes over me without stopping.

Thank you Jesus for anopportunity to visit the hem of the most beautiful continent. To see Your gloryin the most undeniable and life-giving ways. And for the friend who came withme, who flew around the world with a suitcase full of Christmas love fromfamily and friends, and who counted it worth it.

I played, I laughed, I danced, I sang, I walked, I prayed, Icart-wheeled… I rejoiced.

Photos by Carly B

My soul and my spirit were fed.

It was my first no-work, no-business, no-culture-shock,non-missionary holiday in over two-years.

I was struck by the strength ofthe current alluring me into the crashing and unending waves of the beautifullyblue Indian Ocean.

And that’s when God reminded me…

He doesn’t stop.

His grace keeps crashing over me.

His love keeps pulling me in.

He keeps making me new.

He keeps filling me with joy.

He doesn’t stop.

I don’t ever want to lose that feeling of dancing,playing, laughing and loving in the crashing waves of God’s love.

And I don’t want to stay toe-deep either.

One time a lady reached for the hem of Jesus’ garment because even theedge of it had enough power to heal a 12-year ailment. (Luke 8)

And now Jesus is in me. And you.

Full-on, crashing waves, un-resting current,couldn’t-grasp-the-depths-if-you-tried Jesus.

I started 2012 dancing on the hem-line that separated Africafrom the ocean. I intend on going deeper and deeper into His power andgrace every day of this year.

And that’s where we come back to my new year’s resolution.

How to get deeper. How to usher in more of His presence. Howto be carried away by His grace.

Thanksgiving.

Jesus always gave thanks before performing a miracle duringhis life on earth.

Giving thanks makes more room for Him, compels us toworship, and increases our faith by reminding us of how much He’s alreadyprovided.

In 2012, I will begin every day giving thanks.Instead of “Please and Thank you’s”, I will be a rejoicing, peace-seeking,“Thank you and please’s” kind of woman. His waves, His love, His grace, Hisgiving never stops. Why wouldn’t I start with thank you?

From Philippians 4:

Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, byprayer and petition, with thanksgiving,present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends allunderstanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

In 2012, I will not complain. Sometimes,people from the States look at my life and only see how much I’ve sacrificedand the conditions I live in. And sometimes I do that too. But, today, and thisyear, I’m floored by His provision and feel overwhelmingly blessed. I don’tfeel like I’ve given up anything. This doesn’t feel like a sacrifice. I feellike the richest woman on the planet with the most joy-giving life I could havenever imagined.

From Philippians 2:

Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that youmay become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked anddepraved generation, in which you shine like the stars in the universe as youhold out the word of life…

God is dreaming bigger and better things in me in 2012. Ihave no idea what or how He’ll make these things happen. So, I say, “Thank youSpirit for dreaming through me.”

God is promising to give us a home at Ten Thousand Homes.And to keep the property we live on, we need $30,000 in less than 30 days.And so we say, “Thank you for letting us be a part of fulfilling Your gospelmessage, for knowing Your favorite children, and for giving us an opportunityto rely completely on You and Your Body for something we cannot provide on ourown.” (Click here for more information)

Thank you for knowing me, loving me, and doing 2012 withme.

The Most Worthy Rescue Mission

2012-01-04T02:47:00.000-06:00

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 mildlydistressed mama telling me she had run away… again.

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

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

We gave a ride home to a woman who lives in a neighboringcommunity, and she said, “I know this girl.” Nandi had shown up knocking on herdoor one night at 9pm looking for a place to stay. The woman had called thepolice, but they dismissed it saying, “She always does that.” Another youngwoman 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 mybest to communicate clearly to Nandi that she was to go home to her mama’shouse 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 forthat part.

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

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

Today I can’t get Nandi off my mind.

I went to visit her again a few weeks after she spent thenight 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 shehad seen her was. She never came home after school that day. Themamas 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 sharingbrownies 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 seemedphased. 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 thefamily and community.

She always runs away.

And nobody knows why. It’sjust what she does.

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

They gave me a detailed explanation of where Nandi was… inSiSwati… 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. Thenentering a dirt-road, tin-shack community I never knew existed. To the end ofthe 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 ofa little girl who was being rescued and redeemed. For the third time this month. She ran into her mother’sarms. They hugged each other deeply, and then her mama quickly pushed her awayand sent her over to me.

I thought our hug would never end. And I never wanted itto.

You know how much I like words – especially adjectives – butthere are no consonants, vowels or syllables that I could craft together togive 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 manyquestions. Conversations went something like this:

“Some other white people dropped her off. We think maybeher 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, beingafraid, 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 tostay 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, apromise of returning the next day, and a drive home filled with silent prayersfor God to do what He does bigger than He’s ever done it.

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

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

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

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

How can you quit your identity- even if it’s prostitutionor 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 theeasiest 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 hisdaughter Lo-Ruhamah. It means unpitied. Lo-Ruhamah was the symbol of the plightof Israel. A wayward people who wanted to be known skin-deep, and didn’t carewhy 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 tothe 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 ‘Notmy loved one.’ I will say to those called ‘Not my people,’ ‘You are mypeople’; and they will say, ‘You are my God.” Hosea 2:23

Hosea had to chase Gomer over and over again. Hecontinuously 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 rescuemission with Nandi. And that the more I learn about the family, the moretangled 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 theidentity people write on you. I won’t stop coming for you. And I won’t gettired of it. You are worth it. You have been redeemed. And I can’t wait for youto know it all the way, to live in THAT identity: Pure, Renewed, Dearly Lovedand Mine.

A Holy Night

2011-12-25T15:24:00.000-06:00

Merry Merry Christmas!
And joy all around the whole wide world!

I love you, and I hope the love of a perfect baby boy whose life began to overcome death is consuming your day.

This is the first Christmas in all of my 27 years that I have not been with my family. My original, all-the-time, thick-and-thin, all-the-way-around-the-world, Home people. I miss them with all of me, and I love them more than I can say. I'm posting now as I anxiously wait for everyone to arrive to Aunt Glo's house so we can all skype together!

