Saturday, November 9, 2013
Letting Go
For a long time I've had good intentions about writing another blog post, and today I'm finally putting them into action by drafting a post on what's going on with the girls JAM works with from Imizamo Yethu. But, in the meantime, I have already written a post for the JAM blog - if you didn't get to read it yet, here's a taste and a link:
"Less than two hours after I arrived at JAM in June, I hopped into the Quantum and headed to Sir Lowry's Pass with the team. When we walked through the township to pick up kids, my heart was simultaneously warmed by their smiles and broken by the poverty surrounding them. It was hard for me to let go of their hands and tight hugs when we left, but even harder to let go of my sadness and frustration at their situation. That night I wrote in my journal: 'Father, I know I'm supposed to trust You. Last night I read again Jesus' admonition not to worry - You will take care of me, Father, but do I only believe that because I go to bed with a full belly and clothes on my back every day? I cannot get over the intense poverty that people live in in Sir Lowry's. The children don't have enough food! Their teeth aren't taken care of! Their shoes are worn out and their clothes are falling apart! Father, the flowers of the field are dressed better than these children! Why don't they have enough, God?'"
For the rest you'll have to go here: http://www.jamafrica.org.za/1/post/2013/10/letting-go.html
While you're there, please check out the rest of the JAM blog to hear from some of the absolutely amazing people I've had the priviledge to work with over the past five months.
Cheers from South Africa, but not quite for the last time - I still have 8 days left in this wonderful country! Here's hoping I can squeeze in a few more blog posts before I get on the plane back to the US. :)
Sunday, September 15, 2013
Sisi, pick me! Tannie, lift me up!
Sometimes - a lot of the time - I struggle to say no. It's just so direct, and decisive, and potentially disappointing to others - things I would rather aviod. Things that make me uncomfortable.
As petty as this may sound, I felt really conflicted and put a lot of energy into who I would pick next for "Duck, duck, goose" with a group of kids in the Transkei. Prudence (a JAM team member from Mavhuza) and Lexi (a girl from the US currently working with Oceans of Mercy in Alexandria) and I were trying to keep the younger kids occupied during a soccer tournament, and they caught on to the game really quickly. And of course the desire to be picked is universal - as I was wracking my brain to figure out who hadn't had a turn recently, those who could speak English were shouting, "Sisi, pick me, please!" and many other were wildly waving their hands (Sisi is "sister" in Xhosa). It's amazing how much significance "Goose!" can have when it means that you were selected, even if it is just to run around a circle. It was more important to me to pick someone who hadn't had a turn in a while, but I still felt crummy for passing over so many eager kids.
I know, it's "Duck, duck goose!" I cannot possibly pick every kid, and that's fine. Most or all of the eager kids I passed over still got another turn at some point. The important part is that Prudence and Lexi and I showed the kids that we do care about them by giving them our time. And honestly, my inner turmoil over "Duck, duck, goose" did not linger beyond the day of the soccer tournament. But I still struggle to deny any kind of attention to the kids I interact with each week in the townships of Hout Bay and Sir Lowry's Pass.
A lot of the kids in Sir Lowry's Pass really like being picked up. "Tannie, lift me up!" they say, the minute we reach the field outside the police station ("Tannie" is like "Aunty" in Afrikaans - I'm not really old enough to be called Tannie, but when you're a kid it doesn't make much difference). I might seem like an altruistic Superwoman when I pick up three kids at a time (one on each hip and one on my back - they don't stay for long, but they fit), but I'm actually being selfish. Instead of thinking about what's best for the kids in the long run (learning to wait their turn, etc.), I'm choosing to put my own (emotional) comfort first. It's easier for me to just try to appease them all instead of say to each individual, "Not now, you can have a turn next," or "No, you've already had a turn."
Unfortunately, I did not realize how selfish I was being until two Wednesdays ago, when four or five kids from Sir Lowry's were climbing all over me (because I didn't say, "No" to any of them) and a couple fell off and got hurt. Thankfully they didn't fall far and we were on the grass - they each cried for less than a minute and then they were fine. But the fact that kids got hurt because I didn't have the backbone to tell some of them, "No," or even, "Not yet," really disturbed me, enough to want to change. The following Monday I talked to Ashley, who is on staff with JAM and has worked with the kids in Hout Bay and Sir Lowry's for several years. For times when it is simply not possible to satisfy every kid's request, she recommended being able to call them by name. That way they know that even if I cannot pick them up or hold their hand or spin them around at that moment, I still think of them as a special individual, not just "a Sir Lowry's kid" or "a Hout Bay kid." I am so thankful for Ashley's understanding and advice, because even though a lot of the motivation behind trying to appease everyone is selfish, I also don't want kids to feel completely left out or unfavored. It is really a challenge to keep everyone's names straight, but I am making progress, a couple of names at a time.
Last Monday in Hout Bay, Christopher hurt his foot on some glass, and I carried him around some. Cassidy was wearing her pretty blue jacket again, and Ashron gave me a hug before I left. I had to ask him his name again, but now it will stick. And, I even said, "No," to a little girl (unfortunately I didn't get her name - hopefully next week) when she asked me to pick her up, because I already had and it was someone else's turn. That Wednesday in Sir Lowry's I put in the energy to tell kids to wait their turn for "villey villey volley" (picking them up and spinning them around). At the end I still carried two kids across the train tracks (a boy named Apelele and a girl - maybe Lisa?), because neither of them had shoes and the gravel is really painful, and it was easy enough for me to hold on to both of them for a little while. So I don't feel the need to criticize myself for that one.
