Small miracles

It was at the end of 2013 when I began the search for a little playschool for my son. I was almost eight months pregnant with my daughter, exhausted and in desperate need of help and a village.  I came across a little school near our home, appropriately named ‘Small Miracles’.  For me, this name was profound.  Before I fell pregnant with my son, I experienced the utter devastation brought along by the lack of a heartbeat in the first trimester of pregnancy.  When I fell pregnant with him a few months afterwards, I called him my ‘heartbeat-miracle’.  Every single time I saw and heard his heartbeat, I experienced a miracle.  It was thus not difficult to choose this little playschool for my son.  Many a thing depends on a name.

For small it is, probably the smallest in our part of town. Twenty five little children from two to five years old go there daily to mostly play and learn a little bit, together with four teachers and four assistants.  Over the years, it has had its share of ups and downs.  Small places struggle to survive in a city where everything gets bigger and more competitive by the day.  Most months, it’s hard to make ends meet.  It’s probably not the grandest playschool you’ll find.  It’s actually quite simple.  Yet, “simplicity is the joy of life, it’s to give and take nothing more than what there is.  It is to thankfully eat every skew little piece of bread which is love…” (Koos du Plessis, freely translated).

The addition of this little school to my family’s life was indeed a most extraordinary and welcome event. Something has to be said when a school probably means more to a mother than to her child.  Indeed, this is true in our case.  For the teachers and fellow mothers I met there became my family in the city where we live and to this day, still are and will continue to be.  The friendships I built through the years I count together with my most prized possessions in my heart.  The lifelong connections that have been and are still being formed through this little school make it a most profound place, one of the greatest importance.  To drop my child at school means to be cared for by teachers, assistants and friends alike.  Never, to this day, have I been able to stick to my promise to just drop my kids at school and go.  The smiles I find inside the little school are just too inviting and the conversations shared much more important than the time that presses me to be somewhere else.  Here I find teachers who look from their hearts upon my little children as I do and I can truly walk the, sometimes, lonely path of motherhood with them.  All these things, I count as small miracles.

My children also found in this little school the most precious of friends. Here they learn to simply take care of each other and pray for one another.  They know the comings and goings of every teacher and friend because they make it their business to know.  They truly learn to love and bless others.  They are surrounded by simple, pure acceptance and care.  And because they experience this, they can learn without restraint.  Being able to learn new things in this way is just the tiny cherry on the cake.  When I look at my son who is now in ‘big school’, I am in awe of his confidence and strength.  But mostly, I appreciate how he gets along with each and every little person he meets and how open his heart is to others.  This little school helped him along this way.  All these things, I count as small miracles.

I look back on almost five years of being part of this little school and wonder what exactly it is that makes is so significant. I realize that this school is an immense blessing in our lives.  During a time when I desperately needed a village for my family, our hearts were indeed ready to receive this blessing.  When our hearts are wide open to receive blessings without reservation and with nothing to lose or gain, we are able to be simple blessings to others.  And this is where and when the small miracles in life are able to happen.  Our children are indeed blessings and this they must know in their hearts.  But it’s only when they actively learn to be a blessing to others that they truly are the small miracles they are destined to be with the influence that they are meant to have.  They are small not in spirit, just in size.  What a privilege that they can practice this from a young age at this little school.

All of this, and so much more, I count as small miracles. I will forever be thankful for the small miracles that happen in our lives because of this little school.  Indeed, many a thing depends on a name.

 

Blessed are those…

Here’s to those extravagant dreams I dream for my children. I find myself once again praying and dreaming things that start and end with ‘extraordinary’ and ‘significant’.  Then I think of Rosie, Jabu, Nonnie, Kea, Lianry, Gabriel, Ruan, Themba, Simon, Koketso, Lerato and Annie.  These are little children who live in a home in Pretoria East.  One or both of their parents abandoned them, mainly at birth, they each have a disability or sickness and the home they live in is the only one they have known all their lives.  For most of them it is the only home they will ever know.  The people taking care of them are the mothers and fathers they so desperately need and they are each other’s brothers and sisters.  They are twelve little children of the greatest importance.

Yet, in worldly terms, they are incredibly poor.  They do not own anything, they rely on donations for toys and clothes and food.  There is no money for school, that is, of course, if they are suitable for a school environment, which most of them are not.  Most of them can’t move or speak, some can’t hear or see.  They basically can’t do anything to win anybody’s affection.  They do not reach most milestones.  They are not recipients of any inheritance and do not have bright futures ahead of them.  In fact, some of them have a very short life expectancy.  Little are they known, yet great is their importance.

For they respond with pure joy to every single deed of love, no matter how small.  Each second of undivided attention paid to them is treated as the greatest gift.  It could have been so different, having been abandoned and in some cases left for dead.  Yet, they were brought here, alive, thriving, loved.  They can only rely on the unconditional love they receive.  Their hearts are spread wide open to the gift of love.  They are stripped of everything that this world deems important, as beggars on the street, not defiled by any worldly standard or human opinion.  They are indeed twelve children of the greatest importance.