I want to be with them, sitting right next to my cousin Carli to open presents and egging cousin JoJo on to beat last year's Christmas dance performance. I want to eat No-Bake cookies until I feel like throwing up. I want to watch little Ella and Mia squeal with delight upon every opened treasure, and I want to meet Baby Josiah when he makes his debut next week. I want to squeeze my NaNa and make a scene about her being THE BEST NANA IN THE WORLD! (She really is.) I want to throw a fit until I get my way and my sister agrees to come with me to Galveston Island instead of anywhere that involves fluorescent lighting.

Although I haven't always been the perfect candidate for being perfectly loved, they have filled me up with an undeniable, unending, unconditional love. I'm relishing in Christmas memories and the passion God gave me for family tonight. HE told me to love His Family - the Kingdom of God sized family - and they taught me how.

Today we celebrate Jesus coming to earth to teach us how.
And I'm celebrating a family who taught me how.
And that's how I spent this first ever Christmas Eve in Africa this year.

I am overwhelmed with joy tonight because I got to host a REAL Christmas celebration because HE came and because they taught me how.

Thank you family. And thank you for Family for Christmas.

I picked up Kevin and his family for Christmas, and was brimming with delight at having a cottage full of family. I had the privilege and joy of serving a hot meal to a family who hasn't had enough food this month and sending home enough leftovers for everyone to eat again. I got to lavish them with a kind of love they've never received before - Christmas gifts wrapped under the tree with their names on them! I bathed every child, rubbed lotions on their dry skin and dressed them in new outfits for a night out. We laughed and held each other the whole night while we watched a play about the Christmas story, starring another family from Ten Thousand Homes participate at a local church.

Happy mamas and sweet little Karabo. Right - Charity, Kevin, Given and Karabo's mama. Left - Nandi and Tommy's mama.

Charity - 4 years old

Right where I want to be for Christmas!

A happy girl!

LOOK! KEVIN'S SMILING!!!!

What's Christmas without a family photo? Absolutely amazed by the smiles that have transformed the countenance of these perfect little angels.

My new extended family

Time for presents!

I'm not going to get over this smile... it's so perfect.

Or these Christmas toes!

The mamas loved their new scarves!

Our Christmas super-model.

Bathtime for babies! Kevin and Given - 2 years

Excitedly waiting on the Christmas play to start!

What better way to end the night than a balloon drop!?!

Happy little Given!

Language Lessons

2011-12-23T11:35:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

We dwelled on the most commonly recited and most commonlyglazed-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 onlySon, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish, but have eternal life.”John 3:16

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

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

We didn’t gather to say, “thank you”. We didn’t gather to open up our pocketsand 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 Americanstanding in front of a House of orphaned and vulnerable children.

I could give them every materialthing I have. And I would love to.

I could kiss them until my lipsfell 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’llall end up with dry bones.

Dry bank accounts,dry lips and dry bones.

Anyone is capable of giving. But giving without lovedries 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 LOVEDthe world THATHE GAVE His one and only Son…

When we started speaking Thanksgiving together on Sunday, Ibelieve 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 openup 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, ordry anything.

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

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

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

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

Many people in the culture don’t know when their birthdaysare. And there aren’t birthday parties. Or birthday cakes. Or birthdayanythings.

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

And then I threw a birthday party. Right then andthere. A party that didn’t requirespeaking birthday. It required speaking Thanksgiving. It required speaking thepraises 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 whiteAmerica to lead a birthday song for Jesus with people who have never heard thebirthday 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 nextpractice round of speaking Thanksgiving.

What’s a birthday party without a paper chain? We called itour banner of Thanksgiving. Everyone added a link with a prayer of thankswritten on it. We sang worship songs of thanks while we created the combinationparty 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 languagerose to the heavens.

Construction paper and crayonscrashed through the typical formality of a Sunday morning to create a tangibleand festive proclamation that we canspeak 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 storiesand crayons for every child. And for every family who didn’t have a child.

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

Every family in my church now has a book written in Englishand SiSwati. They’ve all been to a birthday party now. And now they all havethe story to know why it’s worth celebrating. I asked them to read the storyaloud every night this week as a family. The gospel is penetrating homes and hearts throughoutMbonisweni 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 vulnerablechildren in South Africa are trading in our dry bones, our dry hearts, and ourdry 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!

The Right Kind of Upside Down. Let's Make the Countdowns Count!

2011-12-10T05:23:00.001-06:00

Whether it’s paper chains, advent calendars, shoppingfrenzies or sugar-charged children doing the counting, I’mguessing Christmas countdowns are full throttle in most of the world!

This is my first Christmas in South Africa, and I have toadmit, I’ve had a little trouble getting into the holly-jolly holiday spirit,much less the holiness of the big day we're counting down to.

Everything feels upside down… the summer weather, thedistance between my family and I, the potential that Lifa will leave on December 23^rd. I bought us aChristmas tree because I kept forgetting Christmas is coming!

The whole idea of Christmas ispretty upside down anyway… A Savior brought into the world through the womb ofan ordinary, young and single lady. A Messiah who still needed a mama to raisehim. The Son of Man spending his first night in a barn.

So I guess upside down isn’t so bad.

But I want it to be the RIGHT kind of upside down.

There is a verydifferent kind of upside down happening in South Africa today. I believe God is saying we have an opportunity to be Hishands –and even pass out the crayons- for a fantastic project to turn the wrongkind of upside down, upside down andmake it right. Did you get that?

Christmas in South Africa is not a sanctified celebration ofthe birth of Jesus. In the people group I work amongst and call family, pastorsare excited Christmas falls on a Sunday this year. On other years, no churchesmeet on Christmas and there are no Christmas Eve services... because no one comes.

Christmas in South Africa is simply the time of year forchildren to receive clothes for the next school year and to spend Christmasbonuses on alcohol.