Slowly but surely, I'm letting go of my desire to remain comfortable by appeasing everyone. The names and faces of the precious children I see each week are finally starting to connect amidst the jumbled mess of Afrikaans and Xhosa greetings and Bible verses and math equations and everything else floating around my brain. God willing, I'll keep progressing in these areas and bring improved skills back with me to the US in November. I really think that combination is what my experience in this amazing country is all about - making a positive impact on the lives of youth here, and learning how to keep doing that in the lives of youth at home, in ministry and in the classroom.
As petty as this may sound, I felt really conflicted and put a lot of energy into who I would pick next for "Duck, duck, goose" with a group of kids in the Transkei. Prudence (a JAM team member from Mavhuza) and Lexi (a girl from the US currently working with Oceans of Mercy in Alexandria) and I were trying to keep the younger kids occupied during a soccer tournament, and they caught on to the game really quickly. And of course the desire to be picked is universal - as I was wracking my brain to figure out who hadn't had a turn recently, those who could speak English were shouting, "Sisi, pick me, please!" and many other were wildly waving their hands (Sisi is "sister" in Xhosa). It's amazing how much significance "Goose!" can have when it means that you were selected, even if it is just to run around a circle. It was more important to me to pick someone who hadn't had a turn in a while, but I still felt crummy for passing over so many eager kids.
I know, it's "Duck, duck goose!" I cannot possibly pick every kid, and that's fine. Most or all of the eager kids I passed over still got another turn at some point. The important part is that Prudence and Lexi and I showed the kids that we do care about them by giving them our time. And honestly, my inner turmoil over "Duck, duck, goose" did not linger beyond the day of the soccer tournament. But I still struggle to deny any kind of attention to the kids I interact with each week in the townships of Hout Bay and Sir Lowry's Pass.
A lot of the kids in Sir Lowry's Pass really like being picked up. "Tannie, lift me up!" they say, the minute we reach the field outside the police station ("Tannie" is like "Aunty" in Afrikaans - I'm not really old enough to be called Tannie, but when you're a kid it doesn't make much difference). I might seem like an altruistic Superwoman when I pick up three kids at a time (one on each hip and one on my back - they don't stay for long, but they fit), but I'm actually being selfish. Instead of thinking about what's best for the kids in the long run (learning to wait their turn, etc.), I'm choosing to put my own (emotional) comfort first. It's easier for me to just try to appease them all instead of say to each individual, "Not now, you can have a turn next," or "No, you've already had a turn."
Unfortunately, I did not realize how selfish I was being until two Wednesdays ago, when four or five kids from Sir Lowry's were climbing all over me (because I didn't say, "No" to any of them) and a couple fell off and got hurt. Thankfully they didn't fall far and we were on the grass - they each cried for less than a minute and then they were fine. But the fact that kids got hurt because I didn't have the backbone to tell some of them, "No," or even, "Not yet," really disturbed me, enough to want to change. The following Monday I talked to Ashley, who is on staff with JAM and has worked with the kids in Hout Bay and Sir Lowry's for several years. For times when it is simply not possible to satisfy every kid's request, she recommended being able to call them by name. That way they know that even if I cannot pick them up or hold their hand or spin them around at that moment, I still think of them as a special individual, not just "a Sir Lowry's kid" or "a Hout Bay kid." I am so thankful for Ashley's understanding and advice, because even though a lot of the motivation behind trying to appease everyone is selfish, I also don't want kids to feel completely left out or unfavored. It is really a challenge to keep everyone's names straight, but I am making progress, a couple of names at a time.
Last Monday in Hout Bay, Christopher hurt his foot on some glass, and I carried him around some. Cassidy was wearing her pretty blue jacket again, and Ashron gave me a hug before I left. I had to ask him his name again, but now it will stick. And, I even said, "No," to a little girl (unfortunately I didn't get her name - hopefully next week) when she asked me to pick her up, because I already had and it was someone else's turn. That Wednesday in Sir Lowry's I put in the energy to tell kids to wait their turn for "villey villey volley" (picking them up and spinning them around). At the end I still carried two kids across the train tracks (a boy named Apelele and a girl - maybe Lisa?), because neither of them had shoes and the gravel is really painful, and it was easy enough for me to hold on to both of them for a little while. So I don't feel the need to criticize myself for that one.
Slowly but surely, I'm letting go of my desire to remain comfortable by appeasing everyone. The names and faces of the precious children I see each week are finally starting to connect amidst the jumbled mess of Afrikaans and Xhosa greetings and Bible verses and math equations and everything else floating around my brain. God willing, I'll keep progressing in these areas and bring improved skills back with me to the US in November. I really think that combination is what my experience in this amazing country is all about - making a positive impact on the lives of youth here, and learning how to keep doing that in the lives of youth at home, in ministry and in the classroom.
Monday, August 26, 2013
Smooches and Side Ponytails
Last Monday I left Hout Bay with toddler smooches on my lips and a ponytail on the side of my head, energized and filled with the love that the kids there shared with me. Working with children, whether in the townships of Hout Bay and Sir Lowry's, rural Limpopo and Transkei, or the urban and suburban midwestern United States, often fills me with a similar feeling. That feeling is such a blessing, but I have to be careful not to let it be the only thing that keeps me going.
