On the Single Path

Recently someone asked me how I had arrived at a place where knowing who I am in the Lord supersedes any doubts and fears I have about being single. I had never been asked this question before. How did I get to a point where my single state is simply that--a state of being which does not define who I am, what I can do with my life or keep me in a perpetual state of waiting?

For most Christian singles I know, accepting the single state is difficult. From a very early age, we are taught about marriage--to seek out the "equal yoke", to marry and raise godly kids and to above all remain pure and virginal until said mate is found. We are fooled and fool ourselves into believing  "completeness" comes when you find the perfect mate to spend the rest of your life with--life begins then.

I've heard countless sermons about the "God-shaped hole" in our hearts. A hole we continually try to fill-up with other things--relationships, stuff, jobs, etc.--but God is the only one who can fill this hole and make us complete. And for however many of us have heard this sermon, those of us in the single crowd have a subconscious guilty twinge of "well God and a mate, that's what they really mean."

The first time I thought I had a chance at marriage, I was 21 years old and in my senior year of college. I was certain I had met "the one" and felt sure I had heard from God this man was my husband. The unfortunate thing was, this man did not receive the same message. To be sure, I was so head over heels I made the relationship out to be much more than it actually was. I wanted it to be more. And in building my castles in the clouds and placing my white knight on his steed, I got badly hurt and shut myself off to all possibility of a relationship for many years.

The second time was not castles in the clouds. It was real and tangible with real conversations about marriage and life and kids. But instead of finding myself becoming more complete, I found myself breaking apart. Little pieces of who I was being chipped away and sacrificed for the sake of making the relationship work. And when it didn't, I was devastated. I was a broken shell, so far from complete I was not even sure where or how to begin sweeping up the pieces. It seemed no amount of glue or duct tape could put me back together again. This was not how it was supposed to end. It wasn't supposed to be an ending at all. It was supposed to be a beginning.

Being single right now is not a path I would have chosen for myself. I would not chose to be adopting as a single mom. But just because I wouldn't chose it for myself doesn't mean I'm not content in it and really grateful for being exactly where I am. I know the steps being taken now are good. They are part of a good story being played out, I hope, to the glory of God. And I am confident in Him to provide all I need; He always has. I am confident in a pursuit of God and a love for Him much more rewarding and fulfilling than any marriage, any relationship could ever be.

How did I arrive at this attitude and perception of my singleness? I don't know. I suppose because I'm finally comfortable in myself and I'm comfortable in my relationship with God. I know I don't need to wait for a relationship to live my life and to be a part of the larger story being written all around us. I know God has my best interest at heart and if there is something more extraordinary available than the extraordinary I am already living today in my single state, than God will bring it about in the right time.

Being single doesn't make you less important than your married friends or siblings or whoever. And as a Church, we've got to be better about sharing this message with singles. Maybe less emphasis on helping singles to find a mate with our dating websites and our singles mixers. And maybe more emphasis on telling singles they are important and valuable in whatever their relationship status may be, and not only are they important and valuable, but they have a good story to tell too. They have the same chance for living a really great story as every married or soon to be married or has been married person.

It's not bad to pray for and want marriage. It's not bad to put yourself out there and into opportunities to meet somebody. But what is bad is to think you are not enough and you are not complete and to dwell on the empty house you come home to. So if you are single, my suggestion is to fill your house with good and godly things and to find out how God wants to use you right now, today, in your single state.

Sunday Servings: Banana Bread

Baking has not been a priority in the first week of job hunting and settling in. So since I have nothing new to offer, I figure this week's Sunday Serving needs to be something simple and easy, but of course yummy, to bring up loads of memories for just about all of us.

So for your taste buds' pleasure a super-simple banana bread recipe to get everyone salivating because their are few things better than the smell of fresh baked banana bread.

Banana Bread:

Ingredients

• 3 small or 2 medium-sized over-ripe bananas (I typically put bananas in the freezer for a few days prior. It's important to not use fresh bananas because it's more difficult to get the right batter consistency.)
• 2 cups of all-purpose flour or whole wheat flour (I like to use whole wheat flour or nutty flours in fruit breads
• 1 cup of sugar
• 2 eggs
• 1 teaspoon of baking powder 
• 1 cup of butter or margarine
• 1/2 cup of chopped nuts (Optional. I'm not a huge fan of nuts in bread, but many people are so it's up to you. Walnut or macadamia nut would both go well with this recipe.)

Directions

1. Soften butter (do not melt) and mix with sugar. 
2. Add eggs and bananas. Mash bananas into the mixture. Then add the flour and baking powder. Mix well. Spoon mixture into greased loaf pan.
3. Bake loaf in a preheated oven at 350°F (175°C) for 45 minutes to an hour. Test with a fork to be sure that it has baked all the way through. Top should be golden brown. Allow to cool for ten minutes before serving.

Remembering My Grandmother

I've been thinking about my grandmother a lot in the last week. Maybe because tomorrow is what would have her 104th birthday. Maybe because I drove by her old house while taking my paternal grandmother to her doctor's appointment. Maybe because I'm back in Lubbock where there are a thousand dusty memories and remembrances of her.

Grandma was an incredible woman. Born in 1908, she lived through the world wars and the Great Depression and was shaped, as the world was shaped, by the events of those times. She struck out as a young single woman, going to a trade school and making her own way before marrying in her early thirties. But her first husband died young. She would then marry my grandfather in her late thirties and give birth to my mother at the age of 43. A few short years later, she became a single mother when my grandfather died as a result of a freak accident. She'd eventually marry again for a short time and then lose a third husband when my mother was a thirteen. She then raised her daughter on her own, working as a school librarian for most of her career.

My fondest memories of her are the times we spent the night at her home. It was a treat to stay up late and watch MASH reruns, the theme song forever bringing to mind the musty smell of Grandma's green, shag carpet. Afterwards, we'd brush our teeth with Aquafresh toothpaste, the old-school kind when it was still white, red and green striped. Then just before climbing in bed, she'd rub Vicks Vapor Rub under our noses so we'd breath free and easy through the night. And finally we'd climb into her giant king bed with the orange bedspread, say our prayers and giggle late into the night. In the morning, she'd fix sausage and scrambled eggs, and we'd set up the card table to eat breakfast in the living room while we watched cartoons.

I was a teenager when the dementia began to set in. I went once to spend the night with the intent to write her stories down before they slipped away. I'm not sure what happened to those notes, but I remember the stories of growing up on the farm and chasing chickens. Of how her daddy doted on her and her mother always told her that she never wanted to have another baby (Grandma was the youngest of two). Of getting her finger caught in the meat grinder and how proud my grandfather would hold his baby girl up with pride.

Looking back, I'm grateful for that night. If I could relive it now, I would ask her advice on being a single mother. I would ask her about loosing her husbands and how she overcame the heartache. I would ask her about pain and hardship and love and relationship. I would ask her about her love for the Lord and for others. I would ask her what she knows of life and I would ask her to teach me to sew.

I wonder if my nephew feels like I felt when he visits Nana and Grandad's. I wonder what Hannah will remember in years to come. Will there be particular smells that bring memories rushing back? Will their memories feel dusty like old discolored photos, as mine do now? Will their minds fill with the questions they wished they had the opportunity to ask?

I think Grandma would have appreciated the way I've lived my life and the places I've lived. I think she would have worried about me often and prayed for me more often. I think she would have been the first on the plane to visit me in South Africa even though flying terrified her so much. I think she would adore Hannah and would have walked with me every step of the way. I think she would appreciate my unconventional life as she told me stories of her unconventional life.

My grandmother was an amazing woman, and I hope I live my life even a fraction as well as she lived hers. And I hope that because of her legacy, Hannah will become a wise, strong and empowered woman.