The country isplagued with abuse, human trafficking and crime during this drunken,no-rules-apply month. But you and I have anopportunity to turn things the right kind of upside down and make an eternalimpact.

Together, we can turn a meaningless month of chaos into atime to know and to celebrate the most intentional gift from our Creator.

I am putting together 125 coloring books that tell theChristmas story in English and the local language, SiSwati. We willcelebrate the gift of that perfect Messiah baby by giving a gift of Truth writtensimply, and in a language that families can read together. There’s still a lot of work to do, but I’m already passing themout as soon as I can make them.

You are reading this because you have invested in some wayinto my life and my story. I would like to invite you now to invest in the lives ofthe orphaned or vulnerable children in South Africa and the way their storywill change when they know the real story.

Each book costs approximately $2 to make including paper,printing, assembling and crayons.Would you consider buying a book for achild in Africa this Christmas?

I believe with all of me that God is asking me to do this,and I believe the blessings will multiply throughout our lives and the nationsif we do it together.

If you are interested,check the right-hand column of this blog and click on my PayPal link. For moreinformation or to receive a .pdf copy of the document, email me at kacychaffin@gmail.com!

Party People

2011-12-05T02:03:00.001-06:00

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.

I have an extra child tonight...

2011-12-01T11:40:00.001-06:00

I have an extra child tonight.

I'm writing you from South Africa tonight with the perfect view from my couch: an almost-4-year old in a big-boy bed with "L I F A" hanging on the wall above him, and a long-legged little lady sprawled out in borrowed pj's across my red sheets.

Nandi's spending the night with us tonight.

There are so many versions of so many stories about Nandi. And about her mom.
None of them start with "Once upon a time..." and none of them are worth repeating.

Nandi's been showing up at TTH feedings since before I even got here. She's one of those kids that everybody notices, knows her name, and knows there's a story behind.

I don't know how old she is. But I know better than to measure her age by the way she carries herself. Or by the way she's learned how to use those long legs. Or by all the hard-knock life lessons that flicker through her eyes. It's only her childlike, ear-to-ear grin that betrays her when she gets shot by a water gun, surprised by a new pair of shoes, helped into a warm bubbly bath, or takes her first ride in the front seat of a car that show she's younger than her life experiences say she should be.

Nandi carries a lot of labels with her. She's a "runaway". She's been found sleeping in graveyards and in the doorways of strangers. Her mother's been an elusive figure in a Lifetime movie kind of story. I always notice the weeks when Nandi doesn't come to the Dwaleni feeding.

I've started building a relationship, slowly but surely, with Nandi's family.
(Background for those who know how much I love little Kevin and his family: Kevin's mother is Nandi's mother's sister. They live in the same plot of land.)

I found Nandi's mother and auntie waiting for me at the feeding program when I pulled up this week. Through a translator and deep burden, they explained Nandi had been gone for a week. Some of the children at the feeding knew where she was. It was too far to walk and they needed my help.

Absolutely.

A 10-person car ride later, we had our girl back. She climbed into my car looking like she was made of stone. Her mom wept all the way back to the feeding. This was a mess. And, by the icy emotions chilling the summer day, I knew it would only get worse in their house tonight. And we'd probably be looking for Nandi again tomorrow.

So, I asked if Nandi could come to my house tonight.

I explained that we were family, and we would take care of our kids together. And maybe tonight, Mama Nandi needed to rest with an extra helping of peace knowing her girl was safe. I wrapped my arms all the way around Nandi's slender frame and cracked a joke about how tight I would hold her all night long.

Instant relief.

And somehow, within moments, we were worshipping together at a neighbor's house, sharing snacks, and I had a lap full of sleeping babies. All was well. We became family.

There was a birthday party on base for 5-year old Caleb tonight. Our yard was filled with children, laughter, good food and swimming. For one night, Nandi was not a "runaway". She was a giggling, beaming, delighted little girl who was only running from the splash of a water gun as she passed off her new shoes to me so she go faster.

I've been running away from God all week.

He used the f-word to me.
Rosa - don't freak out.

He called me to be a foster parent for his Kingdom. For the "least of these".
Foster parent... that's the f-word.

He asked me to love them with full-throttle Mama Love... all the way, every single day. To make their families stronger because of it. And to trust Him in all the moments - even when they go back home.

I've been running away from Him all week because it gets a lot more personal when they have a bed with their name on the wall. And when you've said ni-night prayers over them. And when they've bathed in your bath bucket. And when they call you Mama. It felt like all this love was backfiring.

I said "God the Father... I'm mad at YOU." I let that Abba-God have it.
And He whispered right back that He gets it.

Christmas is coming. What sometimes seems like a commercial holiday is really a sparkly hoopla over the beginning of the most personal and painful parenting experience in the story of Creation. And that He said it was worth it.

It's worth it to be a foster parent and let my kids go home, so His kids can come Home. So me and the mamas and babas and gogo's and babies can all go Home together- fully adopted, fully sons and daughters of the King of Kings!

We are learning together what His Family looks like. Our Family.

Today Mama Nandi learned that, no back-story required, she's not alone. And she's worth being taken care of. Today Nandi probably had her first-ever real bedtime routine. After fearful uncertainty and wiggling, she's sleeping hard and peacefully. Today Lifa learned that there's still room for more and that he'll always matter. Today I felt the most satisfying kind of exhaustion I've ever felt and decided that getting to feel this kind of love and be a part of this kind of family really is worth it.

The Perfect Thanksgiving Prayer

2011-11-25T00:29:00.001-06:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

On the heels of my second Thanksgiving in South Africa, I’mthinking about what’s happening in American homes right now. The relief providedby the tryptophan-induced naps is probably wearing off, and the last laughs ofthe night are being shared with a healthy dose of football banter and just one more slice of pie. Alarms are being set for Black Fridayshopping 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 timewith you, Jesus and Pike’s Place coffee before the most perfect little boywakes up and we get ready for school. I have to confess that I’m thrilled to not be Black Friday shopping, buteven more thrilled to be right where I am on this couch with Lifa sleepingsoundly and the birds singing the sun up. I’m overwhelmed with thankfulnessthis morning.