When I first came to South Africa in July 2010, I was deeply touched and filled with joy by the children I met, particularly at a care center for children with special needs called Sinethemba in the Transkei. There were the universal things that children all over the world share - the joy, the love so freely received and returned - but there was something else that can be a little dangerous for a person like me. There I was, in Africa, playing with African children. Exciting and exotic. Those are not necessarily bad things in and of themselves, and I don't think that it's wrong that I really enjoy experiencing and learning about different cultures by working with kids in Cape Town, Limpopo, and the Transkei. However, the "It's Africa!" factor becomes risky when it starts to be my main motivation.
I returned from South Africa in 2010 with this "I have to go back!" feeling, but I soon realized that it would be selfish to return just to play with kids in an exciting new environment. It took some tears, but I finally accepted that it might not be God's will for me to return to this beautiful country. My prayer became that I could return if it were His will, and that if it weren't He would help me accept that. And now I am SO grateful that He led me to the opportunity to spend 5 weeks in Cape Town doing an internship through Truman State University and then spend the next 5 months working with Jabulani Africa Ministries!
So what motivates me to be here, half a continent and an ocean away from my comfort zone in the midwestern United States? Part of it is precious moments during kids' ministry with JAM, where I get to love on kids from beautifully diverse cultures and receive immense love and joy in return. And yes, part of it is the fact that it's Africa and I think that Africa is amazing. Another part of it is how deeply I was touched by the love of South Africans in 2010, and I wanted to do all I could to give back to the people of this country. All of those things got me across the ocean, and help energize me when I'm feeling homesick. But those things aren't what sustain me.
I need something more than smooches and side ponytails when I see kids fighting with each other because that's what they see at home; when I see broken glass all over the playgrounds, the muddy streets of the townships, and the dirt roads of rural villages; when I see kids with clothes and shoes that are falling apart; when I hear about corruption in the government that perpetuates so many devastating situations; and when I hear from my fellow intern at Thandokhulu or my fellow JAM team member about the sexual exploitation that haunts so many young girls. And I need more than smooches and side ponytails when I ask myself, "Are we really making an impact on these communities? Are the kids' lives really affected long-term by what we do?"
I believe that the answer to those questions is yes, but not because the kids play with my hair and give me kisses when I leave. I believe that we are making an impact because I believe that the man who inspires what we do at JAM is God's Messiah. I really believe that Jesus of Nazareth said that the greatest commandments are to "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind" and to "Love your neighbor as yourself," and that in doing so we can help bring God's kingdom to earth (Matthew 22:37-40 NIV). I really believe that Jesus' message of unconditional love, for your neighbor whether you see them as a friend or an enemy, changes people's lives. And I believe that God is using us to help bring His kingdom to earth when we share love with different groups of children and try to help them connect what the Bible says with their daily life.
When I am overwhelmed with the problems and the heartache around me, whether it's from walking through the townships or reading about the untimely death of an amazing son, husband, and father over facebook (see my last post), this is the only thing that really sustains me, and even then it's challenging. Sometimes I still turn to God in anger that He lets these devastating things happen. But I am also beginning to piece together a picture of hope for the communities I've spent time in. I have the priviledge to work with South Africans who are passionate about letting God use them to make a difference in their own communities - people like Prudence and Phumla who want to point people in Mavhuza and Bambisana to Jesus and his message, and people like Lifter who leads a soccer team in Mavhuza where he teaches young men about integrity (among several other projects to benefit his community). My hope is that more and more people like that will rise up in the townships of Cape Town and across South Africa - people who let God use them to build sustainable change in their communities.
In the meantime, in the midst of broken glass, tight hugs, untimely deaths, smooches, tiny fists fighting, and ponytails, these words from Paul help remind me that God is at work in the beauty and the heartache:
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. (2 Corinthians 1:3-4, NIV)
When I first came to South Africa in July 2010, I was deeply touched and filled with joy by the children I met, particularly at a care center for children with special needs called Sinethemba in the Transkei. There were the universal things that children all over the world share - the joy, the love so freely received and returned - but there was something else that can be a little dangerous for a person like me. There I was, in Africa, playing with African children. Exciting and exotic. Those are not necessarily bad things in and of themselves, and I don't think that it's wrong that I really enjoy experiencing and learning about different cultures by working with kids in Cape Town, Limpopo, and the Transkei. However, the "It's Africa!" factor becomes risky when it starts to be my main motivation.
I returned from South Africa in 2010 with this "I have to go back!" feeling, but I soon realized that it would be selfish to return just to play with kids in an exciting new environment. It took some tears, but I finally accepted that it might not be God's will for me to return to this beautiful country. My prayer became that I could return if it were His will, and that if it weren't He would help me accept that. And now I am SO grateful that He led me to the opportunity to spend 5 weeks in Cape Town doing an internship through Truman State University and then spend the next 5 months working with Jabulani Africa Ministries!
So what motivates me to be here, half a continent and an ocean away from my comfort zone in the midwestern United States? Part of it is precious moments during kids' ministry with JAM, where I get to love on kids from beautifully diverse cultures and receive immense love and joy in return. And yes, part of it is the fact that it's Africa and I think that Africa is amazing. Another part of it is how deeply I was touched by the love of South Africans in 2010, and I wanted to do all I could to give back to the people of this country. All of those things got me across the ocean, and help energize me when I'm feeling homesick. But those things aren't what sustain me.