Ok, God, I'm Here...Now What?

The morning after my arrival at Lubbock Preston Smith International Airport (how Lubbock's tiny airport has an international designation remains an ongoing mystery), I sat down to spend some time with the Lord. I cleared out the space in front of me, sat my Bible down and blurted out, "Ok God, I'm here...Now what?" All the emotion and stress of the past few weeks finally released and I sobbed for a long time.

I'm here...Now what?

When I come up against the "now what" question, my first impulse is to make a plan. You can't leave "now what" sitting out there for too long. It needs action. It needs forward movement. "Now what" is the point in the plot line where there has to be immediate action or the story flops. "Now what" taunts you into the next step because you simply can't leave it hanging out there.

But I find myself with the conundrum of not knowing what follows "now what." The past six weeks have been about wrapping up things in South Africa. Finishing the job well. Saying goodbye. They've been about spending loads of time with Hannah and the other kids in Oasis Haven's family homes. They've been about packing and training my replacement. They've been about finishing one chapter so the next part of the story could begin.

So, now what?

Job search, yes. Reconnecting with family and old school chums, yes. Life is moving forward and there is a what happening, but the question is about the bigger "now what." What job? What home? What church community? What form and shape does this new chapter take?

My impulse is to jump. To take a flying leap and see where I land. But I've jumped a lot, and while I've almost always landed on my feet, I think I'm at the point in life where "looking before leaping" sounds a bit wiser. And maybe even, waiting before leaping is the wisest course. Waiting before leaping and waiting on God to take the first step and say, "Here, my child. Come this way." It sounds a lot wiser than my normal mode of operation: "I'm going this way, God. Are you coming?"

There is a desire in me to make it all happen super-fast. Have the job. Have the home. Have the community. Have the kid. But all of these take time. They take patience and waiting. They take trust and faith and obedience. They take quiet and solitude and prayer.

And maybe on the other end, I find something worth waiting for.

So as I wait, I see four major areas for prayer focus right now:

1. The Adoption Process: For the process to go smoothly and quickly so that Hannah can come home forever. For each step to be entrusted into the Lord's hands. And for those around me watching the process to see God's heart of adoption for them. How He has paid a great cost to chose them and make them His very own.
2. The Job Search: To find the right job where my skills, talents, gifts and passions can be used to the glory of God. Where I can be light and where I can build others up and release them to do what they do better. And a job where I can be a single mom and where it is a no-brainer that Hannah comes first.
3. The Home Search: To establish a home that is a place of rest and a place of safety for others. Where people know they can come to find hospitality and peace. A place where the neighbors feel safe when their children come to play and where anyone can drop in unannounced. A place where life and community happen, and a place where generosity and hospitality flow.
4. The Community Search: To find a place where I can contribute to the community in meaningful ways according to the gifts and talents I have been given and where I can live out my purpose and calling. A place where I can be a contributing member of the body and a place where I can find the support I need to be a woman and a mother.

I hope that you'll join me in praying over these four areas, and please let me know how I can pray for you too.

Sunday Servings: Whole Wheat Bread

After a week of travel and jet lag recovery, I'm signing back on from Lubbock with a simple whole wheat bread recipe I absolutely love. It's great for sandwiches or toast or any basic everyday bread need, but is best served fresh out of the oven with a thin layer of butter spread for melty perfection. Yum...

The first time I ever baked a loaf of bread was in the village. More of that industriousness to stave off Peace Corps boredom. But I quickly discovered that I loved baking bread, and I had a knack for it. I mean, in all honesty, to be able to bake a loaf of bread in a tiny, tabletop oven that never heated evenly and was better at heating the house than the contents inside, well this feat requires true talent.

Bread is such a basic and wonderful thing. It's peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It's cinnamon toast. It's a sponge for the last drops of sauce. It's hot buttery rolls and cream cheese smeared bagels. It's breakfast, lunch, dinner and a midnight snack. Bread feels and smells and tastes like home. It's part of our cultural psyche,  a physical and sensational symbol of our traditions and heritage. Tortillas. Na'an. Unleavened bread. Baguettes. Sourdough. Flatbread. Ciabatta. Each type of bread tells a cultural story connecting us together as we gather around tables to break bread.

Jesus said to the crowd, "I am the bread of life;" I am what keeps you from going hungry. I am what connects you around your dinner tables. I am what brings you together. Because I am here, you no longer need manna or tortillas or brown bread or any bread. I am here to sustain you.


As you celebrate Easter Sunday and remember a risen Lord, remember this bread, broken and shared. Remember what was given so that you could have the sustenance of life. And if you are looking for something more filling, more life-sustaining, consider tasting a bite of the Bread of Life and sharing in His body broken for you.

Whole Wheat Bread:

Ingredients

• 1 1/2c of warm water (about 110 ° F / 45 ° C)
• 1 tbsp brown sugar
• 2 envelopes of dry yeast
• 2c all-purpose (cake) flour
• 4c whole wheat (brown bread) flour
• 1/3c packed brown sugar
• 2 tsp of salt
• 1/2c of vegetable (sunflower) oil
• 1/2c of milk at room temperature (I usually use low fat or skim)

Directions

1. Measure warm water into a large bowl. Stir in 1tbsp of brown sugar. Sprinkle yeast over the top. Leave until foamy (about 10 minutes). (If the yeast sinks or does not foam, the yeast is inactive and will not rise. Yeast lasts longer if it is kept in a cool dry place. I usually just keep mine in the refrigerator.)
2. Add 1c of all-purpose flour and 3c of whole wheat flour to the bowl with brown sugar, salt, oil and milk. Blend ingredients. Continue to mix, adding the rest of the flour 1/2 cup at a time. (You may not need to add all the flour.) Mix until the dough clings. Knead dough for 10min. (If you are using an electric mixer instead of mixing by hand, mix at medium speed for 5min.) Oil the bowl and coat the dough. Cover loosely and leave to rise (about 1hr or until doubled). 
3. Punch dough down and place of floured surface. Split dough into two even halves and shape the halves into loaves. Be sure not to not leave any air pockets in the dough. 
4. Place loaves into greased loaf pans. Cut slits into the top of loaves. Set aside to rise until your finger leaves a dimple (30 to 45min). Preheat the oven to 400 ° F / 200 ° C. 
5. Bake loaves for 15 minutes in preheated oven then reduce the temperature to 350 ° F / 175 ° C. Bake for another 30 minutes or until loaves are deep brown. Remove from pans to cool on a wire rack.

Sunday Servings: Simple & Quick Brownies

Brownies have a day of perfection. Fresh out of the oven, they are a wonderful treat. But it is not until the next day when they’ve fully cooled and the fudginess has congealed and brought just the right density of chocolatey-goodness to each bite, that brownies achieve maximum perfection. Allow brownies to last past the day of perfection and they slowly begin to stale and crunch. Eat them all up on the first day and you’ve missed out on the full potential of what they could have been.

My "Little Brother" Papis

South Africans don’t know brownies the way Americans know brownies. With a few exceptions I’ve come across, brownies in SA are more cake-like than brownie-like. Just a bit too buoyant and not quite as fudgy as they ought to be. I quickly learned that a plate piled high with American brownies was a fast way to make friends.

I baked them for tea and for birthdays. For Christmas presents and for Easter treats. For staff meetings and for just because.

My “little brother” in Mmametlhake, developed a deep love for them. If it had been a few weeks since the last batch, he would say to me, “My sissy, you must make those de-de-delicious cookies. It’s been too long, and I need to feel them here,” pointing at his belly.