Yesterday, as we left a feeding program to go eat Thanksgivingdinner together, Lifa said, “Thank youJesus for eating. Thank you Jesus for play, play, play. Thank you Jesus forkids.”

A perfect Thanksgiving prayer.

We have more than those calories that don’t count onholidays and a day to come together to be thankful for. But if all our hope is in a roasted bird (orpig 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 stopsaying thank you for them. But I never want to think it’s the pumpkin pie thatfills me up. It’sthe everyday and the eternal part of Thanksgiving that I want to feast on.Every goodthing on earth is just a taste of the Kingdom of God – a reminder ofhow good He is that comes in our favorite flavors, memories and colors (becauseHe knows all of our favorites us and He knows we need to be reminded). Even thevery best baby kisses and family moments are an image of the affection we weremade 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 outconstruction paper replicas of the Niña, the Pinta or the Santa Maria. And he’s pretty sure Texas happens through acomputer screen. But he knows it all starts with “Thank you Jesus…”

Last weekend, we sat on a swing – I did all the legwork andhe just leaned back into me and giggled. It was beautiful. He was in theperfect posture for thank you’s. And I just listened and delighted –and finallycouldn’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 ofLove you couldn’t stop if you tried.

Fully aware you don’thave the strength or the control to make that swing go, or how fast, or howhigh it will take you.

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

Thanksgiving anddelight pouring out of you just because you’re in the right posture to receiveit.

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

Thank you Jesus for showing me more of who you arethrough Lifa.

Thank you Jesus for doing the legwork and letting meenjoy the ride.

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

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

“Thank youJesus for you love me.”

Forks and Spoons

2011-11-07T03:12:00.000-06:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her: hehehehehe

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

And then we got to my favorite part:

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

Me: Yes.

Her: But which one do I use?

Keri: It depends on what you eat.

Her: But what do I order?

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

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

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

Her: What do I drink?

Keri and I in unison: Coke!

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

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

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

Me: What are you going to wear?

She's definitely thought about it.

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

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

Her: Oh ok. I won't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

THIS is Church

2011-11-01T07:50:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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

Photo by Lindsey Kaufman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then I dressed him in brand new clothes.

Fit for a prince.

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

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

And it hit me.

Capital C.

Church.

In the yard.

Where Home is being built.

People from the nations gathered.

Feeding the hungry.

Loving the orphaned.

Uniting in passionate worship.

Visiting homes and encouraging vulnerable families.

Speaking Truth over the forgotten.

Bathing babies in buckets in truck-beds.

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

I GET to be part of THIS.

THIS is Church.

I get to be a part of a neighborhood Church.

So do you.

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

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

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

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

All Fired Up About Paper Chains

2011-10-27T03:39:00.000-05:00

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 ofconstruction paper in my house, taunting me and the kids on base, leaves uswith no other option but to create celebrations. How can you not have fun with a rainbow of schoolsupplies 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 offa colorful strip of paper in excited anticipation or in trepidation of whathappens after the last link is gone.

Coming to Africa:

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

But here’s the thing.

It’s not aboutgetting 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 tograduate from grad school – it meant getting hurled into “the real world” fromthe safety of a seminary bubble, padded by the most incredible spiritualcommunity 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 apartmentbuilding. (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 allthe way.

It’s worth it to count each link.

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

It was GoGo’s 60^th birthday! We rolled out thered 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 orcake. Sixty years had come and gone with no acknowledgement.

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

Sitting under paper chain decorations on GoGo’s firstbirthday 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 ofGoGo’s story?

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

I met another 18-ish orphan yesterday, living in a shackmade of wood and plastic. She had two or three children and no ID – which meansher children probably have no ID. That means no funds, no job and no education.No identity. Nothingto even acknowledges their birthdays. Not even a starting link to say theirlife 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 comewith creative prayer challenges – Want to sign up?

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

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

PRAY HARD.

Pray foreverybody who’s never had a link.

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

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

Pray forBongi, the orphan I met.

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

Pray for Lifaand his family members without ID’s.

MAKE EVERYLINK COUNT.

Guess Who's Coming on Saturday!

2011-10-24T03:45:00.001-05:00

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

Be Careful What You Pray For

2011-10-22T05:35:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children giving their leftovers to the ones who needed it most

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

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

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

A house almost finished and Home coming down to earth

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

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

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

A future Hope and Homes miracle...

The ONE Thing

2011-10-17T06:55:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

There are 66 canons of the Manual – more thanhalf of which tell stories about dead kings, seas splitting and people poutingin deserts.

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

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

willing to see God in the ways that hurt…

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

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

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

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

We want to be effective and excellent for the Kingdom.

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

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

People have been asking it since the very beginning. Jesusjust kept talking in parables until they were ready to hear it his way insteadof theirs.

Because the ONE thing isn’t from ONE culture.

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

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

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

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

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

The ONE thing is hope.

Full bank accounts with no hope buy their way into deeperhopelessness when you can never buy enough to fill up that ONE partof you.

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

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

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

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

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

Ten Thousand Homes is building a house for a child-headedhousehold in a community called Dwaleni. Busi, the head of the household is now18 years old, had been unable to finish school yet, speaks no English and hasspent the last few years since losing her parents, caring for her four youngersiblings.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had no language.

I had no blanket in my hand.

I had nothing to bring except for just being there.

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

Photos from Keri's blog

It could have been finished there.

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

And then another.

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

An hour later…

We were still in that yard singing to our Lord.

Proclaiming and calling down that ONE thing.

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

Some of the kids even came over to dance.

Anthony came out again, hiding in the back so we wouldn’tnotice him singing.

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

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

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

We brought her a blanket.

We’re building her a house.

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

Call it down.

Sing it out.