I need something more than smooches and side ponytails when I see kids fighting with each other because that's what they see at home; when I see broken glass all over the playgrounds, the muddy streets of the townships, and the dirt roads of rural villages; when I see kids with clothes and shoes that are falling apart; when I hear about corruption in the government that perpetuates so many devastating situations; and when I hear from my fellow intern at Thandokhulu or my fellow JAM team member about the sexual exploitation that haunts so many young girls. And I need more than smooches and side ponytails when I ask myself, "Are we really making an impact on these communities? Are the kids' lives really affected long-term by what we do?"
I believe that the answer to those questions is yes, but not because the kids play with my hair and give me kisses when I leave. I believe that we are making an impact because I believe that the man who inspires what we do at JAM is God's Messiah. I really believe that Jesus of Nazareth said that the greatest commandments are to "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind" and to "Love your neighbor as yourself," and that in doing so we can help bring God's kingdom to earth (Matthew 22:37-40 NIV). I really believe that Jesus' message of unconditional love, for your neighbor whether you see them as a friend or an enemy, changes people's lives. And I believe that God is using us to help bring His kingdom to earth when we share love with different groups of children and try to help them connect what the Bible says with their daily life.
When I am overwhelmed with the problems and the heartache around me, whether it's from walking through the townships or reading about the untimely death of an amazing son, husband, and father over facebook (see my last post), this is the only thing that really sustains me, and even then it's challenging. Sometimes I still turn to God in anger that He lets these devastating things happen. But I am also beginning to piece together a picture of hope for the communities I've spent time in. I have the priviledge to work with South Africans who are passionate about letting God use them to make a difference in their own communities - people like Prudence and Phumla who want to point people in Mavhuza and Bambisana to Jesus and his message, and people like Lifter who leads a soccer team in Mavhuza where he teaches young men about integrity (among several other projects to benefit his community). My hope is that more and more people like that will rise up in the townships of Cape Town and across South Africa - people who let God use them to build sustainable change in their communities.
In the meantime, in the midst of broken glass, tight hugs, untimely deaths, smooches, tiny fists fighting, and ponytails, these words from Paul help remind me that God is at work in the beauty and the heartache:
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God. (2 Corinthians 1:3-4, NIV)
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Lungs and Kidneys, Globetrotters and Marathon Runners
Death and healing have always been present in my life, but lately several events have made it hard to understand the pattern in which they appear. Does God orchestrate every death and every healing, or does He just let things happen? Is it His will that only some be medically or miraculously healed, or is it a result of the fallen world in which we live? Four situations in particular propel me forward as I search for answers.
A few years ago, God healed the lungs of an amazing girl named Akosua. I don't know how else to describe what happened - she had tuberculosis to the point where her doctor said it was like she did not have lungs. Then she met a pastor who asked if he could pray for her, and after he did she kept forgetting to take her TB medication but started to feel much better. When she went to the doctor again, her lungs were completely healed - even the doctor could hardly believe it. I met Akosua a few weeks ago while we did ministry together in the Transkei. She is full of life and passion for God, and I am so happy that He healed her lungs so that she could continue to live for Him and bless others. But the fact that God can and does heal miraculously has made it harder to deal with the times He chooses not to.
In 2011, my friend Lois Unger's kidneys were failing, among other health issues resulting from an emergency C-section for her daughter Melody Faith in May. Melody was born at 23 weeks, as big as a king-sized bag of M&M's. Miraculously, she made it and is alive, adorable and thriving, today. Lois, however, passed away in October 2011, only a few weeks after she and her husband Kaleb finally took Melody home from the hospital. God has provided for Kaleb and Melody, and I believe that He will continue to do so, but it is heartbreaking that both of them have to spend the rest of their time on earth without Lois. I know that God could have healed Lois - why Akosua's lungs and not Lois' kidneys? Was it really God's will that Lois die? How could He will such a painful thing? And yet if it wasn't His will, why did He let it happen? I still struggle to answer these questions, especially in light of two more recent deaths.
My grandfather Jim Potter was quite the globetrotter. He and my grandma Jo set foot on all seven continents in their travels, and I always loved hearing stories of the different places they'd visited. I also loved to take walks with my grandpa and listen to his insights on history. Sadly his health deteriorated over the past few years, and he passed away in April. I love my grandpa and miss him a lot, but I can honestly say that I feel at peace with his death. When I saw him in March, he mentioned more than once what a blessed life he and my grandma had. He died at the ripe old age of 85, surrounded by his family and grateful for the life God had blessed him with. It is sad to be separated from him for the time being, but the circumstances make it so much easier to let go.
Whether he was running a marathon or an evening of student ministry, Chad Rogers truly ran "in such a way as to get the prize" (1 Corinthians 9:24). I was away at university by the time he moved back to Liberty, Missouri and got involved with my church's youth ministry, but he made a powerful impact on my younger brother and his peers. Two weeks ago, Chad left his house for a run and did not come back. The entire Liberty community mobilized, some going out in search parties, others offering childcare for those searching, several maintaining social media pages to keep everyone updated. After several nerve-wracking days, Chad's body was found. I don't know exactly how he died, but the fact remains that his family, including his wife Sarah and young son Matthew Job, will have to live the rest of their lives on earth without him. Like Melody, Matthew will have to live the majority of his life without one of his parents. How could God let this happen? I prayed desperately that God would protect Chad when we didn't know his whereabouts, but Lois' death was always at the back of my mind - if God did not save Lois, how could I ask him to save Chad?