Brownies are one of those foods that taste of home. All those sweet memories of baking in the kitchen with my mother come rushing back with one whiff of chocolately-goodness in the air. I cannot whip up a batch without thinking of my mom’s green-handled spoon coated in cake batter, just waiting to be licked, or the black tin pan with the grid of scratch’s on the bottom from the hundreds, possibly thousands, of brownie slices.

Each time I’ve shared a tray of brownies, I’ve shared a bit of who I am and where I come from, and they’ve opened up a doorway to share other parts of me. To tell stories about my family and my culture. To talk about how those things have shaped me and formed me. To share a bit of the richness of who I am and hopefully leave a behind a bit of the richness in bellies full of chocolately-goodness.

It’s surprising how incredibly easy brownies are to make. And of course you can dress them up and make them a bit more complex, but I like my brownies simple with that taste of home. So on the day before I depart from South Africa, here’s my recipe for easy brownies and a little bit of home-baked comfort.

Simple and Quick Brownies:

Ingredients

• 2 cups of white sugar
• 1 cup of butter (low fat or full fat will produce equally good brownies)
• ½ cup of cocoa powder
• 1 tsp. of vanilla extract
• 4 eggs
• 1 cup of all-purpose (cake) flour
• ½ tsp. of baking powder
• ½ tsp. of salt

Directions

1. Melt butter (do not allow to boil) and mix all ingredients in the order listed above.
2. Spoon batter into a greased 9" x 13" (32.5cm x 23cm) cake pan . The batter should fill only the bottom 1/3 of the pan.
3. Bake in a preheated oven at 350degrees Fahrenheit (175degrees Celsius) for 20 to 30 minutes. Test with a fork to be sure that it has baked all the way through (allow for a little bit of gooeyness on the fork for fudgier brownies and a clean fork for cakier brownies).
4. Allow to cool for 10-15 minutes before serving, or as recommended above, cook the day before in order to serve on perfection day.

Note: On perfection day, you can reheat brownies in the microwave. Just to be sure not to leave them in for longer than 15-20 seconds, or you will dry them out.

I Have Climbed My Mountain

I saw it in Bongi’s eyes when we reached the cliff face at the top of the mountain. She was breathless and her feet were sore and tired, but she had made it to the top. There was pride and exhilaration in her eyes. She had done something she didn’t know she could do, and she had faced it without fear.

When we first began the hike, I looked down at Bongi’s open-toed and slick-soled shoes. Recognizing how difficult they would be to hike in, I asked, “Bongi, are you going to be alright in those shoes? Don’t you have a pair of tekkies (running/walking shoes)?”

“No, I don’t have.”

“Ok, but be careful where you step, hey?” I was sceptical as to whether she would make it very far, but I didn’t want to quench her eagerness. When would another opportunity like this come? We were at the Oasis Haven annual staff retreat, thanks to a donation of a two day stay at a lodge in the beautiful Magaliesburg mountains. This retreat is a special time were our whole team comes together to be refreshed and reinvigorated in order to better serve the children entrusted to us.

I am so thankful I had the opportunity to spend a few days with these amazing women before my move. Each has touched my heart and blessed me in some special way, and I am consistently amazed by our house moms and our assistants. They have an incredibly tough job—accepting and learning to love children as their own who are not their own, managing a home of 10 children with mealtimes, bedtimes, appointments, homework and the like, and then lovingly sending children to their adoptive families and facing the empty place left behind. It is a very difficult job; a job I know I could not handle.

Our hike reminded me of a day several years ago, not long after I moved to Colorado, when a friend took me for a hike on the Manitou Incline. It was one of the toughest hikes that I had ever been on, and I remember thinking, If I can just make it to the top then I’ll leave it. I’ll leave the baggage behind. I wanted release from the hurt and the pain and the heartache that I had been carrying around with me for so long. But I needed something monumental, something significant, I needed a mountain to climb. I needed to get to the top, drop my baggage and walk back down freer and lighter. It was a good moment for me, and I saw this same determination in many of the ladies that day in Magalies.

Some of them had baggage to leave on the top of the mountain. Some needed to prove to themselves they were stronger than they thought they were. Some needed to find something they had lost. Some simply needed to commune with God’s creation and to fellowship with their sisters in Christ.

When Cathy reached the top, she proclaimed aloud the words in all our hearts, “Today, I have climbed my mountain.”

The next day as we prepared to leave we were asked to share one thing we would take away. I said when I got back to America I will share the story of our time on the mountain. I will share the story of these South African women who climbed a mountain—not knowing if they could but determined to try. I will share the story of these women who every day give selflessly so children who once had no one would have someone. I will share the story of these women who are on the frontlines of the worldwide orphan crisis. I will share the story of these women who are the backbone of Oasis Haven.

I will share the story of Mary, Mapula, Ruth, Bongi, Caro, Kamotso, Joanna, Boipelo, Cathy, Bev, Claire and Beth. It is a story of women rising above their circumstances, above what is expected of them, and choosing to be extraordinary. It is a story of women who not only are extraordinary but are rising to new levels of extraordinary every day.

I am very sad to leave this amazing team. Oasis Haven has been good for me in so many ways, and I can honestly say I am a better person for having been here. Ladies and gents (I am being replaced by a wonderful and talented man, and I also want to include our fulltime driver and volunteer house dad who understandably chose not to be the only man on the retreat), I am more than grateful for each one of you and the impact that you have made on my life. I will keep you in my prayers and you will be consistently in my thoughts. You are each stronger than you know, and I see the daily evidence of how God is using you to redeem what has been broken.

I love you all and will miss you dearly.


Please note that some names have been changed in order to protect the confidentiality of the children in the Oasis Haven Family Homes.

Learning Zen-Like Packability

This will be my 11th move in 12 years—three times in Abilene, twice in Portland, twice in Colorado Springs, Lubbock for a few months, twice in South Africa and now back to Lubbock. (This does not include any moves of less than six months.)

When you move 11 times in 12 years you get to be pretty good at packing. You know how to arrange items just so in a box or the trunk of a car or a suitcase to achieve Zen-like packability. You know how to perfectly balance luggage to meet maximum weight restrictions and yet be manageable for one person through customs and international terminals. You are a packing guru.

But in 11 moves, I have become much more than an excellent packer. I have seen and done things that I never would have imagined. In 11 moves I have…

• lived in five different cities and one village.
• lived with four different roommates/flatmates and one host family.
• hosted upwards of 25 houseguests.
• earned a degree in Abilene, learned to appreciate good coffee in Portland, refined my book taste in Colorado Springs and learned to cook pap in South Africa.
• hiked large portions of the Pacific Crest Trail, climbed Pikes Peak, ran the Bolder Boulder and the Long Tom 1/2 marathon and hiked the Shipwreck Coast.
• been a member of the body at seven churches.
• added Jim & Patty’s Coffee (Portland), Jack Quinn’s (Colorado Springs), Not by Bread Alone (Johannesburg) and Doppio Zero (Johannesburg) to my all time favorite eateries list.
• learned one new language (Setwswana) and pretty much forgotten how to speak another (Spanish).
• made countless friends and acquaintances and learned more about the importance of community than I could ever have imagined.
• been a program developer and manager, a bookseller and community relations manager, a temp and a substitute, a Peace Corps volunteer and a development manager.
• met Donald Miller, Steven Curtis Chapman, Ted Dekker and Sara Groves.
• played with lion cubs, skydived and been nearly trampled by an elephant.
• been invited into the homes of some of the poorest of the poor and sat at the table with some of the richest of the rich.
• gotten two tattoos on two different continents each reminders of what God has done and of who He has created me to be.
• seen old dreams fade away and new dreams born.
• learned to love a precious little girl as my own and committed myself to giving everything to make her my own.