Dance all over it.

Everything else happens on the way.

CAAAAANNNNONNNNNNN BAALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!

2011-10-11T07:21:00.001-05:00

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!

Me and You and Him and Us

2011-10-01T06:00:00.001-05:00

Me and You...

And Him...

And Us...

We're in the Home-building business.

(I don't technically know how to build houses... I can't even keep the frogs and creepy-crawlers out of mine)

But Homes - the safety and security of being known, belonging and being valued where you are. That's what I'm talking about today.

Me and You:

You've been my scaffolding support system.

You've been the mortar, helping me stick- stronger and more secure in every piece of the Kingdom God's let me get my hands on.

You've been the backyard fence, giving me a space to do cartwheels and explore every corner of this earthly backyard while never letting me get too far out of the boundaries of our real Home.

You've been the big red couch, cups of coffee and art on the refrigerator, making life here more beautiful.

Him:

He's the cornerstone, the very foundation of it all.

He's the strength - the solid rock - and the only safe place to build our Hope on.

He's the very definition of Home - the fulfillment of all that we dream of when we think of Home-building.

Us:

We get to do it together.

We get to seek Him and use what we find to build Home on earth.

We get to do that together - me and You and Him.

And then we get to tell everybody else about it!

So...

Big announcement everyone...

Drum-roll please...

Now presenting a new-and-improved Ten Thousand Homes website to give you complete access to building Hope and creating Home in so many ways!

Come and see pictures and videos of the place that I work and call home. Read the stories and ask God to show you the ways you are called to the Home-building business. And then please, please, puh-leeease share this website. We know that God wants to use this little corner of cyberspace to invite people in who don't know where they fit.

This is your chance for the You and Him and Us part: Open the door and welcome someone into the story of Home. Post it on facebook, send out an email, and know that today YOU belong in the Home-building business.

www.tenthousandhomes.org

He planned His Family before the dust and the earth and the backyards ever existed. He always dreamt that you'd join in the fun!

Because We Say So!

2011-09-22T14:28:00.000-05:00

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

A New Kind of Birthday Suit

2011-09-20T05:22:00.000-05:00

I’m back everybody! Back from a little internet hiatus, minus one blog I just couldn’t resist.

I missed you.

I have to tell you that, even more than I was 3 weeks ago, I’m overwhelmingly grateful for your reading, your praying and your knowing me as we build hope and home in South Africa together.

And now, in true form of friends and family who really know each other, let’s just pick up where we left off, shall we?

A few weeks ago I celebrated my 27^th birthday in the crazy-colliding way God has taught me how to party this year. He threw me a “He’s-Got-the-Whole-World-in-His-Hands” kind of family party with my Ten Thousand Homes family, my South African family and with my American church family, Bay Area Community Church! He even dressed me for the party.

A week before my birthday, I was visiting my favorite house in Africa: GoGo’s house. The twins were washing my car, and I was sitting on crates with a lap full of babies. All of a sudden, I noticed excited whispering, giggles and wild gesturing between GoGo and my sisters. I see Zodwa and Prudence run into the house shrieking and look at GoGo, who speaks no English, for a clue. She grinned and gestured for me to sneak up on them to see what was going on. It was my birthday surprise! They couldn’t wait any more – they had to give it to me!

And it was more meaningful and lovely than anything I could have ever imagined or given. It was a church dress! Not just your average church dress… it was a beautiful, hand-made dress that is fitting for a mother to wear.

This birthday wasn’t just about having a fun party… but trust me, it was fun:

There was dancing…

There was bubble-blowing…

There was kissing…

There was art!

The whole family gathered around to help decorate a "Happy Birthday NaNa" banner for my NaNa in America!

But this year, as I turned one year older, I grew up in a lot more ways than I could have anticipated.

Last year on my 26^th birthday, I blew out candles at GoGo’s house with very different wishes.

On my 26^th birthday, I was a regular visitor at GoGo’s and everybody knew Lifa was my favorite kid. I was new on staff at Ten Thousand Homes and still living out of suitcases without a place to call my own, and not sure I wanted to call any place in this hemisphere “my own”.

On my 27^th birthday, I welcomed GoGo and our family into my home where they admired Lifa’s new big-boy bed and poured over our family photo albums.

Contrary to the culture that doesn’t celebrate birthdays, I was given a gift that require immeasurable sacrifice and love and that speaks louder than words. A gift that says: “You belong here. You are welcomed into our lives and our culture as a mother. We see you and we love you.”

This year on my 27^th birthday, I was dressed like the belle of the ball and, instead of just making wishes over birthday candles (that wish is a 3 ½ year-old piece of home with his little hand in mine), I am making “trusts”.

I am committing myself and my 27^th year to trusting My Maker – the Ultimate Birthday Celebrator. He sings “Happy Birthday” to the tune of creation’s song while He claps, cheers and spurs us on toward His highest good, and we inch closer and closer to the best birthday ever when we get to sing the songs of new creation!

So…

This year...

I trust You with my hopes and dreams.

I trust You with my loneliness.

I trust You to mend the tears of time zones and culture gaps that have over-stretched and overwhelmed relationships.

I trust You to meet the needs that I can’t even identify.

I trust You to align my heart with Yours, and give me a gentle, grace-based curve as I learn to bend in opposite directions than the ways of the world.

I trust You not to leave the place You called me to stay.

I trust You to pave the way and break through every barrier standing in the way of family.

I trust You to swing your mighty hand of justice through South Africa and wipe away every unshed tear from every eye and to rest on the heads of Your children with a touch that says, “I know you.”

Camping Out

2011-09-08T11:34:00.000-05:00

I told you in the last blog that I was taking time away from the computer to live and to love right where I am. As always, His plans far surpassed mine. (Mine involved naps and giggling.)

He keeps teaching me family and is even giving me tastes of some of the other ways He loves. You know, the sides that hurt. If anybody knows about hurty love, it's that Father and that Son that said it was worth it. (John 3:16)

I stepped away from my "normal" daily life routines for a sort of holiday of different proportions than what I was really bargaining for.