Shortly before Chad was found, I stood in the Indian Ocean and wrestled with God. While I marveled at the way the water drops look like diamonds, I asked myself, "Why is God good?" The answer I eventually reached was, "Because He loves unconditionally." I still believe that God loves Lois and Kaleb and Melody and Chad and Sarah and Matthew and everyone else who has lost someone dear to them. I still believe that God will provide for Lois' family and Chad's family, and that He will be sufficient for Melody and Matthew. Yet I struggle with how such devastating deaths could be part of God's will, especially when He has the power to stop them. My conversation with God went something like this:
"HOW could Lois' death be Your will, God? How could You will so much pain? But You could have healed Lois and You chose not to, so does that mean it was Your will? Well if it was Your will, Your will sucks!"
"Matthew's middle name is Job. You took everything away from Job! Are you going to take Matthew's father away from him?"
Not a very respectful way to talk to the creator of the universe, and I am trying to humble myself more before Him. But that is honestly how I felt, and sometimes how I still feel. Rationalizations don't really help - "Oh, they're in a better place," "Maybe God was saving them from an even worse death," etc. Nothing eliminates the pain of being separated from those who die, whether it is suddenly or peacefully. Being in Africa has exposed me to so many stories of healing like Akosua's, and that makes it even harder for me to understand why God only postpones death sometimes. But my dad (richardmpotter.wordpress.com) brought up a good point the other day - if God healed everyone who got sick or injured, would that increase our faith? Would it cause us to be more dependent on Him? I think it would cause us to feel entitled.
So maybe I'm closer to understanding why God sometimes chooses to postpone death, but I still don't understand how He chooses in each situation. Maybe I never will. Sometimes I still feel angry at God, but I also still believe that He will provide. And, even in the pain, I have seen God's love shine through those who reach out to comfort and serve the families of Lois and Chad. And that has to be good enough for now.
A few years ago, God healed the lungs of an amazing girl named Akosua. I don't know how else to describe what happened - she had tuberculosis to the point where her doctor said it was like she did not have lungs. Then she met a pastor who asked if he could pray for her, and after he did she kept forgetting to take her TB medication but started to feel much better. When she went to the doctor again, her lungs were completely healed - even the doctor could hardly believe it. I met Akosua a few weeks ago while we did ministry together in the Transkei. She is full of life and passion for God, and I am so happy that He healed her lungs so that she could continue to live for Him and bless others. But the fact that God can and does heal miraculously has made it harder to deal with the times He chooses not to.
In 2011, my friend Lois Unger's kidneys were failing, among other health issues resulting from an emergency C-section for her daughter Melody Faith in May. Melody was born at 23 weeks, as big as a king-sized bag of M&M's. Miraculously, she made it and is alive, adorable and thriving, today. Lois, however, passed away in October 2011, only a few weeks after she and her husband Kaleb finally took Melody home from the hospital. God has provided for Kaleb and Melody, and I believe that He will continue to do so, but it is heartbreaking that both of them have to spend the rest of their time on earth without Lois. I know that God could have healed Lois - why Akosua's lungs and not Lois' kidneys? Was it really God's will that Lois die? How could He will such a painful thing? And yet if it wasn't His will, why did He let it happen? I still struggle to answer these questions, especially in light of two more recent deaths.
My grandfather Jim Potter was quite the globetrotter. He and my grandma Jo set foot on all seven continents in their travels, and I always loved hearing stories of the different places they'd visited. I also loved to take walks with my grandpa and listen to his insights on history. Sadly his health deteriorated over the past few years, and he passed away in April. I love my grandpa and miss him a lot, but I can honestly say that I feel at peace with his death. When I saw him in March, he mentioned more than once what a blessed life he and my grandma had. He died at the ripe old age of 85, surrounded by his family and grateful for the life God had blessed him with. It is sad to be separated from him for the time being, but the circumstances make it so much easier to let go.
Whether he was running a marathon or an evening of student ministry, Chad Rogers truly ran "in such a way as to get the prize" (1 Corinthians 9:24). I was away at university by the time he moved back to Liberty, Missouri and got involved with my church's youth ministry, but he made a powerful impact on my younger brother and his peers. Two weeks ago, Chad left his house for a run and did not come back. The entire Liberty community mobilized, some going out in search parties, others offering childcare for those searching, several maintaining social media pages to keep everyone updated. After several nerve-wracking days, Chad's body was found. I don't know exactly how he died, but the fact remains that his family, including his wife Sarah and young son Matthew Job, will have to live the rest of their lives on earth without him. Like Melody, Matthew will have to live the majority of his life without one of his parents. How could God let this happen? I prayed desperately that God would protect Chad when we didn't know his whereabouts, but Lois' death was always at the back of my mind - if God did not save Lois, how could I ask him to save Chad?
Shortly before Chad was found, I stood in the Indian Ocean and wrestled with God. While I marveled at the way the water drops look like diamonds, I asked myself, "Why is God good?" The answer I eventually reached was, "Because He loves unconditionally." I still believe that God loves Lois and Kaleb and Melody and Chad and Sarah and Matthew and everyone else who has lost someone dear to them. I still believe that God will provide for Lois' family and Chad's family, and that He will be sufficient for Melody and Matthew. Yet I struggle with how such devastating deaths could be part of God's will, especially when He has the power to stop them. My conversation with God went something like this:
"HOW could Lois' death be Your will, God? How could You will so much pain? But You could have healed Lois and You chose not to, so does that mean it was Your will? Well if it was Your will, Your will sucks!"
