Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Summer in South Africa
damp, drying hair
curling, stringy tendrils sticking to my shoulders
itchy like the short green blades between my toes
face taut beneath the suns golden rays
sprawled out on the grass near the base of a tree
curling, stringy tendrils sticking to my shoulders
bare feet on the cool tileexuberant joy
quickly padding out into the sunshine
bathing suitchlorine soaked skin
peaking out from my black skirt, pulled up to my arm pits
hem rubbing against my knees
itchy like the short green blades between my toes
juicy and refreshingarms hot
sweet cold melon, literal translation: "spanish bacon"
bursting with flavor between my smiling lips
face taut beneath the suns golden rays
sprawled out on the grass near the base of a tree
tiny antssummer bliss
crawling up my legs, grass leaving marks on my knees
deep conversationthe perfect summer day in south africa.
about future, love, trust, giving up and giving in
Open Up My Eyes To The Things Unseen.
I don't remember their names.
But I remember their little faces. And I remember the sweet boy with the straight black hair, the under layers all sweaty and matted to his forehead. And the sticky, juice covered arms waving goodbye.
It started with a bandaid on a sweltering hot day in Paarl.
A few moments earlier I started giving some stickers to the kids hanging around while we set up. Innocent enough right? Until hundreds of kids started pouring through the fence of the library parking lot, over to the van, like a sweaty swarm of ants. I have no idea how the word spread. They must have a secret code or maybe the emit some kind of sticker pheromone signaling the others to come. Needless to say I had made a bad decision.
But back to the bandaid. They were four boys, probably ranging from about three to six. After the bandaid distribution they were my shadows for the rest of the day. And probably the most mischievous little rascals there, save the sweet one with the sweaty hair, I think he was the one keep them alive. During the evangecube presentation [which was done in three different languages...way to go team] I held two on my lap. Telling the others "hou op!" between their flailing arms and trying in vain to get them to sit still and listen.
Their wide eyes and tooth and gap smiles beaming up at me when I handed them paper and crayons at crafts. Excitedly showing me their sticker-ed creations for a high five and a good job. Pushing and shoving each other all the while. One came to me in tears, pointing to his friend. Then he proceeded to kick the assailant while I held his tear streaked face on my shoulder.
And then we got in line for getting food. That's when all hell broke lose. More tears. Running out of line. Shoving their way back in. I think I put one little boy back into line about fifty times. It was like trying to catch a greased pig or watermelon in a pool, neither of which I have actually done, but I can imagine it is something like this. One of them just ran to the front and pushed his way in, probably squeezing through the fence, proudly bringing his sack over, which only made the other two more obstinate.
Cute as all get out, but dang, were they naughty. Unruly, and antagonistic. Most kids pinch their friends while you aren't looking. Not the case with these boys. They would slap each other with their right hand when I was holding their left. While I was helping package food bundles they were suddenly at my knees. I walked them back over to the exit where Caleb was standing guard. He didn't even see them come in. Not two minutes later they were back again. This time we watched them. The little scoundrels were sneaking under the fence. After squeezing under again I tried to put them to work helping, but for the second time today, bad judgement call. I marched them back outside and let Caleb explain the rules.
At that point though, I didn't care if they crawled through a hundred times.
I left them snacking on fizzers to help with food prep, suffering from a lack of words. A moment ago all three of the littlest ones were pulling on my hands, insistently saying something in Afrikaans which I tried in vain to understand. Finally admitting defeat, I brought them over to Geoffery to interpret.
Geoff smiled and said, "They are saying they want to sleep where you sleep. They want to go home with you."
I looked at their tiny little smudged faces. Hugging them all at once. "Ek es lief vir jou" was all I could manage to say. I love you. I couldn't bring myself to tell them that I couldn't, that I would be leaving in a few minutes.
I bit into an extra popcicle after everyone had received a lunch and headed back outside the fence to say goodbye to my little gang of "seuns". I broke my melting popcicle into pieces and plopped them into their hands. I hugged them once more, wishing I could do more than supply them with chunk of frozen juice.
Then I got locked out. I thought for a second that they might leave without me. When the library guard [yes, a library guard] finally came over to unlock the gate and I joined the group in the vans, I kind of wished they would have left me behind with those little scoundrels.
I couldn't stop thinking about them as we drove away from Paarl. What would possess a little child to tell a complete stranger that they wanted to go home with them? They spent about two hours with me and they want to come sleep where I sleep.
Open up my eyes to the things unseen.
The reality is that these boys probably raise themselves. Their lives most likely void of direction and love. They were naughty because they probably didn't know any better. They wanted to leave with a stranger because they probably don't get hugs and high fives or bandaids and pieces of a frozen popcicle.
Amazed by the their attachment to a complete stranger, I shared these thoughts with those on the team. Why on earth would they ask to come home with me? Someone said, "They experienced the love of Jesus." I humbly pray that they did feel that, despite the seemingly insignificant things I did. Had they ever experienced any kind of love before?