It's kinda like camping...

Everybody gets excited at the beginning of a camping trip.

Load an ice chest, tents, sleeping bags and a truck load of Deet if you happen to be camping in Texas.

Take a road trip to find a place with air so fresh you can almost taste the extra-twinkly stars.

Pitch a tent, unfold some chairs, spark a fire, and sing a little Kumbaya.

It's a beautiful adventure.

The living in a tiny tent, carrying a roll of toilet paper into the woods, and wild-outdoorsy body aroma is charming for a weekend... a week if you're really hard core.

But there is nothing like that first shower and the first night of sleep back in your own bed. No more bumps or bites in the night. No more snoring from the sleeping bag next to yours.

Home Sweet Home.

Yesterday I walked, talked and sang to God about how much I love him. I was radiant by His love. I was so pleased to be displeased with this earth. And yesterday every prayer I prayed was heard and answered. He makes all things good and wraps them in Truth and Love.

Today, partially in response to the tremendous emotions wrapped up in all those answered prayers from yesterday, I feel crumply. Exhausted.

Nothing's wrong. Nothing's out of line. I'm learning about His Family, just like I asked.
Yesterday it just got personal.

Greater things have yet to come...
Greater things are still to be done...

So today I will worship from this crumply earthly tent, punctured by the spears and sharp edges of my own self-defenses and of humanity not having the capacity to squeeze all that Perfect Love by the Perfect Family 3-pack into these earthly tents.

Paul was a tent-maker. He gets camping. His words in 2 Corinthians 3-5 have been my camp-fire song for the past few nights.

"Now we know that if this earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands. meanwhile we groan, longing to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling..." (2 Cor 5:1-2)

From every hole in me- the grabby, selfish, foot-stomping, whiney-voiced parts that just keep getting it wrong...

Jesus, flood this tent. Break through this earthly dwelling and let Your light shine through.

It's not supposed to feel good here. And today I'm not pleased. I'm not beaming with the hope of the Kingdom coming like I was yesterday.

Today I'm groaning with the hope of the Kingdom coming. Sometimes even stomping and whining about it. But keep it coming, Jesus.

"For while we are in this tent, we groan and are burdened, because we do not with to be unclothed but to be clothed with our heavenly dwelling, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life." (2 Cor 5:4)

We're camping out, sitting under the starry blanket of creation, singing songs as part of a new creation.

Some days we take soak up the adventure of the campout and love on that breathtaking beauty, Mama Nature.

Some days we just wanna go Home and see our Dad.

"Therefore we are always confident and know that as long as we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord. We live by faith, not big sight. We are confident, I say, and would prefer to be away from the body and at home with the Lord." (2 Cor 5:6-8)

Kumbaya everybody.

Kumbaya.

Spidey-style

2011-08-24T10:42:00.000-05:00

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....

Bathing Suit Season

2011-08-19T00:02:00.001-05:00

Let’s just put it all out here for the whole world wide web to see: I think I have a fear of drowning.

There was this one time when I was about 7-years old tubing down the Guadalupe River with my family, and a lady and her jumbo tube came barreling through some white water rapids. She slid right under and then over me, trapping me under my own tube with no idea how to get out. I freaked out. Twenty years later, I’m still talking about it.

A year or so later, I was wading through the wave pool at Water World with my cousin Carli. With the moms and NaNa sunbathing and guarding our jellies, we were set up for big adventure. We inched deeper and deeper hoping each other’s courage would keep us afloat. Then… the waves came on.

You just bounce with them, roll with them and let them carry you. OR you swallow buckets of urine-spiked chlorine while the waves wash over your head, carrying away your scrunchie, blinding you and making every bathing suited body look the same. And somehow find yourself being pounded up against the wall of the wave pool, desperately grabbing for something steady, something to get you out of the never-ending water wall attack. Finally, a tanned lifeguard man-hand reached down and pulled me out- tears, hiccups, chlorine burps and all.

I was so afraid that nobody could see me and I would just be stuck in the overpowering waves forever (5 minutes really is forever in kid time). It just took one hand to pull me out and remind me that the wave pool is just a stimulated attraction. It’s not reality. There was solid ground to stand on. I could come out of the current whenever I wanted.

Lifa went back to his dad’s house on Monday.

My body, my heart and my everything is aching for the most perfect little boy in the whole world and all the other perfect little Lifas who don’t have their own blog or prayers of hope and justice wrapping around the world.

I feel like part of me is missing and am wondering if invisibility cloaks are one-size-fits-all or special order.

How can meetings still happen?

How can emails still get sent and newsletters written?

How can I serve one more plate of food to a child without knowing if anyone knows his birthday or if he’s ever made a wish or blown out a candle?

So I just bake cookies and set my schedule on auto-pilot.

Since Monday, I’ve been lost in the “how can I’s” and “how can you’s”. I’ve been trying to keep my head afloat in the heaving current of emotion- gasping for air but getting slapped with another wave instead, only to find an undertow of numbness that was stronger than I wanted to be.

I’m losing my breath and my perspective in the wave pool.

Waves of poverty, starvation, namelessness and brokenness aren’t going to stop coming. But I can’t stay up against this wall. I can’t keep drinking in waves of hopelessness – you know, the pee-water from the pool.

I can reach up for the sovereign God-hand reaching down to pull me out.

Again and again.

The Perfect Lifeguard, scheming with His children to rescue every bobbing swimsuit from the waves, set their feet on solid ground and serve them Mai Tai’s with little umbrellas. (Ok, I threw that last part in… just went with the bathing suit thing.)

I wish Lifa were here. The waves seem bigger when that little guy isn’t in my arms.

And he doesn’t even know how to swim.

But my real Life isn't confined to the walls of the wave pool.

And neither is his.

Neither is our family's.

With one hand holding on to our Lifeguard, we’re going to take on the waves in faith.