What is it then that gives them this importance? Where does one start with children who can’t do much and say even less?  I do believe it starts with the names God called them by here on earth.  Rosie means ‘rose’, and that she is.  One has to go a long way to find a little girl with a more gentle heart and a smile that light up the darkest of days.  Jabu means ‘rejoice’ and his exuberance tells of deep-rooted joy not dependant on worldly things.  Nonnie is ‘ray of the sun’.  She can only lie still due to brittle bone decease and severe scoliosis , but her presence transcends warmth and beauty.  Kea means ‘rejoice’ and he, with only a brainstem, can actually smile and make laughing sounds.  Lianry is fragile, yet fierce in her battle.  Her whole incredible story will only attune to this. Gabriel means ‘God is my strength’.  He is strong and reliable as a rock, there where he lies every day.  Themba is trust, hope and faith.  He is indeed steadfast and has a quiet, comforting presence.  Ruan is ‘gift of God’.  He is one who never fails to surprise!  Simon means ‘listen’.  And that he does.  He has a way of looking deep into one’s eyes, he truly sees and listens with the greatest care.  Koketso means ‘addition’ and this little baby boy is indeed the latest brave addition to the house where life was lost a few months ago.  Lerato is ‘love’, abundant and pure, never faltering.  Annieh is full of grace with her way of drawing you in and treating you as if you are the most beautiful creature on earth.

At the heart of their ministries are the simplicity of their presence and the pureness of their hearts. Oswald Chambers says, “At the foundation of Jesus Christ’s kingdom is the genuine loveliness of those who are commonplace. I am truly blessed in my poverty. The true character of the loveliness that speaks for God is always unnoticed by the one possessing that quality. Conscious influence is prideful and unchristian. If I wonder if I am being of any use to God, I instantly lose the beauty and the freshness of the touch of the Lord. We always know when Jesus is at work because He produces in the commonplace something that is inspiring.”  How blessed indeed are these little children, that nothing that is engulfed in physical or mindful pride stands in their way of being open to God’s love and grace!

I have to once again ask myself, what am I busy with when I think, dream and pray? I indeed focus on things that are easily seen, such as strength of will, character, personality, to name a few.  I think of my own children and the energy I spend trying to analyse them.  How I read books on temperaments and attend courses on personality.  I think of how closely I track their milestones and fret over any slight deviation from what is perceived as ‘normal’.  How I place them in my little boxes.  I do believe that, time and time again, I allow myself to become distracted from what I should really be focusing on.  Could it be as simple as to just love and accept them as the unique beings that God called them by their name to be?  And in the process, just leading by example?

For part of God’s plan for us is indeed, “Blessed are the poor in spirit (those devoid of spiritual arrogance, those who regard themselves as insignificant), for theirs is the kingdom of heaven both now and forever” (Matthew 5:3 ). This I dream for my children, that they will be blessed in their insignificance so that “… out of their hearts will flow rivers of living water” (John 7:38).

Just like Rosie, Jabu, Nonnie, Kea, Lianry, Gabriel, Ruan, Themba, Simon, Koketso, Lerato and Annie.  Twelve little children of the greatest importance.

Fifty uninterrupted hours

Once upon a weekend, a stay-at-home mom was given an extraordinary gift. It was given to her by her loving husband and two small children.  So rare was this gift that she didn’t quite know what to do with it.  She definitely didn’t feel deserving of a gift of this magnitude, but then she realized that grace was indeed undeserved goodness.  So stunning was this gift that she actually felt guilty for receiving it.  But she knew that this gift was also immensely needed and, in the end, she accepted it with outstretched arms and wide-open hands, eyes enormous with wonder.  What was this gift, then?  It was the gift of fifty uninterrupted hours.  She was given the blessing of being completely alone in her home, for the first time since she got married more than eight years ago and had children.  Actually, for the first time ever.

As mentioned, she didn’t quite know what to do with this gift of fifty uninterrupted hours. After weighing all her options, she decided that the point of being alone was, well, to be alone.  And that she was.  She didn’t even stick her nose out any door, front or back.  She spent her hours writing, reading, eating, sleeping and making things.  She found it quite astonishing, the amount of things she was able to actually complete in those hours.  So much freedom was to be found in the fact that nothing and no one needed her and that she didn’t need to rush anywhere.  She also had the opportunity to look around her house in silence and solitude and really appreciate what it had to offer her.  She hasn’t been able to do this in a long time.  For years, all she saw was the clutter and the shortcomings.  She realized that she absolutely loved where she lived.