"Matthew's middle name is Job. You took everything away from Job! Are you going to take Matthew's father away from him?"
Not a very respectful way to talk to the creator of the universe, and I am trying to humble myself more before Him. But that is honestly how I felt, and sometimes how I still feel. Rationalizations don't really help - "Oh, they're in a better place," "Maybe God was saving them from an even worse death," etc. Nothing eliminates the pain of being separated from those who die, whether it is suddenly or peacefully. Being in Africa has exposed me to so many stories of healing like Akosua's, and that makes it even harder for me to understand why God only postpones death sometimes. But my dad (richardmpotter.wordpress.com) brought up a good point the other day - if God healed everyone who got sick or injured, would that increase our faith? Would it cause us to be more dependent on Him? I think it would cause us to feel entitled.
So maybe I'm closer to understanding why God sometimes chooses to postpone death, but I still don't understand how He chooses in each situation. Maybe I never will. Sometimes I still feel angry at God, but I also still believe that He will provide. And, even in the pain, I have seen God's love shine through those who reach out to comfort and serve the families of Lois and Chad. And that has to be good enough for now.
Friday, July 12, 2013
Uncomfortable
As much as I love being in South Africa - helping students at Thandokhulu High School solve math problems and set up email accounts, watching the waves crash on the south coast, holding hands with children in urban townships and rural villages, and a thousand other amazing things in between - there are times when I am unbearably uncomfortable. Well, maybe not unbearably - I'm still here, I haven't switched my plane ticket from November 18th, I really do manage to carry on, but not without a momentary urge to curl up in a ball and teleport to my comfortable, familiar bedroom in Kansas City. Thankfully I lack the apparation abilities of my cousin Harry, and the constant and varied uncomfortable situations I face in this amazing country have forced me to grow more than I ever imagined.
For the first few days of my minibus taxi commute to Thandokhulu High School, I sat frenzied and high strung as the drivers swerved around each other and often drove with the door open as their assistant yelled "MowbrayClairmontWynbeeeeerrrrrgggg!!!!!" Funny enough, after making it through several roundtrips alive, I began to grow fond of the minibus taxis. Amidst the booming bass coming from the giant speakers under the seat, squeezed between women carrying huge bags of secondhand clothing and young men with mysterious packages wrapped in newspaper, somewhere in my subconcious I accepted that there was nothing I could do to force this situation into my comfort zone. Instead, I let go of a lot of my anxious thoughts and my comfort zone expanded on its own.
As encouraging as my minibus taxi experience is, it did not make my comfort zone completely elastic. Even after nearly two weeks of invigilating exams at Thandokhulu (it's the same as proctoring or supervising, but invigilating sounds SO much cooler and reminds me of Dr. Reed, my high school's International Baccalaureate program coordinator), I still felt uncomfortable addressing basic behavior issues. At 20 years old, I'm hardly older than most of the students, and I had this weird, "Well, this isn't my classroom..." feeling that held me back from being more assertive with students. I was also less comfortable because I did not know the exact rules at Thandokhulu - is it acceptable for students to have their cell phones out during independent work time, or must they put them completely away? I worried (perhaps needlessly) about being too harsh with something like that when in fact the rules were more lenient. As it happened, I was probably more lenient than most teachers at Thandokhulu simply because I was afraid of being the "mean teacher." I am still sitting in an uncomfortable uncertainty about that aspect of classroom management - how much leniency is part of my personal teaching and managing style, and how much is being a pushover? It's a frustrating, confusing place to be, but the discomfort is forcing me to think and to grow as a preservice teacher.
On June 18th I said goodbye to Thandokhulu (not forever, I hope, but for the time being), and the next day I started working with Jabulani Africa Ministries. After less than two hours at Apostle Battery (a former military base converted to a JAM campsite and living quarters for interns and staff), I got in a car with seven people I'd just met and traveled to Sir Lowry's Pass, a township about 45 minutes outside of Cape Town. I was completely overwhelmed - I knew that JAM did "outreaches" in the townships, but really had no idea what that consisted of. I had no training, no planning, no debriefing, and no control. If it isn't clear already, I am SUPER uncomfortable in those kind of situations. Finally I started to ask God to just use me. Some of my muscle tension let up, and I entered the muddy, littered streets of Sir Lowry's ready to give as much love to the kids as I could. I held hands, hugged, kissed, played games, sang songs, and listened with the children who came to the kids' ministry program that the JAM team puts on each week in a field right in the middle of the township. By the time we were driving back I felt more confident that I could handle being part of the JAM team, especially since playing with kids and talking about God is right up my alley, but a new kind of discomfort was setting in. I am heartbroken by the situation these kids live in. There are the material aspects of filthy streets, worn out shoes, broken glass everywhere, clothes falling apart, teeth that aren't taken care of, and insufficient food. But even more heartbreaking are the aspects that I cannot necessarily see - the alcoholism and drug abuse that surrounds these children, the way HIV pervades the community, and the abuse of all kinds that these precious little people face at home. I felt angry at God after visiting Sir Lowry's. Why aren't You taking care of these children, God? You feed the birds of the air and you clothe the flowers of the field, but these children are hungry and their clothes are falling apart! Why do You let them suffer abuse at home? What does a middle-class American white girl like me have to offer them when I can't even come close to solving their problems?