All of these things and more have become a part of me and have shaped who I am in significant ways. Each experience has been carefully packaged inside of me, perfectly measured and situated. They all make up who I am. And while over the years, I have become an excellent packer of stuff, I think what is more important is the “stuff” that is packed away inside of my mind and my heart. Its every person I’ve met who has influenced me in one way or another. Its every fact I’ve learned, every heartbreak and every triumph  I’ve experienced, every opinion I’ve formed, every tenant I’ve believed. All of these things packed away, neatly inside of me to form the me that I am.

Moving so often has been exhilarating but also exhausting. It takes patience and time to build up new community and settle into a place, and it takes effort and persistence to maintain community left behind. But looking back, every move has been worth it. Every move has shaped and formed me into something new. Something better than I was. And I’m grateful.

I hope that this move to Lubbock will be the last move for a while. I’ve always said that if I ever stay in a place for three years I will get a dog. I think Hannah and I would really enjoy a puppy we can raise together, a puppy that can be part of our home and maybe for me symbolize a bit of stability. But puppy or no, I am confidant Lubbock will be good for us and I’m looking forward to what God has for us there.

So I’m pulling out the suitcases again and filling them up with clothes and shoes, books and mementoes. Time for one more flight and one more move.

Sunday Servings: Mango-Berry Crumb Cake

Village life made me industrious.

Living on a shoe-string budget forces you to really use reduce, reuse and recycle to your advantage. I turned old coffee tins into canisters, old magazines into drawer liners, and used ketchup bottles into rolling pins. I even had a pot rack and a clothes rack made out of old PVC  pipe and a bit of rope.

My new found industriousness also brought out the baker in me. Baking bread myself was a great way to save a little bit of cash, but it also, somehow, eased my soul. You can work out a lot of emotion kneading dough or mixing batter. Sometimes my tears would spill over into the batter adding a bittersweet saltiness. Sometimes my fears and anxieties would knead their way through the dough. Sometimes laughter and friendship would mark out the minutes as my little tabletop oven baked away.

For every new season, I'd dig through recipes online looking for new ways to use mango and pears, granadilla and guava, avocado and zucchini--each ingredient providing a rich and flavorful nuance and creating a new experience of taste.

But the more often I put on my baker's hat, the more I realized baking is really an act of generosity.

It is impossible to bake for one. When you divide a recipe for one serving, it never bakes just right or tastes the same--its too salty or too sweet or a bit burnt or wobbly in the middle. Baking is about generosity and hospitality. Its sharing with the neighbors and making friends with the granny down the street. Its coffee cake for tea time at the office and birthday cakes for friends and family. Baking is an act of giving and receiving. Its an act of love and care for someone else.

Last year for my friend Sarinah's birthday, I found a recipe for a Mango-Berry Crumb Cake. Sarinah is not a fan of chocolate or really any sweets, but she loves fruit, especially mango. Lucky for her, her birthday falls in mango season. It turned out to be an especially nice coffee cake--not too sweet but full of flavor. Each bite was a whole experience to itself as the sweetness of the mango blended with the tartness of the raspberries. I still remember her taking that first bite and watching her enjoy something created just to make her taste buds pop.

Since baking is an act of generosity, I think this forum is a good place to be generous. So I'm starting "Sunday Servings" for those of you who might want to join me in being a little more generous through the act of baking. Each week, I'll post a new recipe I've tried and share a little bit of its story. Because if baking is about generosity, then every baked good has a story. I'd love it if you'd share your recipes and their stories here too.

Today on my 30th birthday, I think it is fitting to kick-off Sunday Servings with Sarinah's Mango-Berry Crumb Cake. Enjoy!

Mango-Berry Crumb Cake:

Ingredients

Crumb Topping:

• 1/2 cup flour
• 1/2 cup brown sugar
• 1/4 cup butter, softened
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Cake:

• 1/2 cup butter, softened
• 1 cup white sugar
• 1 egg
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 2 cups all-purpose flour
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg (optional)
• 1 cup buttermilk
• 1 mango - peeled, seeded and diced
• 1 cup raspberries (You can use frozen if fresh raspberries are not available.)

Directions

1. Preheat an oven to 350 degrees F (175 degrees C). Grease a 9-inch square baking pan.
2. Mix crumb topping ingredients together in a bowl until the mixture is the consistency of wet sand. Set the topping aside.
3. Beat 1/2 cup butter and sugar in a large mixing bowl until light and fluffy. The mixture should be noticeably lighter in color. Add the egg and mix well. Stir in the vanilla extract. In a separate bowl, combine 2 cups flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt and nutmeg.
4. Mix the flour mixture into the creamed butter mixture alternately with the buttermilk, stirring just to combine. After the last of the flour mixture is incorporated, gently fold in the diced mango and raspberries. Spread the batter into the prepared pan (the batter will be thick). Sprinkle with crumb topping.
5. Bake in the preheated oven until a toothpick inserted into the center comes out clean, about 50 minutes. Cool on a wire rack.

Mafoko a Molemo

When I left for the Peace Corps, I said I was going because I wanted to touch and see and understand. I wanted to understand the humanity of poverty. It is one thing to be able to rattle off statistics, but it is a completely different thing to have intimate knowledge. In my mind, poverty and hunger and AIDS were awful things, but they were things that were far off and distant. I wanted to use my own five senses to build a better understanding and to build relationship with people who at the time were just numbers.

And I did use my senses.

I took tea in the homes of people living with HIV. I listened to the hope-filled worship of the poor and the destitute. I smelled the awful stench of the dying and the savory aromas of wedding feasts. I watched children play games that told truths about the hard things they had seen with their young eyes. I washed away tears, held hands to pray and received many embraces.

But I don’t understand any better than when I left.

Sure I have more knowledge. I’ve seen first hand the effects of colonialism and apartheid. I know the ravaging toll of AIDS and TB. I’ve witnessed corruption and the waging war between the haves and the have-nots. But what I keep coming back to is that poverty and disease is senseless. They are scourges that make us less than human and leave so many marginalized and forgotten at the fraying edges of society.

At almost every traffic light in Johannesburg, stands someone begging or hawking—a mother with her baby on her back, a half-blind old man, a teenage boy in tatters, a young man selling stolen or black-market goods. It becomes second-nature to wave a hand and say “no thanks” or “not today,” avoiding eye-contact as much as possible and waiting for the light to turn green so that twinge of guilt can get shoved back down into the recesses of your spirit. You rationalize that you can’t give to everyone, that you already give to charity x or that you gave something to that other guy at that other traffic light. And in the process of saying “no” and averting your gaze, you forget that what is standing before you is a human being. And maybe you can’t give to every single person, but you can recognize their humanity. You can look into their eyes and ask about their day. You can smile and show kindness. And that is something that you can give.

Poverty, hunger, disease. They are all senseless. There is no reason that they exist, but yet they have been with us longer than our collective memory. When we live in a world that is bountiful, with enough water and food for everyone, why is there hunger? When we live in a world where only 7% of Christians are needed to adopt every orphan, why are there orphans? When we live in a world where ARVs are steadily become cheaper and new drugs are being invented, why do so many go without access? When we know that mother-to-child transmission is 100% preventable and that prevention is possible for everyone, why are there so many new cases of HIV transmission?

When I came to live in South Africa, I said that I wanted to touch and see and understand, but I think really it was more about finding something that was missing inside of me. I didn’t feel complete or whole, and maybe I thought that I would find the missing part in Africa. I would find it by throwing myself into a completely different culture, giving of myself and learning about this senseless poverty that disturbed and fascinated me.

Am I complete now? Well, no, I don’t think we are ever really complete. At least I hope we are not. But I did learn to be comfortable with myself here. I learned about myself and the me that God has created me to be. I learned that I am about justice and compassion. That I’m about faith and hope. That I’m about building-up and giving away.