Then, she had to admit to herself that what other people thought of her worried her too much. Oh what a fundamental crisis, what other people must think of a wife and mother who don’t go away for a weekend with her husband and children!  She had to laugh at herself when she realized that this outweighed her realistic need for mental and spiritual care.  How this had more say than her need to be alone from time to time.  For she was an introvert and time spent in solitude was as crucial as air and food and water.  At what point did she deem it acceptable to not wish this for herself?  Really contemplating this, she realized how ridiculous it was.  For she knew who she was, she also knew who she was for her husband and children, she knew how much she loved and cared for them and nurtured them.  She also knew the burdens she carried every second of every day and the agonising guilt over every single little thing that she allowed to take a hold of her for so many years.  Would fifty hours away from them change who she was for them?  Honestly, when she thought about it, the answer was a definite ‘no’.  Who she was for them and the love she carried for them were enough.

With this gift she also had the opportunity to practice the art of stepping aside. Of letting go and letting God.  Oh, what an incredible art this was!  One that was very difficult to master for a mother who thought that everything that had to do with her children was dependent on her.  How excruciating this was for a mother who thought that she was the only one who could take care of her children.  That not even her husband was capable!  Goodness, what a lie this was!  This was an art that she had to force herself to practice since she became a mother.  With every stepping aside she chose to do, the suffocating spirit of control and manipulation she so easily exercised over her husband, kids and circumstances lost its power.  By mastering this art, her husband and children could experience the freedom to just be themselves and all that entailed.  This she wished for them with all her heart.

She also realized that she loved her own company from time to time. In the stillness, she could hear her voice and that of her Father clearly.  Having stood against all the everyday things and two strong-willed children, her voice lost the desire to compete.  By nature, she was not someone who wanted to compete or shout to be noticed.  She realized that she became a stranger to herself and was pleasantly surprised that there were things about herself she actually cherished.  She missed these things.  She needed to become her own best friend.  She realized the importance of being strangers and missing someone, even if it was just for a little while.  For it granted her the grace to think, look and hear anew.  She realized that, as much as she loved not feeling needed by anyone of anything for fifty uninterrupted hours, she actually welcomed the gift of being needed by her husband and children.  She realized how tainted she has allowed this gift to become, as if it’s a burden!   She realized that she could be alone, but, for the most part, didn’t want to be.  She needed her husband and children also.  Once she realized anew that marriage and children were a gift she chose to welcome into her life more than eight and six years ago respectively, she decided that she had to continue to choose this gift every day.

All this and more she thought about in fifty uninterrupted hours. She realized that luxury for her meant uninterrupted solitude and silence.  When she defined this for herself, she could understand why she experienced marriage and motherhood as enormous challenges.  Nonetheless, challenges she was willing to take on without thinking twice.  Having realized what she missed most since becoming a mother and a wife, she could appreciate it more.  She could allow herself to truly mourn the loss of this and allow herself some balance in this regard.  In stillness and solitude, she could see, she could hear, she could understand.  She realized that she needed to stop comparing herself to those who find the joy in the midst of it all.  She needed to step aside to realize these things.  It was who she was and that was okay.

And she realized that this gift was by far the best therapy she has ever had. All because of her husband’s and children’s beautiful hearts.  She loved how they became a little strange in those fifty hours and how she wanted to get to know them again.  After fifty uninterrupted hours, she welcomed them back as the extraordinary gift they truly were, with outstretched arms and wide-open hands, eyes enormous with wonder.  Oh, how blessed she was!

 

 

 

The love of my grandmother

Seventy years ago, my grandparents’ eyes met under a red lampshade for the first time. The following day, my grandfather asked my grandmother to wait for him as he was on his way to work far away for a long time.  And that she did, she waited loyally and with hope in her heart like the light that shone in the red lampshade.  And so began their journey.  Today, they are four children, twelve grandchildren and twenty-one great-grandchildren strong.  And counting.

Today, two years ago, my grandma died and went to heaven.  She was just shy of ninety-two years old.  How I long to ask her to linger just a little while longer, to put her hand on mine so to feel her warmth once more.  Warmth that speaks of a heart that beat for those that she loved.  For, heaven knows, she loved.  Uncomplicated, uncompromising, her heart an open vessel for our Father’s love.  Her love was care and shelter.  There was no place I would rather go to escape and face the storms of life, all at the same time.  Her love was innocence.  In the words of Coenie de Villiers, “But here with me, my love, is shelter from the wind. Here you become a child once more and wisdom becomes innocent.”

Her love was the heartiest of food and the loveliest of aromas, flowing abundantly from her heart that was hers to share.  Some people choose to keep their hearts for themselves, she never held anything back.  Her love was dedication and sacrifice, ever since the day her and Grandpa’s eyes met under the red lampshade.  Her love was prayers, without prejudice and condition, over us and for us that will last into all of eternity.  Even when she was tired and sick, she knelt next to her bed every night to pray.