What brought a little boy to ask a strange woman with pale skin, speaking a different language to take him home? I can only make assumptions as to the answer of that question, with eyes opened a bit wider.
But I remember their little faces. And I remember the sweet boy with the straight black hair, the under layers all sweaty and matted to his forehead. And the sticky, juice covered arms waving goodbye.
It started with a bandaid on a sweltering hot day in Paarl.
A few moments earlier I started giving some stickers to the kids hanging around while we set up. Innocent enough right? Until hundreds of kids started pouring through the fence of the library parking lot, over to the van, like a sweaty swarm of ants. I have no idea how the word spread. They must have a secret code or maybe the emit some kind of sticker pheromone signaling the others to come. Needless to say I had made a bad decision.
But back to the bandaid. They were four boys, probably ranging from about three to six. After the bandaid distribution they were my shadows for the rest of the day. And probably the most mischievous little rascals there, save the sweet one with the sweaty hair, I think he was the one keep them alive. During the evangecube presentation [which was done in three different languages...way to go team] I held two on my lap. Telling the others "hou op!" between their flailing arms and trying in vain to get them to sit still and listen.
Their wide eyes and tooth and gap smiles beaming up at me when I handed them paper and crayons at crafts. Excitedly showing me their sticker-ed creations for a high five and a good job. Pushing and shoving each other all the while. One came to me in tears, pointing to his friend. Then he proceeded to kick the assailant while I held his tear streaked face on my shoulder.
And then we got in line for getting food. That's when all hell broke lose. More tears. Running out of line. Shoving their way back in. I think I put one little boy back into line about fifty times. It was like trying to catch a greased pig or watermelon in a pool, neither of which I have actually done, but I can imagine it is something like this. One of them just ran to the front and pushed his way in, probably squeezing through the fence, proudly bringing his sack over, which only made the other two more obstinate.
Cute as all get out, but dang, were they naughty. Unruly, and antagonistic. Most kids pinch their friends while you aren't looking. Not the case with these boys. They would slap each other with their right hand when I was holding their left. While I was helping package food bundles they were suddenly at my knees. I walked them back over to the exit where Caleb was standing guard. He didn't even see them come in. Not two minutes later they were back again. This time we watched them. The little scoundrels were sneaking under the fence. After squeezing under again I tried to put them to work helping, but for the second time today, bad judgement call. I marched them back outside and let Caleb explain the rules.
At that point though, I didn't care if they crawled through a hundred times.
I left them snacking on fizzers to help with food prep, suffering from a lack of words. A moment ago all three of the littlest ones were pulling on my hands, insistently saying something in Afrikaans which I tried in vain to understand. Finally admitting defeat, I brought them over to Geoffery to interpret.
Geoff smiled and said, "They are saying they want to sleep where you sleep. They want to go home with you."
I looked at their tiny little smudged faces. Hugging them all at once. "Ek es lief vir jou" was all I could manage to say. I love you. I couldn't bring myself to tell them that I couldn't, that I would be leaving in a few minutes.
I bit into an extra popcicle after everyone had received a lunch and headed back outside the fence to say goodbye to my little gang of "seuns". I broke my melting popcicle into pieces and plopped them into their hands. I hugged them once more, wishing I could do more than supply them with chunk of frozen juice.
Then I got locked out. I thought for a second that they might leave without me. When the library guard [yes, a library guard] finally came over to unlock the gate and I joined the group in the vans, I kind of wished they would have left me behind with those little scoundrels.
I couldn't stop thinking about them as we drove away from Paarl. What would possess a little child to tell a complete stranger that they wanted to go home with them? They spent about two hours with me and they want to come sleep where I sleep.
Open up my eyes to the things unseen.
The reality is that these boys probably raise themselves. Their lives most likely void of direction and love. They were naughty because they probably didn't know any better. They wanted to leave with a stranger because they probably don't get hugs and high fives or bandaids and pieces of a frozen popcicle.
Amazed by the their attachment to a complete stranger, I shared these thoughts with those on the team. Why on earth would they ask to come home with me? Someone said, "They experienced the love of Jesus." I humbly pray that they did feel that, despite the seemingly insignificant things I did. Had they ever experienced any kind of love before?
What brought a little boy to ask a strange woman with pale skin, speaking a different language to take him home? I can only make assumptions as to the answer of that question, with eyes opened a bit wider.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Taking Your Heart.
I've always had a hard time leaving places. Even just getting off the couch at a friend's house proves a hard chore.
As the days between "today" and leaving South Africa rapidly decreased I started feeling it. Feeling the sadness creep up like grass in cracks of cement. Pesky and unwanted. When the day finally arrived, I sat, packing my bags, in the very room where the trip began. The tile floor in front of the wardrobe covered in sudsy liquid, remnants of retaliation. The metal bunks strewn with clothes, trinkets and Emily's camera gear. My heavy heart hanging down to my cross legged knees, folding shirts and stuffing socks.
In walks Khaya, who has been wandering to and fro for the past hour or so, asking with his deep, smooth, rhythmic voice: "Sooo are you ready to go home?"
"No."