I didn’t make sense of poverty while I was here, and I certainly didn’t solve the problem. But maybe every once in a while, I got to be the hands and feet of Jesus, and I definitely received the care and concern of others who acted as His hands and feet.

I may not understand poverty and disease any better, but I have seen how God shares the good news with the poor, how He binds up the brokenhearted, how He frees the captive and releases people from darkness. I've seen how He comforts those who mourn and provides for those who grieve. I’ve seen Him make beauty from the ashes and turn mourning into joy.

In Setswana, gospel good news is “mafoko a molemo.” I have heard and I have seen. I have tasted and I have smelled. I have touched good news, and it is good news. And I hope that in returning to the US, that I bring that good news with me. That I can speak of not just the senselessness I found but of the hope I found. That it is a story I will one day share with my daughter and that it will be part of the legacy I leave her. That I will continue to stand against the senselessness and for something brighter and richer for all people.

The type of poverty we have today is senseless. The labor of begging, the burden of disease, the hopelessness of hunger—all are senseless. And we have it in our power to rid ourselves of this senselessness. We have it in our power to do more than the right thing. We have it in our power to do the best thing. It’s about the choices we make every day and the choices we ask our governments to make. It’s about the choices we make collectively in our churches and our synagogues. It’s about making choices that benefit others and not always us. It’s about living a little less selfishly and a little more simply.


What have you seen and learned about senseless poverty?
What are you doing to make poverty a little less senseless?
How can you encourage others to live differently?

A View from the Oasis Haven Staff Retreat

Just got back from a beautiful few days with the Oasis Haven team at Steynshoop Lodge. So glad that I got to spend a few days with these remarkable women before leaving South Africa. An incredible blessing! I will miss working with you, ladies, and getting to share life with you.

Giving my 30th Away

In a week on March 25th, I will be 30 years old. Thirty doesn’t frighten me. It doesn’t feel old, and I can say with a sigh of relief that I am not coming into it with deep regrets. Thirty just feels right. And in actuality, with becoming a mother and moving back to the US, I’ve taken very little time to think about thirty.

But thirty is one of those milestone years, and it strikes me that it should be marked in a significant way. So I’m giving my 30th birthday away…

Working and living at Oasis Haven has been life-changing for me. It has set me on a path that I never would have expected towards a life’s purpose and a calling that I know is far bigger than anything I could ever accomplish alone. And towards becoming a mother of a precious little girl who I never would have met if not through Oasis Haven.

For this and for thousands of other things big and small, I want to say thanks in a significant way. But I need your help to do so.

In honor of my 30th birthday, would you consider giving to Oasis Haven? Would you consider helping us keep the promise that we make to every child entrusted to our care?

You can do so in a couple of ways:

1.   Visit our website to donate online. (For those of you who are not in South Africa, you can use the available credit card donation for South African donors, but please be advised that this will not be a tax deductible donation.)

2.   Make a deposit into Oasis Haven’s bank account:

First National Bank
Branch Code 254005
Account Number 620 565 267 37
Swift Code FIRNZAJJ
Reference: AP’s Bday [Your Surname & Phone number]

or send a check to Oasis Haven US:

          PO Box 28362
          San Diego, CA 92198
          Memo: AP’s Birthday

3.   Or make a long term commitment to Oasis Haven of R100 or $25 a month—a commitment made that is a promise kept. A debit order form (SA givers) and a credit card donation form (US givers) are available for download on our website.

Every Rand, every dollar means more children rescued and more children placed in families.

Entering into my fourth decade of life, I want to see a dream realized of children rescued forever. I want for you and for me and for the Church and for people everywhere, to make orphaned and abandoned children a top priority. It’s a dream that can be realized—it only takes 7% of Christians worldwide to make a decision for adoption. 7% and every child has a family of their very own and the orphan crisis comes to an end.

What if we dared to dream big? What if we dared to ask ourselves the question: “Is God calling me to adopt?” What if we dared to ask ourselves: “What is God asking me to do to care for the orphan and the widow?” Be certain that He’s asking you something. The real question is: Will you dare to answer His question?

(To find out more about Oasis Haven and other ways that you can get involved, visit their website at www.oasishaven.org, check them out on Facebook and Twitter or email me direct at amanda@oasishaven.org.)

Telling Hannah

The hardest part of leaving South Africa is leaving Hannah* behind. It feels like I’m turning my back on her, like I am another person abandoning her. It feels wrong on every level of my being to leave my child in a country more than halfway across the world from where I will be.

But I have to trust that in the grander scheme of things, so to speak, that this is for the best. That my leaving, that my search for a job and a home, that my submission to the personal invasion of the adoption screening process, that all of this results in Hannah coming home sooner. Hannah home and my daughter forever.

It was a Friday afternoon when I picked her up from school. We drove to McDonald’s talking about the school day. She had made a new friend and her teacher had read a new book. McDonald’s was easy and I needed an easy place. We ordered our food, sat down to eat, and I picked at my fries as she chatted away and I worked up the courage.

And finally I told her.

I told her that I was moving back to America. I told her that Nana and Grandad—names we use to refer to my parents, but names that for now are meaningless to her—missed me and needed me. I told her that I had been away from my family for a long time and that it was time for me to go home. I told her that I loved her very much and that I would call and send emails and Skype. And I could feel my heart in my throat. My heart said the words that my mouth could not say—I’m going because I love you. I’m going because you are my daughter. I’m going because I am your mother. I’m going because it is the best way to make you mine forever.

I watched as Hannah’s seven-year-old brain tried to process what I was saying to her. “But I can come for sleepovers?”

“No, Hannah, I’m sorry. It‘s too far. It takes two days on a plane to get there.”

“Oh…but you’ll come back after a little while, like at Christmas, and then you’ll stay.”

“No, I’m going to live there. I won’t live here anymore, so I might come to visit sometime, but I won’t come back here to live.”

“But who will live in your room?”

“Well, I don’t know. I don’t think anybody will live in my room after I’m gone.”

I couldn’t tell if she really understood what I was telling her, but we needed to leave. We had to go home to tell the rest of the “family” that I was leaving. I hated this day.

When we got to the house we called a family meeting. Mommy Mary, Auntie Claire and I sat down in the floor of the playroom with all of the kids and I told them my news. Similar questions and a few mock tears from the silliest of the boys, and then Auntie Claire said, “You know how Auntie Amanda went away at Christmas and it seemed like a really, really long time. This is kind of like that, but it will be a lot longer and we don’t know for sure if she will ever come back.” That sunk in a little deeper.

Hannah looked up at me, “When you went away, I used to look at your window and it would make me so sad and I would cry.” And with that the full meaning fell on her. Her lip trembled, tears filled her eyes and she broke down into sobs. All I could do was hold my child and let her cry, knowing that I had no words that would take this pain away.

How do you leave your child behind? Even when you know it’s what is best for them, how do you leave them behind?

I think we’ve all gotten a bit more used to the idea now. The first few days were difficult as the idea settled in, and Paul still says to me, “Oh, I thought you were already gone,” every time I walk into the house—his way to deal with the hurt and rejection he’s feeling. But for the moment, there is an easy rhythm of knowing that we have today and a few more tomorrows together. And I don’t miss an opportunity to hold Hannah close and tell her that I love her.

I know there are more tears to come, and I wish, I wish I could tell her why. I wish I could tell her that I’m leaving because I want to be her mommy and that there are some things I have to do in the US to make that happen. But that would be confusing, and the waiting would be eternal, and if it doesn’t work out and I don’t get to be her mommy, it would be devastating.