Her love was probably a thousand colorful blocks that she knitted that we can use today for scarves and jerseys and blankets.  Her warmth never leaves us.  Her love was creativity and elegance and tastefulness.  Her love was bright lipstick on a gloomy day. Her love was rollers in her hair next to the washing line.  Her love was a space in her bed for all her grandchildren.  Her love was her whole family on holiday in a two-bedroom house.  Her love was cookies and tea on the beach in yellow-hearted cups.  Her love was family gatherings in her backyard.  Her love was questions such as, “So are you going to start to work again?”  Her love was then answering on my behalf, “Being a wife, mother and grandmother were always enough for me. Don’t let anyone ever tell you it is not good enough.”

Her love was dignity, even in the last moments of her life.  Her love was humility, not once did I hear her boast of anything.  Her love was a thankful heart.  Even in her last days, her body tired and sore and her mind confused, she spoke freely of God’s grace for her.  In every moment, she chose to thank and bless every person next to her bed.  Her love was impossible to comprehend, for it was established and nurtured by her love for God.

And she loved me with this love. I count myself as the most blessed amongst blessed.  But every time I walk into the tiny earthly space in my parents’ house that was her last earthly home, my heart breaks anew.  What sound does a breaking heart make?  No words, no sounds, just silent like a thief in the night that comes to take away what is most precious to us.  The dead silence and made-up bed in this room makes me gasp for air.  Yet, it calms me.  Her unique smell still lingers there.  I pray that it never leaves.  But my heart confuses me.  My love for her runs so deep that I wish her all the joy that only heaven can bring, but still I want her here with me, always.  Oh, how my world needs her love!

I am thankful that I can look into my heart and find her there.  Her place cemented, ever unmovable by God’s grace.  Her heart in mine is a lighthouse in the stormy waters that is life. In my heart she lives, always, and also in those of my children and their children’s children.  She is, not was, and will forever be the heartbeat of our family.

I miss her, more than words can ever say.

 

 

 

 

Love lacked

I have a friend who wears motherhood. Or motherhood wears her.  It’s entangled in her hair, etched on her face, her voice speaks of it and her posture encompasses it.  Her eyes tell the story of proper and utter shell-shock.  I adore her for it.  She is even more beautiful because of it.  We all feel it, but while most of us try to hide behind gloss on the lips or neat hair or anything that diverts attention from our disillusionment, she wears it like it is.  No excuses offered.  Motherhood is not merely, as one father said the other day, an ‘evolvement’ of life into something more beautiful.  It’s teeth-grinding, pulling-out-your-hair, shockingly hard.  So much so, that another friend of mine’s son rightfully asked the question the other day, “Mommy, your life with me in it is hard, is it not?”

It was during the first year of baby number two when I woke up one morning and realized I was in trouble. That morning, my brain could not tell my body how to do basic things like get up, walk to the kitchen and put on the kettle.  Doing the everyday things that I did just the day before, seemed completely impossible.  I was numb and exhausted.  Disillusionment with motherhood hung like an oversized, black mantle over my whole being, the mere weight of it making a next move too much to bear.

My doctor said that postpartum depression was mainly caused by a lack of five things in a new mother’s life, these being sleep, touch, sitting down to eat properly, laughter and exercise. Together with hormonal imbalances, some levels in a mother’s brain can become depleted.  Of course, I lacked these five things severely and it made sense to me at the time, having experienced that my brain literally could not tell my body what to do, that I needed medication to correct these imbalances.  And so I embarked on this journey.  A journey that, in hindsight, was actually caused by a lack of love.

Yes, a lack of love. I look back on the first years of both my children’s lives and realize that I was just as desperately in need of unconditional love and acceptance as my little children were.  I needed to feel safe and immersed in unfathomable, touchable love as I tried to feel my way blindly through the new role that was motherhood.  I needed complete acceptance and understanding of the fears and uncertainties I instantly developed.  The fact that I did not receive this was nobody’s fault.  It was life. You had to walk in my unique shoes and every single person in my life had to walk in theirs.  The truth is, new mothers often feel very alone.  I know I did.  Long lost are the days when close family moved into the house to take care of the mother so the mother could focus mainly on taking care of the baby and make the transition gracefully.

We are wired for love. We were created by God, who is love and we need to be immersed in this love to live abundantly.  Especially as new mothers, we need to be unconditionally assured of who we are and valued as what we have become when our babies were born.  Because everything changes for us, for the rest of our lives.  For the better, yes, but the emotional burden a mother carries unbeknownst to all is incredible.  But all this is bearable when we are tangibly surrounded by unconditional love and acceptance.  We need to feel safe again as little girls in loving parents’ homes.  Then we can freak out, because we know we are loved and accepted.  It’s when fear and uncertainties begin to take over that things like postpartum depression develop.  For me, the cause of this was definitely the nagging feeling of uncertainty and loneliness while I gave all the love and energy I had to my little children.