Together, even when we’re apart.

I won’t live in fear of the wave machine, generating man-made currents.

And trust me, the waves have really cranked up this year.

Today I’ll choose to swim in springs of life. And drink up Living Water.

Even though our bodies and bathing suits live this life in the wave pool, we don’t have to live wave-by-wave or in the “how can I’s” and “how can you’s”.

Our Lifeguard never leaves. He’s holding on. He’s bigger than every wave and never lets go.

He is for me.

He is for Lifa.

He is for you.

Photo by Jillian Hamp

He works for the good of those who love him. (Romans 8:28)

Gettin' Down With Gideon

2011-08-04T02:21:00.000-05:00

My home church is coming back to Africa!

In a week!

I can’t wait!

Bay Area Community Church, we are thrilled and honored to host you at Ten Thousand Homes.

It’s powerful, profound and indescribable to experience the up-close and personal parts of the Body of Christ coming together to do His thing. A small team of 4 are coming in the name of Christ and on behalf of a growing, loving and Kingdom-hungry church body. I can’t wait to have even more shared experiences, stories and family moments with them on this side of the globe!

Team member, Mary, wrote me an email saying she had a picture of their team coming as Gideon did – a small number coming in faith to a BIG battle. When God’s presence falls and He overcomes against the odds, you know it has to be about Him and not the names, faces or credentials of anyone coming.

So I spent the morning, first of all, thanking Jesus that Lifa is still sleeping… Can I get an amen!?!

And secondly, flipping to Judges 6 & 7 to check in on Gideon. You know, after I had to look up where to find him.

Gideon was given a promise. (Judges 6:36)

This promise, and the way he was told to live it out, seems a little out-of-control… I’m talking, “build an arc in the desert and invite two of each kind of animal” crazy.

Who does that?

Oh… right…

God told Gideon He would save Israel by Gideon’s hand. This guy, Gideon, was no Clark Kent, everybody. He was from the bad side of town. And he was the youngest kid in his family, which sort of made you a nobody back then. (Not you Sister, you’re a big deal and I love you!)

AND God didn’t give him a shiny new coat of arms and the latest, fancy-schmancy enemy-squishing devices. He made the promise, and then Gideon rounded up 22,000 people. And God weeded them down to 300!

Gideon was afraid. He kept asking for reassurance from God. But he never ever doubted God’s promise.

So God responded. God reassured. And God got the job done.

Gideon didn’t physically do much but blow a trumpet.

A little live music on the battlefield, and God handled the rest. He actually turned the enemy against themselves.

God made a promise. Gideon lived, breathed and led by that promise. And that was that.

When the concert, killings and what-not were over, and it was time for Gideon to receive his big-deal badge, the Israelites begged Gideon to rule over them. His response: “I will not rule over you, nor will my son rule over you. The Lord will rule over you.” (Judges 8:23)

The shiny new big-deal badge, fame and fortune were not what it was about.

How could it be when there were 300 Israelites hanging out in the dark, blowing horns around masses of murders and oppressors?

Or 12 missionaries with a small army of 9 children (soon to be joined by a family of 6!) standing up for Hope and Homes in the middle of a country laden with racial and economic brokenness, an orphan crisis, and a rampant case of hopelessness?

Or 4 Americans taking 2 weeks away from “normal life” to encircle these missionaries, Ten Thousand Homes and every orphaned and vulnerable child they come across for two weeks, blowing trumpets of Truth and Love?

God, show me how to cling to Your Truth and Your Promises in every circumstance. Help me to see and repent from the worldy ways, hopes and promises I’m clinging to – from believing that Your promises are all about my personal happily-ever-afters.

I cling to you. I run after you. I am running toward the prize – the prize of every orphaned and vulnerable child knowing You are the big deal and they have a place in your family. To see their reflection in the sparkle of your big deal badge.

God, how do I know or turn toward Your promises rather than try to decode them to how they translate on earth? How do I live Kingdom life in daily life? How do I stand in the gap when cultures collide?

Fill me – and the team from BACC – today with Your words, Your breath and Your promises. Gideon-style.

Let every person reading this prayer catch a glimmer of your big deal badge in the center of their hearts – the part that You created with hope and invitation. Show us all how to live like Gideons together, clinging to Your promises and letting you mark the path.

Amen.

Life Lessons from a Marathon Runner

2011-08-02T04:32:00.000-05:00

One of my closest friends in Africa, Keri Dodge set a goal for 2011: to run a marathon!

Being the supportive friend that I am, I also set a goal to cheer her on... from the sidelines... with snacks and small children! (Heaven looks a little different to each of us.)

Marathon running is tough work!

Keri is far into her training now and is creatively planning safe ways to do her long runs on the weekend. She's up to over 16 miles now! Lifa and I have become her marathon roadies and are happy to cheer her on as she goes up and down the mountains of South Africa, arranging running partners and water stands throughout Mbonisweni.

Last weekend, Keri got us all set up, and Lifa and I brought the party to GoGo's house. GoGo's yard was a water station for Keri and our friend NhlaNhla, a dance party, and a popcorn and juice party!

She's doing it the right way.
She cannot safely train for a marathon alone in South Africa.

So, she's making it a family affair... even though it takes so much more time, money and communicating.
She's trusting people to come into an important part of her story and her dreams.
One kilometer at a time, she's getting stronger and believing in reaching her goal.

As her head cheerleader with her #1 fan in tote, God is teaching me about marathons and endurance through Keri.

Lifa cheering Keri on!

First things first, I've realized I will NEVER run a marathon. But, DANG, Go Keri Go!

There's two weeks left before I take Lifa back to his father's house. God is whispering that it's not about a sprint... it's a marathon. This back-and-forth from house-to-house feels unnatural, painful and broken. But it's part of a long and beautiful plan and path God is laying for our story. Our family.