Getting on that plane will be one of the hardest things that I will ever do, but I pray that it will be one of the best things that I ever do. I pray that it will be a sacrifice made that will be fully redeemed to the honor and glory of God because that prayer, that hope, will be the only thing that will give me the strength to board. And more than that, I pray that God will protect Hannah’s heart. That He will hold her and comfort her in a way that I cannot. Because I need Him to be that for her. And I need Him to whisper over and over and over to her—I will never leave you or forsake you.

*Hannah is a pseudonym. In order to protect her identity until she is fully and legally mine, I use "Hannah" in all posts regarding my one day daughter and her adoption.

Life in The Box

The kitchen area: Blue
bucket under the bed is the
kitchen sink.

I call it “the box,” and occasionally, when feeling affectionate, “my box.”

The box has been my home for the last 18 months. Originally designed as the maid’s quarters, the box sits just behind the main house at one of our “Family Homes.” The living area is about 10ft sq. Including the attached showertoilet, the box is about half of the space I had in Mmametlhake. (A showertoilet is a working shower with hot water that hangs almost directly above the flush-toilet—an amenity that my little, plumbing-less house in the village lacked.) The tap just outside the door is used for all other water needs, including, but not limited to—teeth brushing, hand washing, dish washing, and drinking water.

The sleeping and sitting area.
Dressing area along left.

Very few people have been admitted into the box. I don’t even require a whole hand to count them. This is partly due to a general lack of space. One person fits relatively comfortably. Add another into the mix and it starts feeling a bit cramped. I don’t want to think about what it would feel like with three. (I’m fairly certain we would have to move some of the furniture outside.)

But the no admittance rule is also partly due to my own embarrassment and, to be truthful, shame.

The showertoilet.

I have a good friend who when she first came to Jo’burg was employed as a “domestic worker” and lived in quarters similar to mine. She was given her own mug, plate and utensils and was told that she was not allowed to use the ones in the main house. If she needed to use the toilet, she was to go outside to her quarters. This was about eight years ago, 10 years after Apartheid ended.

Today in South Africa, domestic workers are more common than they are rare. And with the rise of the upwardly mobile, black middle-class, it is not just white South Africans who employ domestic workers. Almost everyone I know in the Johannesburg middle and upper classes has a maid and/or a gardener working at their homes one or two days a week. Coming from an upbringing where only the very upper class employed maids on a regular basis, I have struggled to come to terms with the commonality of domestic help in South Africa.

Most domestic workers are part of South Africa’s informal economy—meaning that they are not protected by contracts or worker’s rights and may be underpaid and exploited. But in a country where unemployment hovers around 25% and may in actuality be much higher, South Africa needs its informal economy. The livelihood of so many people relies on these workers earning their weekly wages.

It is a very hard thing to come to a solid opinion either for or against domestic work. And I don’t imagine it is something that I will ever resolve completely in my own mind. I’ve often had to choke down my anger when someone tells me that employing a domestic worker is the least they could do, presenting their action as some sort of altruistic benevolence. In these moments, I find my inner voice shouting, “What then is the most you could do?” I appreciate people who can admit that not wanting to do the cleaning themselves is part of, if not their main, motivation behind employing a domestic worker.

But on the flipside, I have many friends who take a true interest in their domestic workers—helping them to obtain their matric (high school diploma), teaching them budgeting and needed financial skills, paying their way at technical colleges and the like. They ask the question that has been used to teach so many of us to dream and imagine: What do you want to be when you grow up? What in your wildest dreams do you want to do with your life and how can I help you get there?

During the past few weeks of box living, I’ve been slightly less mobile and been more confined to the box. The company car that I drive on a regular basis has been at the panel beaters (body shop) for some much needed repairs which means that I’ve been on foot and relying on others for transport.

As much as I know that I could easily get on a minibus taxi for easy and somewhat convenient transport, I’m loathe to do it. I’ve enjoyed the freedom and the way the car has enlarged my box, providing an easy escape route. Although taxis were my main mode of transport during my Peace Corps days, since gaining car independence, I have not been able to revert.

During my 19 months of Peace Corps service, I accepted taxi travel and even learned to embrace it—learning the hand signals that would tell the driver my destination before I embarked, the proper placement of bags and packages that would yield maximum comfort for long-distance taxi travel, and to manage the ever swinging moods of the drivers. For a white, middle-class American, I was fairly good at taxi-travel and even at times found myself enjoying it. But from the first moment I sat behind a steering wheel again, I knew it would only be with great difficulty that I would clamber onto a taxi again.

My neighbor's taxi in Mmametlhake.

Not having wheels the past few weeks, I’ve felt petty and selfish as the white-washed walls of the box closed in on me, my possessions feeling as though they might bury me and I that I would be found sometime later flattened by the smallness. I would begin to feel sorry for myself and then remember how many others lived in such close quarters. Close quarters that housed themselves and their children and their partners and extended family. I would remember the make-shift homes of corrugated tin, unable to keep out the elements, baking in the summer sun, unsecure and confined. I would remember these things and try not to remember my storage shed full of furniture and possessions collecting layer upon layer of dust. I would try not to remember my sprawling basement apartment in Colorado Springs with its quaint eccentricities that somehow made it feel like home. I would try not to remember the space that I will have in a few short weeks when I returned to Lubbock.

The problem with living simply is that I know differently. I know what it is like to not live simply, and I will never not know that feeling. No matter how much I separate myself, choosing a simpler path will always require a level of self-denial. It will always cost me something within myself and ask me to die to myself. And I know how easily I will slip back into the lure of abundance available in the US because I know how easily I have slipped back into the the lure of abundance available in Johannesburg.

Abundance in itself is not a bad thing. It is the gluttony and selfishness of abundance that breaks down the humanity inside of us. It’s how we manage the abundance and how we manage our own need for it. I won’t lie that I look forward to space and pulling my possessions out of storage. I know that day will be full of excited rediscovery, but I hope that in the process the lessons I’ve learned here about living simply will stay with me and that living simple with moderation will remain deeply implanted in my heart as I make choices and decisions that affect myself and others.

Lessons in Perseverance

What I have figured out so far in my adoption journey is that adoption is a marathon and not a sprint. As with most things in life, I want it to be a sprint. I want to get to the finish line quickly, win the race and move on to the next race.

But the adoption journey is simply that—a journey. It is a step by step process with each step as necessary to the process as the last.

One of the first steps has been to find a home study agency in Texas to partner with my placement agency, Bethany Christian Services. Initially, it seemed an impossible task as Bethany requires a specific type of home study that few agencies in the country use. There were lots of dead ends before we finally came across Children’s Connections, Inc. who has one social worker in their state wide network who is trained in this particular type of home study.

The weeks of Google research, emails and phone calls were an exercise in faith for me. Praying to go back to Lubbock, feeling within my spirit that this was the right step, having that step affirmed by many others—but not being able to see a clear path forward. Either the mountain had to be moved or I did.

Coming up against the mountain drove me to dig deep into the Lord—digging deep into the faith reservoir in the depths of my heart. There were days that the mountain seemed impossible to move, and I wondered about making plans to move myself instead—to move to Colorado where Bethany has offices and could do the home study in house. But I kept digging deep.

I’m typically not a practitioner of “Bible roulette”. I think randomly opening the Bible and expecting a specific word from God wherever you land is a dangerous game that sets up all sorts of expectations of what the Spirit may or may not be speaking. But during this waiting period, when asked at a devotional to pull two verses out of a bag, I had a clear Bible roulette moment, drawing Psalm 62:8 and Philippians 4:6-7.

Now, I don’t think that either of those verses promised that everything would work out, that we would find a home study agency in Texas, and that all would go perfectly according to plan. But I do think that I needed a reminder to trust in the Lord and to continue in prayer and petition before Him. I needed the encouragement to keep digging deep.