What do mothers need? We need the love of our mother, because there is no love like a mother’s.  We need the love of a father, who protects his daughter against fear and uncertainties.  We need the love of parents who think the world of us just because they chose to bring us into this world.  We need the love of our parents and parents-in-law, who just appreciates the fact that we are bringing up a next generation and trying our best with what we have while doing so.  We need the love of our husbands even more than the day we got married and even though our personalities and priorities completely change.  We need the unconditional acceptance of our friends.  We need to be safe.  We do not need to be judged.  We need to be loved by our Father’s love that manifests through family and friends.

Today, I pray for all mothers who experience a lack of love for whatever reason.  I pray for those disillusioned to the core.  I urge you to not hide behind gloss on the lips or neat hair, but to wear it unapologetically like my friend does.  For it will make you even more beautiful and strong.  Then you will know that you are not alone.

A smaller house

I’ve been longing to move to another house.  Our house is too big, I’ve been thinking for a while now.  I want to ‘downscale’, live a simpler life.  After all, we are only four people living in this house.  Why all this space?  Why not live somewhere more appropriate to our needs?  Well, my needs actually.  A place closer to school, more charming and more cosy.  Well, really, to satisfy my never ending discontentment with what I actually have and to fulfil some or other misplaced longing for something new.  For the past few months I’ve been looking at houses, finding myself desiring other spaces and finding fault upon fault with our house.  How distracted I’ve allowed myself to become.

But, this morning, God touched my heart, as only He does, and I realized that if I choose to live in a smaller house, I also choose to reduce the size of my heart. Then I choose to be blinded by our physical reality.  Because, the truth is, we are not a family of four.  We are a family of six.  A father, a mother and four children.  This is the truth.  Truth is not relative.  Truth is truth.  And our house is perfect for four children.  Maybe a little too big for two children, but definitely more than adequate for four.  This is the house that my husband built.  And he is a father of four children.

I tend to forget this fundamental truth in our lives, the one that we are indeed a family of six. Because we, my husband and I and our two children, are not physically part of the other two kids’ lives.  A few kilometres from us live an eighteen year-old who bears his biological father’s names, as well as his fifteen year-old brother who bears a striking resemblance to their biological father.  They are my husband’s sons, my stepsons and my children’s half brothers.  They are my husband’s parents’ grandchildren.  They are part of our whole family.  But we do not know them and I doubt that they know of our existence.  If they do know of our existence, it’s most probably clouded by untruths.  Because another truth is, we want to be part of their lives with all our hearts.  But, we are not allowed to be.  The reason for this is beyond our understanding.

Some wounds run so incredibly deep in our beings that they become just another part of our existence. They become like the air we breathe in and then out, they become part of our ‘normal’.  Because of that, we sometimes tend to forget about these wounds.  But we always carry it with us.  Some wounds are much like rocks we carry with us that get lighter and lighter over time because we can get closure, but still, it never goes away.  Others are like rocks we carry in our pockets that become heavier and heavier.  This wound in our lives is like that.  It has been going on for such a long time, the better part of fifteen years, that it has become part of our normal.  Sometimes, in the everyday things, we tend to forget.  But every so often, the realization of it hits us with its full might and takes our breaths away completely.  Then, it is not breathtakingly beautiful, but breathtakingly awful and perspective is immensely difficult to grasp.  That is when the hurt and confusion get heavier.

Yet, we console ourselves that we suffer deeply, because we love deeply. Yet, we have our faith.  We know that our deepest hurt will be the cause of our biggest joy that is yet to come.  We will not doubt that our God is love and that He is good.  We believe that He is truth and that this will prevail for the benefit of all involved.  We will not succumb to hopelessness and helplessness.  We have the hope that surpasses everything else and that will never disappoint.  We believe that His mercies are new every morning and we will not be dictated by what happened in the past.  We will be thankful for what we have now and we will be intentional in what we do from now on that will impact the future.  We will not choose death.  We will choose life.

Hence, the need for space. For the day when all of us will be under one roof.  To have this physical space is to culture the hope of it one day being filled with sons and daughters with joyful hearts.  It is to fill all the empty, unnecessary spaces I see today with love and laughter.  It is to dream boldly of the warmest light that fills every dark corner.  It is to not give up hope.  It is to choose to fully grasp God’s mercies that are new every day.  It is to enlarge our hearts with every chance we get to prepare for what is to come in the future.

And that is all I need to know now.

 

“Enlarge the site of your tent to make room for more children;

Stretch out the curtains of your dwellings, do not spare them;

Lengthen your tent ropes and make your pegs firm in the ground.

For you will spread out to the right and to the left;

And your descendants will take possession of nations and will inhabit deserted cities.”

Isaiah 54: 2-3

My friend Lize

I am thoroughly blessed to count incredible women as my most special of friends. They are a crucial part of my village, contributors to my sanity, bearers of light, foundations of perspective and unconditional love and part of my innermost heart.  One of them is named Lize.  Her name means ‘God is my oath’.  And that He is indeed.  Because of that, she is fearless and bold, her faith unwavering in challenging circumstances.