Mornings like this morning - pancakes, snuggle parties, and praying and worshipping together on the way to school - are like our water stands. I feel His Spirit pouring Living Water and blessing our family. And I'm praying - and asking you to pray - for us. Pray that during this next two weeks together, His Spirit sings to our spirits and puts a seal of family, security and joy on Lifa, his father and myself.

With hiccups, hang-ups and African-time, this family story is definitely a marathon. I'm in it forever and ever.

Today and everyday with Lifa, I will cherish each moment as a gift and as a part of His promises. There's not a finish-line or a due-date here. We will continuously run after His Kingdom and always be learning how to seek Him more and more. We are keeping our eyes fixed on His promises and calling His Kingdom down. And we're asking for lots of dance parties, kisses and miracle moments along the way!

Lifa's got his own blog now. www.lifewithlifa.blogspot.com
This kid's a big deal! His blog is a way to share his story, show him off and keep him connected to friends and family back home. It's a space to testify the Truth and mark the path God is laying, one promise at a time. Thanks for checking it out! We love you!

Running and Shouting

2011-07-28T03:15:00.000-05:00

This week was a big week.

This week I got a perspective check – a deeper, higher, louder, brighter, bolder, and desperate awareness of how much I need God.

Long day in the car!

Pastor Sthembiso, Lifa and I drove an hour and a half through twisty-turny mountains to pick up Lifa’s auntie on Tuesday, and continued another hour and a half through roads lined with SNOW and ICE to go to home affairs.

It was time to handle some business.

And we’ve established enough trust and relationship with Lifa’s biological family for them to know we’re on their side – the side that chooses the highest good for them and believes they are worth being called family to us at Ten Thousand Homes and in the Kingdom of God.

Lifa and his father do not have birth certificates. It’s a huge epidemic in Africa. Identity-less people growing up uncharted in their own country.

I don’t want to demean the reality or truth in them in any way, but our “identity crises” in the States look a little different. They often come with things like changing careers, leaving or cleaving to families, or changes in economic status. Birth certificates, social security numbers and knowing your birthday… for the most part, these things are a given. And if somehow your identity documents are lost, stolen or slipped through some judicial crack, there’s a policy, procedure and something written in black and white. Talk to the right badge; find the right stamp; and wiggle into the right system.

Justice.

I don’t know the statistics of how many children and adults in South Africa are living without something that acknowledges who they are and where they came from.

How could there be a statistic for a group of invisible people?

But I do know that these people are destined for a life that repeats the same messages of not being known and not being worth it over and over again: no education, no work beyond finding manual labor, no eligibility for government assistance or acknowledgment, and children at risk of being trafficked or getting sick without even being missed.

A broken system. A perpetuating orphan crisis. Children having children with no help, no acknowledgement and no way to break the cycle.

Not my kid.

Back to the business-handling part of this story:

Back seat party! Auntie loved the toys too.

We were ready. I packed the lunches, provided the transport and was loud-mouthed American shouting for rights for Lifa. Pastor was the one with the language, the pastor badge, the big-talk, the know-how, and the people in the right places. Lifa’s auntie was the one with the DNA, the ID, and the ID and death certificate of Lifa’s paternal grandmother (1964-2007). We had a plan of action and were ready to go apply for the birth certificate with high hopes and big faith.

Operation: Shout fror Justice was quickly (and temporarily) silenced an hour into home affairs with Pastor’s overwhelmed face, genuine sorrow, and the words, “It’s not going to happen.”

This is when the perspective checking started. In this desperate moment where, with each new piece of information that came in, the gap for justice widened.

I’m speaking on fathers this Sunday in my church.

And this week I learned that, as much as we want fathers to rise up to take responsibility for families and children in this country, it’s not just counter-cultural, but their rights are totally written out of the law. A father cannot register his child for a birth certificate. It has to be a mother or the mother’s mother.

And if you come to the place that we are suddenly finding ourselves in, when there’s no identity documents for either parent and no living grandmothers, shoulders get shrugged, exhales get louder and it suddenly becomes a, “We don’t know what to do.”

Where’s the policy? Where’s the procedure? Where’s the stamp? Where’s the badge?

I came here to be God’s hands and feet in the orphan crisis.

Now the orphan crisis is living in my house.

And he calls me Mama.

Photo by Clark Grigg

Lifa was set up to fall right into place in this perpetuating orphan crisis – to never have an id, never have the right to dream, and to have a long and hard road to find his place in the Family of God. Maybe even to continue the cycle. If it’s all you know, what else can you do?

Not anymore.

Lifa is not an orphan.

Lifa has a mama.

Lifa has a father who loves him dearly – enough to want the best life for him. He’s heroically taking a chance with some emotional white girl to break a cycle, to choose family, and to end the orphan crisis in his own family.

Photo by Clark Grigg

Two years ago Lifa was invisible.

Today you can’t miss him. He’s like a lip magnet!

Transformed from “the least of these” to “God’s Greatness”.

The way we love each other is teaching us and everyone around us family.

A former orphan is teaching others about the Family of God.

And living, loving and worshipping from his place in the Family.

This week changed me.

Where I was once timid, nervous and taken back by the great promise God has put on Lifa and I, I’m now proud to hold on to them, speak them out and run after them.

Lifa’s been teaching me allllll about temper tantrums.

I think I’m learning well.

I’m joining in the running and shouting.

I’m shouting out for justice and family.

My heart is desperately crying out for what I believe God is calling us to.

And I’m running after Him. And what He says. And how He says to do it.

“We don’t know what to do,” isn’t stopping us in our tracks.

It’s just turning us onto uncharted territory – giving us more space to run.

And we’re going to run hard. And shout loud.

And this “we don’t know what to do” place we’re in is going to give God glory such a beautiful stage.

Pastor, Lifa and I are going to social services tomorrow to ask where to start.

Stand with us.

Run with us.

Shout with us.

There’s a little boy and his entire biological family God is calling Home.

There’s a family living in a little cottage God is calling His.

There’s a nation full of voices to join in a battle cry for family and for justice.