I am still struggling with the position I am in as an intern at JAM. I really do not believe that the message of Jesus is just a pie in the sky by and by kind of thing. I believe that it can change the lives of people here and now by working in their hearts to start to realize God's kingdom on earth, where we love one another as ourselves and give everything to obey God and all of that good stuff. I honestly believe that Jesus' message is worth spreading, not just for eternal reasons but for immediate reasons as well. But I still wonder if I am making a positive impact - or making any impact at all. Yes, I can give lots of love to the children in local townships and in rural villages like Mavhuza in Limpopo (an update on that experience to come), but is it really doing anything? Are they really going to apply any of the stuff we talk about when we act out Bible stories and do little activities and sing songs? I know I cannot be with them every second to see if they will apply things, and I know that I cannot single handedly solve the problems of poverty that surround them. And that really sucks sometimes. It makes me sad and frustrated and heartbroken and freaking uncomfortable. But when I really think about it, I thank God for that discomfort that forces me to think and to grow and to keep turning to Him, because I cannot handle this by myself.
I would love to hear your input! How have you grown through discomfort? What are your thoughts on the kind of impact short-term missionaries (I guess I'm a missionary now) can have in poverty-stricken communities?
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Why be calm when you could be anxious?
Sadly, that is the motto of my lifestyle sometimes. A lot of the time.
I could have been calm about starting my internship at Thandokulu Secondary School last Wednesday, and spent energy asking God for the strength to contribute there, to connect with teachers and students, and to help students learn. I did a little bit of that on Tuesday night, but a whole lot more worrying.
"What if I'm not comfortable with the math topics they are going over?"
"What if the cultural divide is too hard to cross and my explanations don't make any sense to students who speak Xhosa as their first language?"
"What if students laugh at me?"
"What if the minibus taxi breaks down on the way there?"
You'd think after 20 years of worrying I'd realize that none of the anxious thoughts running through my head can change the outcome of the next day's events. But, as I'm sure my fellow worrywarts know, it's a tough habit to break. Maybe there's some chemical release in your brain when you worry about something, or maybe thinking about possible bad situations makes me feel more in control of them - I'm not sure.
The point is, none of my anxious thoughts had any effect on my first day at Thandokulu. Some of them materialized, others didn't, regardless of how much I agonized over them on Tuesday night.
The minibus taxi did not break down, and I arrived a little bit early. The teacher I'm shadowing, Mr. Buti, was not expecting me to be there on Wednesday, so I spent the first few hours of the morning sitting in his office, looking at math textbooks and eventually planning a lesson for the next day.
During my first experience in a classroom that morning, the students laughed at me. Mr. Buti and I stepped into a Grade 12 classroom to supervise students taking a test while their teacher stepped out for a minute. Soon Mr. Buti left too, and I had no instructions whatsoever. Thankfully there were a couple of students who would "shush" everyone else when the noise level started to creep up. I assumed they were taking a math test, and when a boy near the front raised his hand I figured I could help clarify a math problem for him. I looked over his shoulder where he was pointing, at a paragraph entirely in Xhosa. The whole class (minus the "good kids" who shushed everyone - that would have been me in high school) laughed at me, but quieted back down quickly. I didn't know that it was a timed test, and let the students keep working after the bell, so that their teacher had to snatch their papers away from them when she got back.
Feeling like a failure, I went back to Mr. Buti's office again to wait for his first class, and I almost cried. Once I calmed down I realized that the joke was probably more in good fun than I originally imagined - a "let's play a joke on the sub" kind of thing, not a "white girl doesn't know anything and shouldn't be in our school" kind of thing.
Finally around 10:30am I got to observe one of Mr. Buti's classes, and even helped some students with their classwork. The rest of the day I spent in class, and even ended up presenting a problem at the board with a Grade 12 class at the end of the day. I'm still struggling with figuring out guiding questions and hints to give students instead of just working out the problem for them, but hopefully I will improve over the next few weeks.
On Thursday I presented some optimization problems in three Grade 12 classes - the application of Calc I was right up my alley, and the way the students paid attention, responded when I asked if things made sense (sometimes in the affirmative, others in the negative), and asked relevant questions was so refreshing. I hope I am genuinely contributing to these students' experience - that I brought a valuable perspective, that they'll at least now how to start an optimization problem if they come across it. They certainly have just as much, if not more, to teach me.
I'm not sure what the next few weeks will hold - standardized exams start tomorrow and last until June 14th, so I'm not sure that there will be much for me to do at Thandokulu. If there's any way I can be useful I'll stay, but if not I might end up somewhere else. This kind of uncertainty probably wouldn't fly in an internship in the US, and it drives the control-freak part of me crazy. But another part of me thinks, "Eh, okay, we'll see, it'll be fine!"
So I'll leave you all with one half of my brain singing Bobby McFerrin style to the other half, trying to waste less energy on worrying and re-direct it to trusting. *Cue whistling here*
I could have been calm about starting my internship at Thandokulu Secondary School last Wednesday, and spent energy asking God for the strength to contribute there, to connect with teachers and students, and to help students learn. I did a little bit of that on Tuesday night, but a whole lot more worrying.