Lize’s eldest daughter was born at 28 weeks almost nine years ago due to her severe diabetes. After this difficult ordeal and months in NICU, her mother was diagnosed with motor neuron disease.  She passed away within a year after being diagnosed with Lize taking care of her until the end.  I met Lize a year after her mother died, just after my daughter was born.  We started a prayer group at her home and I remember the time spent together weekly as the light in my life in the first year of my daughter’s life.  I felt at the time that hope was scarce, as my daughter had silent reflux and we slept very little.  Lize always spoke candidly of how she missed her mother and her desire to have another child.  But her illness made another pregnancy life threatening and after several failed IVF-treatments, an alternative route was the only way.

She and her husband decided on gestational surrogacy and put the motions in place. A few of us had the privilege of going through the whole process with her.  I remember her conflicting emotions, between the intense hurt of not being able to carry her child herself and the excitement of their new baby that was carried by a woman more than six hundred kilometres away.  She handled all of this with her unique sense of humour and perspective on life, moulded by much hurt and challenges during the course of her life.  Her faith and joy in the whole process were the most inspiring, also the way she carried her husband and eldest on her hands during all of it.  She physically prepared herself for months for the arrival of her new baby in order to breastfeed herself.  No hormonal treatment or any sacrifice for that matter was too big.  A little more than three years ago, her little girl was born, looking just like her eldest sister.  What I’ve learned from them in the meantime is that being able to carry your own child is but the smallest part of motherhood.  Choosing to take care of your child every second of every day and loving and accepting them unconditionally are by far the biggest part.

It is Lize and her husband’s desire to have more children. While they were weighing their options for the last year, the opportunity to foster a little boy came their way about four months ago.  Their already incredibly big hearts just sort of naturally expanded to take on the opportunity.  As with everything Lize and her husband do, they took it in their stride.  The boy came from harrowing circumstances, to put it lightly, and at nine years old he has already experienced enough in life to decide quite a few things and to be brainwashed in many regards.  This was going to be no easy task, but one they were willing to take on in order to create a safe and loving environment for this boy.  We held a ‘home coming’ party for her, like a baby shower, but only with big-boy stuff.  She was incredibly excited.

Yet, her and her family’s whole life turned upside down. Suddenly, she had to adjust her whole approach to parenting to accommodate a boy who has not experienced any normality thus far.  Just raising her voice a little bit scared him so much that he went into hiding.  This was the least of her challenges.  But she took each one on with the courage that only one owns who has her roots firmly established.  Within a few weeks, he started doing well at school, proving that a child who experiences love and safety is able to learn well.  Lize and her husband were in the process of applying to foster him for the next two years, but experienced immense frustration with the red tape and social worker challenges in our country.

Then, during the past holiday, a few incidences took place that proved to Lize that the little boy was much more abused and traumatized as they initially thought. The fact that he was also still able to see his mother under supervision traumatized him immensely.  His behaviour became a danger to her and her daughters.  After about three months, they had to make the heart breaking decision to take him back to his mother, as this was about the only option they were given by the frightening incompetent welfare department in South Africa where the interests of children are often the least important.  In the past week, Lize became physically sick with the prospect of having to let go of a boy she has come to love and has tried to protect with all her might.  However, their fight is not over and they are still going to do everything in their power to prove that his mother is not capable to take care of him.  Many challenges still lie ahead, one of which is immense loss when he goes away in a few days.

Dearest Lize, I count you among the bravest of brave persons I know in my life. Not only of what you are going through right now, but because of what you have decided to do with the challenges you have experienced in your life.  Because of how you have taken hopelessness and turned it into the brightest and warmest of lights that just flow from you in everything you do.  Because of how you are the most intentional person I know.  Not once do I hear a word of despair from your mouth.  All of this because God is your oath of oaths.  All of this because you have experienced what it means to truly let go and let God, in every aspect of your life but especially your journey with each of your, what has now become, three children.  So many times the odds are threateningly piled against you, but you overcome with courage and dignity.  And this time will be no different, because, as you rightly said, you have your faith.  And with your faith, you are slowly but surely moving mountains.  I do believe with all my heart that you are changing this little boy’s life with the seed you have planted in the past months.  It will not be in vain.  You know what it means to fully accept God’s grace over your and your family’s life.  I feel small in your presence.  Your spirit is incredibly big, like a fire that will never be extinguished but will also never be the cause of any hurt.

I salute you, my precious friend.

“Do not be dismayed by the brokenness of the world. All things break.  And all things can be mended.  Not with time, as they say, but with intention.  So go.  Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally.  The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.”  L.R. Knost 

 

The dreams I dream for my children

After much consideration, I realize that I have but one dream for my children. In the aftermath of 1994, Nelson Mandela, when asked what his dreams were for our country, said something more or less like, “How do you mean?  This is my dream”.  In a sense, my children are my dream.  I am living the dream.  I confess, some days are more like a nightmare, but most days, I find myself able to stand outside my chaotic feelings and just look at them.  In those moments, I am filled with the utmost wonder because of the fact that they are my children.  They represent all that is undeserved grace, they are one short of the greatest gift from God that I can in no way deserve.

