Jeans for Two

Someone donated this pair of jeans to the mission organisation I work with, but I don't think they're going to fit any of the orphans here. My coworker and I decided to have some fun with the jeans, but now I've become philosophical and introspective, and I'm not sure what to think. Any ideas?

Bunny Chow

Bunny chow is an invention of the Indian population here in South Africa. It's any type of curry served in a bread bowl. But here's the cool part: it's Afrikaner bread. ("What's so cool about that?" you say. Let me tell you....)

Throughout the history of South Africa, Indians have been caught in the middle of the race wars, either "too white" for the black government, or "too black" for the white regime. The amazing thing is, they've survived. South Africa has the largest Indian population outside of India. But back to bunny chow...

Afrikaners are famous for their bread. Any time of day you can walk into a grocery store and buy a loaf of fresh baked bread (still warm). Indians are famous for their curries. You would think the two groups would have nothing to do with each other, given the history. But somewhere along the line, someone said, "Hey, you're good at baking bread", to which the reply was, "And you're good at making curry. What do you say we get together and...." Bunny chow was born!

I am not the sort to find spiritual analogies in everything, but I can't help thinking that maybe we ought to focus on what's good about each other - what each person does really well - instead of what drives us nuts about each other. If we did that, maybe we'd end up with a lot more bunny chow.

The Week in Numbers

Number of trips to the immigration attorneys in Johannesburg: 4
Number of days without electricity: 4
Number of days without running water: 1
Number of trips to the emergency room: 1
Number of stitches: 8
Number of orphans met: 43
Number of tears: innumerable
Number of blessings: also innumerable
Number of times we've wanted to pack up and go home: 0

"Better is one day in Your courts than a thousand elsewhere; I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than dwell in the tents of the wicked."
- Psalm 84:10

A Bad Day

Yesterday we went out to Soshanguve to deliver food parcels to orphans, and to work on gathering orphan profiles for child sponsorship. While there, Ben was running and fell (I think on a rock), splitting his knee open. Dan was on his way to Johannesburg to meet with immigration attorneys, so I was stuck in Soshanguve until some of the AFnet team could pick me up and drive us to the hospital back in Pretoria. By the time we got to the hospital, it was two hours later. Add to this the fact that our power and water has been off and on all week, and by the time Chris came to pick us up and take us to the hospital, I was really feeling indignant and grumpy. But then, as always, the Lord gently reminded me of something (only this time it was more like a whack on the head!):

What we experienced yesterday was regular life for those out in the townships. Who am I, to think that just because I'm an American I should always have access to a car, medical care, electricity or running water?? It is not suffering, to experience for one day (or even one week) what others experience for a lifetime.

And another layer of my American worldview fell off yesterday.

He Knows My Name

More thoughts from our trip to Swaziland...

We spent the weekend with a missionary couple in Mbabane, Michael and Robin. Together they run several homes for abandoned children in Swaziland. They were so hospitable and gracious, allowing us to stay in their guesthouse (we were strangers to them).

On Friday, Robin took me to see a few of the homes. Dan, the kids and I spent the afternoon playing with some of the children. I can't tell you how memorable it was for me. All of these children had been abandoned, and one way or another ended up at the government hospital in Mbabane. No one knew their name, their parents, their history, or even their birthdate. Many of them arrived at the hospital near death, suffering from malnutrition and illness. One child had been found "discarded" in a black garbage sack in the forest, with umbilical cord and placenta still attached.

Michael and Robin take these children in, give them a home, a name, a birthday, and the love of Jesus. You should see how they are growing and thriving; it is amazing what Love can do.

As I was playing with them, I was suddenly reminded of our church back home in California, which put on a Christmas program called The Journey of Grace. The idea is that there are no orphans with God. In it they perform a song called "He Knows My Name". I looked around me at these children, of whom only Jesus knows their real birthdate and name, and could only imagine how tenderly Jesus looks upon them. I wish I could convey to you how precious they are. I looked into their eyes, eyes that were carefully fashioned by the Hands that made the Universe, and my heart ached for them, for when they grow older and grieve their history and loss. I pray that they will find their value and identity in Jesus, for He alone can give them Hope.

And my heart aches for the many, many more children who have not been "found", who have neither a place of refuge nor Hope. As we drove back into Pretoria, I barely noticed the Christmas decorations all around me. I haven't the stomach for Christmas this year, at least not the cultural aspect of it - trees, lights, candy, gifts. I care only about the hope of redemption, hope of salvation, and hope in a loving God who knows the names of all of us.

Speechless

This last weekend we had to leave the country, as our temporary visa expired. The plan was to drive to Swaziland, spend the weekend, and come back in to South Africa on another visitor's visa, while we wait for our long-term work visas. Funny how one weekend can change your life (more on that later).

The countryside on the way from Pretoria to Swaziland is breathtakingly beautiful; I felt like I was in The Sound of Music movie! It was green - SO green - mountainous, and cows were grazing along the side of the freeway (or meandering across the freeway... there are no fences to keep them out). I was looking out of the window, trying to take in the scenery, when I decided to turn my head and check out the view through the other window. When I looked, I drew in my breath sharply, for on the other side of the freeway was a township, with row upon row of tin shacks, almost touching each other. The poverty - the lack of running water and proper plumbing or garbage services - were so overwhelming that I got physically nauseous. I found myself wanting to turn away and look back on the other side of the car at the beautiful mountains (how can such beauty and such squalor live side by side, with only a road separating them?).

But no... the Lord was telling me gently that not only must I look upon it, I must also walk among it, smell the stench, taste the anguish, touch the sores, hear the cries, feel the pain. For surely that is why we're here - not to enjoy beautiful scenery, but to love the country's greatest resource, its people. And my heart broke a little more that day, for the people of South Africa. I cried all the way to Swaziland.

It tastes like chicken

I've discovered three new fruits here - naartjies, granadillas and marulas. Naartjies are a type of tangerine, I guess, but the other two are not remotely similar to any fruit I've had before.

It's funny how we try to describe a new taste by comparing it to others, as though it is inconceivable that there are new flavours our tastebuds have not yet encountered. I could say that a granadilla looks like a pomegranate (sort of) and tastes like a cross between and orange and a pineapple (sort of), but that wouldn't be doing it justice. A granadilla tastes like... a granadilla, and there are just no comparisons to be made.

Or take meat. People say that crocodile tastes like chicken and that ostrich tastes like a leaner version of beef. Why can't ostrich just taste like ostrich? Why do we have to convince people that it tastes like something familiar in order for it to be acceptable enough to try?

I think sometimes we do that with Christianity as well. Must we all "taste like chicken" in order to be accepted in the church? Why can't we seem to accept that everyone has different gifts and different roles within the Body of Christ. That's what makes the Church so amazing. I can't help but think we've watered down the vibrancy and effectiveness of our witness by valuing conformity. "If the whole body were an eye, where would the sense of hearing be? If the whole body were an ear, where would the sense of smell be? But in fact God has arranged the parts of the body, every one of them, just as He wanted them to be." - I Corinthians 12:17-18

I dare you... no, I triple dog dare you... to be who God made you to be! Stop tasting like chicken and dare to be your own unique flavour. God knew what He was doing when He made you.