With Children’s Connections now on board and the beginnings of the paperwork being filled in, I feel assured that this was one step in a series of steps that will require waiting and digging deep. I’m certain that through this journey I am going to learn more about perseverance than I have on any previous journey. And I’m fairly confident that there will be many times that I will grow impatient and forget about waiting on the Lord and digging deep.

Lessons in perseverance are some of those lessons that we have to learn and relearn over a lifetime, and I think we never learn them perfectly. But I’m thankful for a patient Father who when we fail to persevere, catches us in our stumble and reminds us to keep digging deep.

Lubbock in My Rear View Mirror

I have never wanted to live in Lubbock, Texas.

When I was probably 8 or 9 my family considered a relocation to Austin. The company my father worked for at the time was moving its head office to Austin, and Dad was asked to go.

I loved those few days we spent in Austin, exploring the possible move. I remember house hunting and being simply awed by the place. (There was a house that had a bunk-bed with a slide!) I was so excited about moving and felt that we absolutely had to move to this new and exciting place… But unfortunately the rest of my family did not feel this way. So Dad took another job, and we stayed in Lubbock.

Everything else outside of Lubbock always seemed somehow bigger and grander than this quite, slow-paced town. (It should be noted that Lubbock is a city of just over 200,000 people, and thus not quite as small as some may picture it.) As a teenager, I couldn’t wait to “get out.” I dreamed of other places far, far away. And I did apply to colleges far, far away, but instead ended up attending college in Abilene—smaller than Lubbock and only a few miles down the road. But even still, Abilene was not Lubbock and was close to a far bigger place—Dallas-Fort Worth.

Since then, I’ve never looked back. From Portland to Colorado Springs to Mmametlhake to Johannesburg—never once entertaining the idea of moving back to Lubbock on a permanent basis.

And that’s why I can’t explain it.

I visited Lubbock over the Christmas holidays. I was there to spend time with my family, obtain a South African work permit and prepare my family for the new addition. Sitting in the pew with my family one Sunday, I inexplicably found myself praying, longing to move back to Lubbock. Praying to live in this humdrum, West Texas town with little in the way of entertainment, no hiking trails nearby, and restaurant chains and box stores by the dozens. Where the wind blows a gale majority of the year and walls of dirt are known to come flying along with it. Where trees do not grow naturally and the horizon is as flat as a sheet of paper.

That big cloud is actually a dust storm blowing in.

The prayer seemed somehow against my very nature but resonated so perfectly within my spirit. How could I be praying this prayer?

But that prayer took hold. First my work permit fell through, meaning I would not be able to begin fostering when I returned to SA. Then we found out that if I chose to adopt through the South African courts it would take 6-7years before Hannah would be legally recognized as my child by both the South African and US governments. (Through our Oasis Haven connections, an inter-country adoption will hopefully take 6-12months.) On top of these setbacks, I began to see how much I needed my family, Hannah* would need my family and how much my family needed me.

So the decision was made--at the end of march, I would be moving home to Lubbock.

A friend asked me recently how I felt about moving back. My response: I guess it is time for the wanderer to go home. And I suppose there is something romantic about that idea—something full circle and complete.
I must admit that I look forward to throwing dinner parties and to seeking out the “mom and pop” eateries forgotten amid the chains. To reconnecting with friends from school days and forming new friendships with those who have discovered Lubbock’s hidden charms. To bringing Hannah home and showing her glimpses of my childhood as she lives hers.

It’s a circle that’s ends could not be drawn together until there was a me who understood the me I was created to be. A me full of confidence in my Author, and full of hope where I lack confidence in Him.

As I prepare to move back, what I look forward to most is my first West Texas sunset in twelve years. These are the sunsets of dreams. The kind of sunsets where the pinks, oranges and dusky blues seem almost impossible colors. The kind that bring tears to your eyes, as you watch speechless, unable to fully drink in the beauty. The kind of sunsets that make you pull over on the side of the road just to admire them. These are the sunsets that cause you to lift your hands in spontaneous worship of the Creator God.

And I know that on that day, with that sunset, I will know without a doubt that the wanderer is home.

*Hannah is a pseudonym. In order to protect her identity until she is fully and legally mine, I use "Hannah" in all posts regarding my one day daughter and her adoption.

Hannah’s Prayer

Hannah has long been one of my favorite biblical heroines. I am not sure that most people would consider her worthy of that title. She did not save her people from destruction like Esther. She did not lead an army into battle like Deborah. She did not harbor spies, or leave her homeland and all she knew, or cast off her reputation to wash a man’s feet. Hannah is quiet and meek and really the exact opposite of your typical definition of heroine.

But Hannah’s faith and her willingness to give everything up to the Lord, puts her in that class for me.
I have honestly never wanted to be a mother. I like kids. In every job or volunteer position I’ve ever held, I've worked with kids in one way or another. I enjoy my niece and nephew, have always been close with my friend’s children, and would rather be in a setting that has a great family vibe than one with a trendy nightlife.

But that being said, I never really wanted to be a mom myself.

Lots of people over the years have told me that they thought I would make a great mom. I would give them a “Really? Thanks.” and in my heart think, Sure, but that’s not for me. Too much of a wanderer I guess to even consider the possibility. And while marriage has been on the table, kids weren’t. I guess I thought someday that I might change my mind and think about it, but that was in a far distant future that didn’t exist yet.

And then I met my Hannah*.

One of the children I have come to know and love since beginning work at Oasis Haven, Hannah always stood out. There was immediately a different bond between us—something stronger and deeper than the hugs and kisses or the “Auntie Amanda come see”s or the games and playtimes.

I can’t tell you for certain when I knew that Hannah was my daughter. I just know that one day I knew. One day I knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was my child and the cry in my heart was to be her mother. I prayed and prayed and asked God what to do with this knowledge. My boyfriend was still my boyfriend and it would probably be another year before we would marry. Could it wait that long? Would another family come forward to adopt her? Would my boyfriend feel the same way?

I prayed and cried out to God for months. And often would flip over to 1 Samuel reading Hannah’s story over and over again, commiserating with her longing and her anguish. About the time that I was ready to tell my boyfriend—when marriage plans were being formed and I believed that there was a chance—we broke up. I was devastated.

I cried over him, but I also cried over Hannah, believing her lost to me. And I cried for God to bring another mom and dad for her so that she could have the best in life and a place to belong.

Months down the road, when the grief was less tender, I again began to look at Hannah and wonder. I still felt deep in my inmost parts, that this was my daughter. But what could I do. I was single with no future husband, no future father, anywhere in sight. This didn’t make sense. My family and my best support structures were on the other side of the world. Living as a volunteer in South Africa for so long had depleted my savings. I couldn’t afford to be a mom. But that cry of my heart was still there. Still crying out.

I sat in church one Sunday in August. The pastor talked about family. He talked about adopting his own son. He talked about God’s family. And in the midst of it, I heard God’s still small voice saying, “Hannah’s your daughter, so what are you going to do about it? Trust Me and know that I will take care of all the details.”

After the service, I told my friend (Hannah’s house mom). She affirmed me and a few days later when we talked of it again, after I approached our adoptions manager and shared my heart with her, she told me that she had cried for Hannah when my boyfriend and I broke up thinking that she had lost her chance for a family. She told me she believed I was Hannah’s mom and that she knew this was right.

Since then, every person who knows Hannah and knows my intentions has confirmed it and blessed it. After the shock wore off for my parents and after they went away to pray, they were able to come back with certainty that Hannah was their granddaughter and a pledge to support us in whatever way was needed.

The past few months have been about planning and finding the best way to move forward. We’re now in the final stages before I move back to the US to pursue an inter-country adoption with the hope that we will be able to bring Hannah home forever in 6-12months.