The prophet Kahlil Gibran was indeed wise when he said of our children, “For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.” I realized a few months ago that all the countless dreams I’m cultivating for my children are actually becoming a burden.  These dreams are not wrong in their intention, but they are way beyond my comprehension.  As my children grow older and I experience their total uniqueness, I realize that I can in no way truthfully put my dreams for them into words that encompass their whole being and future.  And for me to then try and pray about these dreams is simply impossible.

For, indeed, they live in the house of tomorrow. Sometimes, when I watch my children go about their ways and ask them what they are thinking, I realize that it is a privilege when they decide to allow me into their thoughts and dreams.  My thoughts and dreams for them are influenced by yesterday, by my past, my shortcomings or unrealized potential, by my perspective.  My dreams are often little boats floating on big seas, being thrown to and fro, influenced by the times and what this big world requires of us. Unless I have something, or Someone, stable to cast my dreams upon.

A few months ago my son and me were discussing hand signs. He saw the ‘safe sign’ somewhere and showed it a few times and during that time I read an article on this sign, with the conclusion basically being that it is obscure.  I know different opinions exist, so I told him that he rather shouldn’t show signs that we do not know the meaning of.  We were holidaying on the coast and I read a part in Job where God explained the creation of the oceans.  Hoping it will help my children to think about the greatness of God, I read it to them one day on our way to the beach.  My son didn’t want to listen.  When I looked up, he was looking at me with anger, showing me the exact sign we discussed he rather shouldn’t.  In that moment, I saw the spirit of rebellion rearing its ugly head.  This was not mere disobedience anymore, not a phase that will blow over as he gets older.  I realized with agony that I was completely out of my depth.  I remembered the story my dear uncle used to tell about the parents doting over their new born child and how perfect he was when a wise man came by and said, “Ah, but the devil also has a finger in this pie!”  Our children are born in sin and the devil is fighting for their souls just as much as we are dreaming about their bright futures.

Afterwards, I found myself praying ‘The Lord’s Prayer’ more and more. Specifically, “Let Thy will be done.”  Nowadays, it is often all I can think of to pray.  My children fit into God’s dreams, not mine.  For He created them to be way more that I can ever think or dream.  What a relief it is to realize that I do not have to take specific dreams for my children upon myself.  This it is not my territory.

My dear children, I am documenting my one dream for you today. It is that you will make it your life’s purpose to come to know in your deepest being the incredible love and grace your Creator has for you and that everything in your life will be an outflow and answer to this.  For this understanding will transcend every aspect of your being and your ways.  That you will “but first and most importantly seek His kingdom and His righteousness and all these things will be given to you.” (Matthew 6:33)

And that is all I need to know now.

 

To forgive the unforgivable

A few hundred meters outside my hometown you will find a lonesome white cross next to the road.  The cross is named ‘Lahai-roi’, which means “well of the Living One who sees me”.  This is where my brother died.  He was 15 years old when he went jogging and was hit by a taxi.  In the blink of an eye, he was gone. 

When my parents arrived at the accident scene that night seventeen years ago, my brother’s body was already loaded in the back of a mortuary van.  Blood spilled on the road told the story of a life taken away from us.  As my mother stood next to his body, she said,

“God, I know that You are good and I know that You are love. I will never doubt that. But I am not okay.”  She only realized then how much she loved her only son. 

My parents stood there and didn’t know what to do.  Confusion ran rampant.  Then, in a moment of clarity, they saw the taxi about a hundred meters from the scene and realized there was one thing they could do.  They walked towards the taxi, around the front and saw the dent where body hit metal.  They saw the driver slumped over the steering wheel.  With supernatural ability, in that moment, they were able to say to him,

“It’s okay.”

Then and there, they decided to forgive the man who was responsible for their son’s death.

Because they needed to mourn their son.  To forgive the driver allowed them to do that.  No words can describe the hurt they experienced.  Countless times they found themselves against the wall of darkness and unanswered questions that only death can bring along.  Today still.  But, with God’s unfathomable grace, bitterness did not consume them.  Yes, they wanted justice for their son, especially when a few months later they saw the same taxi driving in town, the dent superficially repaired.  The driver was given a suspended sentence.  Yet, anything more or less would not have made a difference.  The forgiveness that God gives is not of this world. 

A few months ago, we were on our way to my brother’s grave on what would have been his thirty second birthday.  In the car, his nieces and nephews sang a song with the words, 

“We burn like fires in the darkest night, we stand like lights on the horizon.” (Joshua na die Reën, freely translated).

