amazing grace
On Mondays and Fridays, the school day at Ukhanyo starts with announcements and worship (sometimes happening simultaneously) out in the courtyard. I love these moments of grace - the pastor shouting "GOD IS GOOD" into the sea of yellow and black uniforms that remind me of a swarm of bumblebees, and the kids' loud refrain - ALL THE TIME. Then the singing begins and I am swept away by the goodness of God who led me to this place.
Two years ago I believed the Lord had asked me to "step out of the boat" in faith that He was leading me to a new land - geographically as well as metaphorically. I had saved enough money to make it through 5 0r 6 months and was certain that I would be firmly established in my new life well before the coffers ran dry so I remained fairly calm as Summer came and went, and then the Fall. But by November I was not hearing a word. Finances were nearly exhausted and people started to roll their eyes when I said "I'm waiting on the Lord". Really I didn't blame them - the phrase was beginning to wear on me. The WAITING was beginning to wear on me. And it went on - for months, and then a year - and more months. I was no longer convinced that I had heard the Lord. I pondered whether a delusional person would ponder whether they were delusional. I avoided people who might ask questions that I didn't even BEGIN to have an answer for. And I wrote to God. Because my prayers seemed redundant and it was painful to give voice to them but I could be honest - unflinchingly - on paper.
In August of 2010, I wrote "Oh Papa, it's the last day of August and I don't have enough money in the bank to make my house payment or to pay bills. I don't know where I'm going or what I'm supposed to do and I am longing for you to come down." Then a few months later, as my Mom - my strong, wise, comforting friend - became increasingly frail, and increasingly dependent, I wrote, " Daddy, this is like the final death to my hopes. How much longer can I believe that someone is going to walk up to me and hand me a plane ticket to a far country?" In the midst of pain, and the humiliation of watching people watch you look stupid, there were moments where Faith prevailed - not so much the faith that everything was going to turn out fine, but that whether it did or didn't, I was God's. I scribbled in the margin of my Bible, "YOU led me on this journey, and honestly, I haven't done so well, but YOU are faithful to the end, and if I perish, I want to perish believing in you with all my heart".
If you're reading this, it might sound like hyperbole - but honestly, those 20 months of my life were an eternity - of waiting - and hoping - and hurting. But then it was over - just like that - it ended. And what I had given up hoping for was a reality.
So now, not quite a year after my Mom's death, I'm standing at the edge of a sun-spackled courtyard in an African township that I barely knew existed a year ago and I'm listening to the Xhosa words that my heart understands even though my brain doesn't, and I'm thinking that God never forgot my dreams. He read my letters - and then He responded like He has responded all my life - with kindness, and mercy and amazing, unmerited, overwhelming grace.
Two years ago I believed the Lord had asked me to "step out of the boat" in faith that He was leading me to a new land - geographically as well as metaphorically. I had saved enough money to make it through 5 0r 6 months and was certain that I would be firmly established in my new life well before the coffers ran dry so I remained fairly calm as Summer came and went, and then the Fall. But by November I was not hearing a word. Finances were nearly exhausted and people started to roll their eyes when I said "I'm waiting on the Lord". Really I didn't blame them - the phrase was beginning to wear on me. The WAITING was beginning to wear on me. And it went on - for months, and then a year - and more months. I was no longer convinced that I had heard the Lord. I pondered whether a delusional person would ponder whether they were delusional. I avoided people who might ask questions that I didn't even BEGIN to have an answer for. And I wrote to God. Because my prayers seemed redundant and it was painful to give voice to them but I could be honest - unflinchingly - on paper.
In August of 2010, I wrote "Oh Papa, it's the last day of August and I don't have enough money in the bank to make my house payment or to pay bills. I don't know where I'm going or what I'm supposed to do and I am longing for you to come down." Then a few months later, as my Mom - my strong, wise, comforting friend - became increasingly frail, and increasingly dependent, I wrote, " Daddy, this is like the final death to my hopes. How much longer can I believe that someone is going to walk up to me and hand me a plane ticket to a far country?" In the midst of pain, and the humiliation of watching people watch you look stupid, there were moments where Faith prevailed - not so much the faith that everything was going to turn out fine, but that whether it did or didn't, I was God's. I scribbled in the margin of my Bible, "YOU led me on this journey, and honestly, I haven't done so well, but YOU are faithful to the end, and if I perish, I want to perish believing in you with all my heart".
If you're reading this, it might sound like hyperbole - but honestly, those 20 months of my life were an eternity - of waiting - and hoping - and hurting. But then it was over - just like that - it ended. And what I had given up hoping for was a reality.
So now, not quite a year after my Mom's death, I'm standing at the edge of a sun-spackled courtyard in an African township that I barely knew existed a year ago and I'm listening to the Xhosa words that my heart understands even though my brain doesn't, and I'm thinking that God never forgot my dreams. He read my letters - and then He responded like He has responded all my life - with kindness, and mercy and amazing, unmerited, overwhelming grace.