"What if I'm not comfortable with the math topics they are going over?"
"What if the cultural divide is too hard to cross and my explanations don't make any sense to students who speak Xhosa as their first language?"
"What if students laugh at me?"
"What if the minibus taxi breaks down on the way there?"
You'd think after 20 years of worrying I'd realize that none of the anxious thoughts running through my head can change the outcome of the next day's events. But, as I'm sure my fellow worrywarts know, it's a tough habit to break. Maybe there's some chemical release in your brain when you worry about something, or maybe thinking about possible bad situations makes me feel more in control of them - I'm not sure.
The point is, none of my anxious thoughts had any effect on my first day at Thandokulu. Some of them materialized, others didn't, regardless of how much I agonized over them on Tuesday night.
The minibus taxi did not break down, and I arrived a little bit early. The teacher I'm shadowing, Mr. Buti, was not expecting me to be there on Wednesday, so I spent the first few hours of the morning sitting in his office, looking at math textbooks and eventually planning a lesson for the next day.
During my first experience in a classroom that morning, the students laughed at me. Mr. Buti and I stepped into a Grade 12 classroom to supervise students taking a test while their teacher stepped out for a minute. Soon Mr. Buti left too, and I had no instructions whatsoever. Thankfully there were a couple of students who would "shush" everyone else when the noise level started to creep up. I assumed they were taking a math test, and when a boy near the front raised his hand I figured I could help clarify a math problem for him. I looked over his shoulder where he was pointing, at a paragraph entirely in Xhosa. The whole class (minus the "good kids" who shushed everyone - that would have been me in high school) laughed at me, but quieted back down quickly. I didn't know that it was a timed test, and let the students keep working after the bell, so that their teacher had to snatch their papers away from them when she got back.
Feeling like a failure, I went back to Mr. Buti's office again to wait for his first class, and I almost cried. Once I calmed down I realized that the joke was probably more in good fun than I originally imagined - a "let's play a joke on the sub" kind of thing, not a "white girl doesn't know anything and shouldn't be in our school" kind of thing.
Finally around 10:30am I got to observe one of Mr. Buti's classes, and even helped some students with their classwork. The rest of the day I spent in class, and even ended up presenting a problem at the board with a Grade 12 class at the end of the day. I'm still struggling with figuring out guiding questions and hints to give students instead of just working out the problem for them, but hopefully I will improve over the next few weeks.
On Thursday I presented some optimization problems in three Grade 12 classes - the application of Calc I was right up my alley, and the way the students paid attention, responded when I asked if things made sense (sometimes in the affirmative, others in the negative), and asked relevant questions was so refreshing. I hope I am genuinely contributing to these students' experience - that I brought a valuable perspective, that they'll at least now how to start an optimization problem if they come across it. They certainly have just as much, if not more, to teach me.
I'm not sure what the next few weeks will hold - standardized exams start tomorrow and last until June 14th, so I'm not sure that there will be much for me to do at Thandokulu. If there's any way I can be useful I'll stay, but if not I might end up somewhere else. This kind of uncertainty probably wouldn't fly in an internship in the US, and it drives the control-freak part of me crazy. But another part of me thinks, "Eh, okay, we'll see, it'll be fine!"
So I'll leave you all with one half of my brain singing Bobby McFerrin style to the other half, trying to waste less energy on worrying and re-direct it to trusting. *Cue whistling here*
Monday, May 20, 2013
So much to soak in
That's the best way I can describe my first five days in Cape Town - it's so much to take in. Not quite too much, but soooooo much.
The chaos of downtown, the heartbreaking faces of the beggars who I know I'm not supposed to give money to, and the inspiring, humbling stories of the protesters memorialized at the Crypt in St. George's Cathedral.
The devastating poverty of the townships, and the barren space in District 6 where so many people used to live before they were forced to move out far outside of the city.
Beacons of hope in the townships - beautiful works of art and music at the Langa township community center, the Treatment Action Campaign (TAC) office in Khayelitsha, Tafelsig clinic in Mitchell's Plain, and the food bank and education programs at the Manenberg People's Centre.
The breathtaking beauty of Table Mountain, and how unbelievably gorgeous the beach is with the sun glittering on the ocean in the front and shining on the mountain in the back.
And the gorgeous Xhosa voices lifted up at Sivuyile National Baptist Church on Sunday morning. I think that is a nice place to end this first blog post - with praise to God, for the wonderful experience He's blessed me with in just a few days. :)
The chaos of downtown, the heartbreaking faces of the beggars who I know I'm not supposed to give money to, and the inspiring, humbling stories of the protesters memorialized at the Crypt in St. George's Cathedral.
The devastating poverty of the townships, and the barren space in District 6 where so many people used to live before they were forced to move out far outside of the city.
Beacons of hope in the townships - beautiful works of art and music at the Langa township community center, the Treatment Action Campaign (TAC) office in Khayelitsha, Tafelsig clinic in Mitchell's Plain, and the food bank and education programs at the Manenberg People's Centre.
The breathtaking beauty of Table Mountain, and how unbelievably gorgeous the beach is with the sun glittering on the ocean in the front and shining on the mountain in the back.
And the gorgeous Xhosa voices lifted up at Sivuyile National Baptist Church on Sunday morning. I think that is a nice place to end this first blog post - with praise to God, for the wonderful experience He's blessed me with in just a few days. :)
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