In the graveyard they played just as they would have any place else, their ecstatic laughs echoed in the dead silence.  After seventeen years, the graveyard has lost it’s sting.  It’s just another part of our lives.  Even though they never met their uncle, a part of him lives in each one of them.  One picks up his guitar and starts playing, another loves sports just as he did, another is just as mischievous as he was.

“After the long wait for peace, the marks of your life walks like tracks into my heart… Joy is coming.” (Same song).

Dad and Mom, do you know that your forgiveness seventeen years ago allowed us to forgive as well?  You paved the way, you fought and won this battle for me and my sister and our children and their children’s children.  You, us, are bearers of light, also of our brother’s light, because you chose to forgive.  Our family has lost so incredibly much in the past seventeen years and this loss could have destroyed us.  But instead, we gained much more.  Because you forgave, we are able to live free of bitterness and hatred today.  Because you forgave, we can have conversations about these difficult things without anger consuming us.  Because of you we can also say today, “It’s okay.”  We are able to forgive because you did, even when it is the hardest thing in life to do.  

Thank you for this incredible gift you gave us that will last into eternity.  Because you forgave, you are our heroes. 

And that is all I need to know now.

To get up and show up

A short while ago my sister had a conversation with her 4-year-old son about the people closest to him.  The conversation turned to grandparents and my sister asked,

‘What does Grandpa B do?’

He replied, ‘He is a farmer.’

‘And what does Grandma L do?’

‘She works with spinach and chickens.’

‘What does Grandpa F do?’

‘He works at the church.’

‘And what does Grandma A do?’

‘She lies in bed…’

Let me explain.  Today marks a year since my mother had a hip replacement operation.  What was supposed to be a routine maximum week’s stay in hospital, ended up as a nightmare ordeal.  Everything that could go wrong, went wrong.  Four operations, several infections, hospital bugs treated in isolation, countless blood transfusions and so on and so forth later, she was discharged two months later.

My mother became ill when she was very young, even before she married my dad.  She was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis and a big part of her intestines were removed.  This resulted in her using very high doses of cortisone and having severe digestion difficulties.  She has been living with this condition for more than 45 years.  Many doctors account the fact that she hasn’t developed cancer as a miracle.  Falling pregnant with me, then my younger sister and brother, was unexpected.

Growing up, I remember my mom being constantly sick.  When I was little, I drew a picture which showed our whole house revolving around the toilet.  That is where she spent a lot of her time.  She was in and out of hospital frequently with severe infections.  But what I remember vividly is how tired she was.  Her condition and the medication that she used completely paralyzed her sometimes.  I remember her sleeping often, day and night, behind a closed door in a dark room.  Completely cut off from us.  So many times I wanted to tell her to get up and show up, but I didn’t have the guts.

Fast forward to a year ago.  After so many years of being ill, her body probably didn’t want to fight infection anymore and shut down.  In the four years before that, both her parents died from long sickbeds while she cared for them.  I didn’t think her heart could break any more than it did since my brother died many years ago, yet it did.  Depression began to settle, also burnout, the realities of a stressful job and sleep deprivation…  Body, soul and spirit collapsed.  She became terribly ill while in hospital and for a while we were unsure if she was going to come out alive.

Since leaving hospital, she has had to rebuild her body, confidence and strength from scratch.  She also has traumatic dreams and cabin fever.  All this while trying to keep up with her job as headmaster of a high school, amongst many other roles.  It has been tough.  Most of the things she did without even thinking twice, she now has to plan in detail to barely make it through.  Sometimes no plans seem to work.  Needless to say, she has been lying down a lot in the last year and for a four-year-old who lives close to her, it probably seems much more.  We became increasingly worried as the weeks passed.

Then, a few months ago, a light flickered on.  She saw her doctor who wanted to increase her medication once again and admit her to a psychiatric hospital.  She decided she was done with being a patient and that if it was up to her, she would never see a doctor again.  She decided to take a firm stance against the medical system she has, knowingly and unknowingly, become a victim of and wean herself off her medication.  She has started to slowly but surely take steps to get better once and for all.  She also overheard her four-year-old grandson’s innocent reply.  Here came a little boy and uttered the exact words we all wanted to say for so many years.  What is indeed the role of a next generation if they can’t be braver and bolder?…  And if we can’t take to heart their insightful words?…

This past holiday, my mom didn’t lie down, except at night to sleep.  She played with her five grandchildren, went to the beach, cleaned the house, cooked and had long conversations with us.  In her blue eyes I could see glimpses of light representing hope and a love for life. She is getting better.  She got up and showed up.

Mom, you are the bravest, strongest woman I know.  You are extraordinary.  Looking back now, I realize how many times you actually got up and showed up without us even knowing.  Countless times you were knocked off your feet again.  Thank you for getting up and showing up once again, for yourself, for us, for ten, twenty years from now, for next generations. I honour, respect and love you with my whole heart.  Also, I thank God that it is not this time last year…

And that is all I need to know now.