I know that there will still be challenges and roadblocks. I know that this will be a step by step processes. I know that God may still have something else in mind for both Hannah and for me. But most importantly, I know that I need to trust God and persevere. I need to walk forward in faith and hope.

1 Samuel 1:19 says that the Lord remembered Hannah. He remembered her prayer and He was faithful to answer it giving her a child. “She named him Samuel, saying, ‘Because I asked the Lord for him’” (v20). I came home and read that passage again on that August Sunday. I wrote the date by these verses, saying to myself, God has remembered me. And I believe that He will continue to do so, remembering both me and my Hannah.


*Hannah is a pseudonym which I will be using moving forward in order to protect my daughter’s identity until she is fully and legally mine.

Year Twenty-Nine

29 was all at once the worst year of my life and the best year of my life.

A week after my birthday, my long-term boyfriend and I parted ways. We’d been together for a year and a half and just a few short weeks prior to my birthday, he had shared his plans to propose soon and we had talked seriously of a spring wedding in South Africa—flying my family across the world for a traditional Tswana wedding, having a reception in the US for friends and family sometime around Christmas, merging cultures and traditions to create something entirely our own.

And then it was over.

I cried for a week straight and for several weeks after would break down into uncontrollable sobs. There were times that I was sure that I was unable to stop crying and that the grief would be unending. It had been a long time since I had given my heart to anyone and never so completely.

I phoned the counselor who had helped me through the transition from rural Peace Corps life to modern Johannesburg. I leaned heavily on the few close friends I had made. And I waited anxiously for phone calls and emails from home.

Slowly I began to regain bits of myself. Little things that I didn’t know that I had lost. I realized that despite the many good things in our relationship, slowly overtime, I had lost site of myself. Little bits chipped away until I woke up one morning and didn’t know the me who I had become and couldn’t find the me who I was.

Realizing this was when I knew it had to be over. It needed to be over. I needed to find the me that I was and even more the me that God has created me to be.

During this time, I read Bittersweet by Shauna Niequest. In it Niequest talks about “composting for the soul.” I love this idea and I’ve shared the quote here before. Some things in life have to die, to be mulched and turned, and to be subjected to nature’s processes, so that new things can grow—stronger, healthier things.

Through this dying off, through the natural processes of grief, I can come out of 29 and head into 30 knowing that it was a good year. A year in which I have finally grown comfortable with the me that I am and the me that God has created me to be. Although it was the most painful experience of my life, I needed the composting. I needed that pain and those tears. I needed to explore deep inside myself and find the strength and the hope that I didn’t know was there.

Composting seasons are not fun, but they are necessary. If you are in a composting season right now, all I can say to you is to lean not on your own understanding (Prov 3:5), but let the peace of God which transcends all understanding, guard your heart and your mind in Christ Jesus (Phil 4:7). Join in the composting process and know that out of it, something better will grow.

Slow

After just over a year back in a fast-paced modern city, I am realizing that I prefer a slow life. The ambling pace of a rural South African village was at times a bit too slow, but I settled well into that pace and found that there was always enough time in every day to accomplish all that I wanted to accomplish and more time to read and write, jog, and generally enjoy life with the people around me—plenty of time to watch countless pirated movies and TV shows, as well.
As Johannesburg begins the race towards Christmas, I’ve found the last few weeks tremendously full. Balancing my ever-increasing task list at work, out with friends at night and on weekends, keeping up with emails home and scheduling Skype calls—all of these things contribute to the dark circles under my eyes which some days I am sure must be drawn on with permanent marker.
And with anxiety my natural inclination, not worrying about tomorrow and living in today causes almost as much angst as the actual things worth worrying about. I’ve taken to wearing a hair band around my wrist and giving it a small snap when I find myself caught up in the “what ifs”—a trick I picked up in Kim Gaines Eckert’s, Stronger Than You Think. The point is not self-flagellation, but rather using it as a reminder to bring you back to the present and to remind yourself of what is in your control and what is not.
The thing about slow is that I think at least for myself, God made me to live slow. He made me with natural inclinations to enjoy the beauty and the people around me. He made me for building—to build strategies and systems that empower others. And the thing about building is that it is a slow process that takes time if you want to ensure the integrity of the structure.
But slowing down also allows me to fall more easily in step with the Lord’s tread. To pause where He pauses, and to notice what He notices. To hurry up when He hurries, and to stop and love the person He hurried to. To break where He breaks, and to rest where He rests. To be evermore in tune with Him and like the Son whom He loves.
I find it hard to be in tune with God when I’m racing forward. Fast keeps me trapped in task lists and what ifs, and I miss a lot of the world around me. Especially living in a city built on gold and ever-pursuing gold, slow has to be intentional. Especially in a city with so much poverty, so much hurt, and so many people living on the edge, more slow is what is needed.
I don’t know how to do it, but I want to be more intentional about living slowly. I think when I learn to live slowly, I will learn even more of what it means to live simply. And hopefully I will learn more of what it means to love radically.

Being a Fundraiser

It's not something a fundraiser would typically say, but I detest fundraising. Really I do.

When most people think about fundraisers, we tend to fall in the same category as car salesmen. We're out to make a sale. But instead of trying to sell you the most expensive car on the lot, we're out to guilt you into giving your hard earned money away to things like an endangered plant you've never heard of or another sad-faced child from Timbuktu.

And that makes a hard job for us too. I have to convince you why giving to our organization is important in the face of thousands of other NGOs worldwide who are asking you to do the same.

So remaining genuine and really believing that what I do is important, that's a challenge.

My first fundraising experiences involved raising funds to go on mission trips and raising support for internship programs. While most of my friends hated these experiences, I never found them much of a challenge. Writing those support letters and sending them out to "Dear Great Aunt Ruth," was easy. I never doubted those personal connections. I knew that those who love me would support me, and I knew that the "cause" I was going for was a good one.

But in my first real job, suddenly I was thrust into a new kind of fundraising position. Initially, I tried to leverage those personal connections, and it worked, sort of. But I was no longer raising support for me, I was raising funds for my organization. The pitch had to change, and for a lot of people that pitch wasn't good enough. It wasn't enough to earn their support. And that's when I started hating fundraising.

I hated asking people for money. I hated thinking that people were always thinking that I was a moment away from asking them for money. I hated feeling like if the funds weren't rolling in that I was a failure. I lacked the confidence in my organization, the confidence in myself and the confidence in God to really ever be a successful fundraiser. So I quit.

But now five years later, I am once again a fundraiser--a full time fundraiser who willingly signed up for the job. I've found that my resume and life experience of the past few years have made me a better fundraiser than I used to be. I know a lot more about marketing and building a strong vision into your fundraising. I know how to woo donors and to build a brand that people actually want to be a part of. But what's more is that I know that what I'm supporting is right at the heart of God, and I know that He daily gives me the wisdom and guidance to be the best fundraiser that I can be.

I definitely don't have it all figured out. Living in a different culture with a different donor climate, makes for a lot of learning curves. Living in a worldwide donor climate highly effected by the current global economic climate, makes for a much more difficult job. But I want to be a fundraiser because we all should be supporting abandoned and orphaned children who are waiting to be adopted. I want to be a fundraiser because I get to lift up and support an amazing team who makes sure that each child in our home gets everything they need. I want to be a fundraiser because every rand, every dollar, means another child rescued and another child adopted. I want to be a fundraiser because I'm finding God at the heart of it, even on its most challenging days.

So I'm going to put on my dress and dust off the heels and head out to our fundraising event tonight. Because when I'm fundraising for precious faces who I love dearly, being a fundraiser is more than rewarding--it's fun.