"What are you excited about for home?"
"I haven't even really been thinking about it. All I can think about is not wanting to leave here, my heart is here."
And then he said something very profound. Something that shaped the rest of the day for me and kept my cheeks much dryer than they would have been without these words. He got himself worked up, feverishly speaking:
"No. No you must go. And you must take your heart with you. You need to take your heart with you wherever you go."
He was right.
Those words brought me such comfort. I hardly even cried while saying goodbye at the airport because I was clinging to those words. You need to take your heart with you wherever you go.
And I still think he is right. We do need to, I need to, take my heart with me. It needs to be present, doing the work of loving people no matter where I am at. But my footing on those words became a little shaky once I found myself sitting in the Chicago airport. It certainly didn't feel like I had brought my heart with me. It felt most definitely like I was missing a few pieces, maybe even the whole thing. Despite the comfort and truth of his words I just don't know if it's possible for me to refrain from leaving little fragments of my heart everywhere I go. And that's going to create some problems eventually. Unless. Unless it is less like losing, and it's more like this...
The holes that are created by lopping off portions will heal, leaving a little raised scar. And maybe, instead of shrinking to nothing, layers and layers of scar tissue will just result in a heart with greater mass!
And the best part is that I'll have the blessing of sharing the story behind each scar. "This jagged scar is from leaving a bit of my heart with Liezel in South Africa. This curved one went to Dinneline-desiring to create a better story for herself." It means my heart might be lumpy and misshapen but it'll be like the best things in life. Like your favorite old sweatshirt or blanket. It will be all used up. Battered and spent in the best possible way.
And so Khaya, for what am I most excited about returning home? The stories I can share by pointing out the missing pieces of my heart. The stories of the people who are holding them. I can't wait to give my family love and encouragement from Jermaine. A man whose righteousness shines like the light of the dawn. To tell those who will hear about the passion and perseverance of Pastor Woody in Mannenberg. Priscilla and her twenty-five children. Claudie and Niecie at the big white church in George. The stories are countless, the pieces have been scattered.
Lord, thank you for giving me a soft heart that can be easily portioned out. Administer your healing so that I can truly take all of my heart with me. A heart full of healed scars and restored holes, full of stories, full of hope.
As the days between "today" and leaving South Africa rapidly decreased I started feeling it. Feeling the sadness creep up like grass in cracks of cement. Pesky and unwanted. When the day finally arrived, I sat, packing my bags, in the very room where the trip began. The tile floor in front of the wardrobe covered in sudsy liquid, remnants of retaliation. The metal bunks strewn with clothes, trinkets and Emily's camera gear. My heavy heart hanging down to my cross legged knees, folding shirts and stuffing socks.
In walks Khaya, who has been wandering to and fro for the past hour or so, asking with his deep, smooth, rhythmic voice: "Sooo are you ready to go home?"
"No."
"What are you excited about for home?"
"I haven't even really been thinking about it. All I can think about is not wanting to leave here, my heart is here."
And then he said something very profound. Something that shaped the rest of the day for me and kept my cheeks much dryer than they would have been without these words. He got himself worked up, feverishly speaking:
"No. No you must go. And you must take your heart with you. You need to take your heart with you wherever you go."
He was right.
Those words brought me such comfort. I hardly even cried while saying goodbye at the airport because I was clinging to those words. You need to take your heart with you wherever you go.
And I still think he is right. We do need to, I need to, take my heart with me. It needs to be present, doing the work of loving people no matter where I am at. But my footing on those words became a little shaky once I found myself sitting in the Chicago airport. It certainly didn't feel like I had brought my heart with me. It felt most definitely like I was missing a few pieces, maybe even the whole thing. Despite the comfort and truth of his words I just don't know if it's possible for me to refrain from leaving little fragments of my heart everywhere I go. And that's going to create some problems eventually. Unless. Unless it is less like losing, and it's more like this...
The holes that are created by lopping off portions will heal, leaving a little raised scar. And maybe, instead of shrinking to nothing, layers and layers of scar tissue will just result in a heart with greater mass!
And the best part is that I'll have the blessing of sharing the story behind each scar. "This jagged scar is from leaving a bit of my heart with Liezel in South Africa. This curved one went to Dinneline-desiring to create a better story for herself." It means my heart might be lumpy and misshapen but it'll be like the best things in life. Like your favorite old sweatshirt or blanket. It will be all used up. Battered and spent in the best possible way.
And so Khaya, for what am I most excited about returning home? The stories I can share by pointing out the missing pieces of my heart. The stories of the people who are holding them. I can't wait to give my family love and encouragement from Jermaine. A man whose righteousness shines like the light of the dawn. To tell those who will hear about the passion and perseverance of Pastor Woody in Mannenberg. Priscilla and her twenty-five children. Claudie and Niecie at the big white church in George. The stories are countless, the pieces have been scattered.
Lord, thank you for giving me a soft heart that can be easily portioned out. Administer your healing so that I can truly take all of my heart with me. A heart full of healed scars and restored holes, full of stories, full of hope.
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