sunsets and sunrises.

As I write this post, I'm currently sitting on the couch of my house in Michigan, over a week away from Cape Town, South Africa.  In case you haven't heard, I made it home safely!  I flew out of Cape Town Thursday early afternoon after saying goodbyes to friends, family, and co-workers.  After six months, goodbyes felt quite surreal.  The community at the Warehouse has become family, and Cape Town has become home.  As the plane took off over the city, and as Table Mountain and the ocean faded from sight, I felt struck by the uncertainty surrounding the ending of my internship.  Why did the time here fly so quickly?  How could I possibly leave my family and my home?  And would I be able to return?  When?  How?  Why?

As the plane approached Joburg, the sun was setting on the far horizon.  As the sky changed from blue to orange, from pink to purple, and finally faded to black, I tried to hold onto the beauty of my final glimpse of South African sky, land, and life.

The plane from Joburg took off in the darkness, and I journeyed sixteen hours through the night, trying to prepare myself for the cold winter of the States, and everything else that went along with it.  As we drew close to JFK, the morning light was breaking over the horizon, illuminating the city below us.  We landed at the break of day, and I made a further transition, into America, out into the cold, and on to another airport.  I had seen the sun set in South Africa, and then rise the next morning in America.  Fear, anticipation, and excitement all rose with the sun as I considered the next season in the morning dawn.  What would it be like to be home?  What would this final semester at Wheaton hold?  And where is God calling next?  In many ways, I still felt submerged in darkness, surrounded by the unknown, and stuck in eternal overnight transit.

On the final leg of the journey from New York to Detroit, a thick blanket of clouds laid below us, blocking any view of the floor below.  As the plane began to descend, we drew close to the layer of clouds.  The anticipation, fear, excitement, and uncertainty grew as the plane entered the layers of clouds, and, for a few moments, we flew blind.  After what felt like an eternity, we broke through the clouds and I could finally see the land below clearly.  Though it's no Cape Town, seeing wintery cold Detroit for the first time in six months felt like home too.

I write all this to share with you mainly because the physical transition played a significant role in how my heart and my soul and mind have been attempting to follow suit since I've been home.  There's a reason it's taken me a week and a half to write my "final" blog post about my time in South Africa.  Though I've flown over  7000 miles, I still feel like I have one foot in Michigan and one foot in Cape Town.  I keep putting off processing, reflecting, and writing because I'm stubbornly sitting in denial, still unwilling and unable to share with myself and with others what my experience in Cape Town meant and will continue to mean in my life.  I'm not ready for the sun to either set or rise.  (as you can tell, I'm not a very willing transition-er.)

So with that in mind, I'm going to bust out one of my favorite Warehouse phrases– watch this space.

Though my internship is over, and though I'm comfortably glued to the couch in my house in small town Michigan, there is much still to come.  I have thoughts to think, memories to remember, reflections to write, and hopes and dreams to plant and declare.

And who knows what next steps are coming.

I need to finish this post, mostly for my sanity, but want to leave you with the verse that's been floating in the background throughout my time in Cape Town.  I have a feeling that, as much as its been important these past six months, it will continue to be vital in the next season of my life.  And like I said, watch this space.  There is definitely more to come.


May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. -Romans 15:13


Amen.

there and back again.

The adventures did abound, both great and small.  I got back last week from a lovely week and some of road-tripping from Cape Town to the Eastern Cape and back with two friends.  Though there were some stressful bits, like sending one friend back early on a plane for some teaching position interviews, the time overall was amazing, both as a chance to see more of the beautiful country of South Africa, from cities to oceans to rural homesteads, and as a time to rest and reflect.  

I could try to describe all the lovely things we saw while adventuring, but I figured you'd like even more to see some pictures! (I know how excited you are, mom...)

Our last glimpse of Table Mountain and company as we headed out on our adventure Eastern Cape-ward.

Ana (left), Kate (right), and I as we set out with the Getz fully loaded.

The drive = incredible.  

The sunset on the first night was one of the best. 

Kate and I standing in the Indian Ocean (my first time ever!) at Plettenberg Bay, clearly excited.  

Chintsa Beach the next morning (I promise we weren't always at the beach...). This is where we sent Kate back to Cape Town to be a responsible (and hopefully soon to be employed!) adult.

Rondavels (traditional Xhosa homes) in the Transkei.  Just a few hours further down the highway, around the cows, sheep, and goats standing in our way, our home for the next five days was waiting.

We stayed with a lovely family in their guest rondavel.  They live in one of the most beautiful places in the world, on a hill just a short walk from the Indian Ocean in the middle of the Wild Coast.  The weather all the way up was wonderful, and we were excited to hike around, and explore in Lubanzi.  Unfortunately, the good weather didn't last, and we got to know the view from the inside of our rondavel very well.  

We did get the chance to walk down to the beach there, though, and it was deserted and beautiful.   

Our home stay family was incredibly hospitable, sharing their meals with us and allowing us to enter their lives for a short time.  I was so inspired by these women and how hard they work for their families.   

After all the rains, our view the last evening was stunning.  This was the best sunset of the trip.    

It made an already beautiful place... 

magical.  (Middle-Earth, perhaps?) 

Our final morning, we hike to Hole in the Wall, a famous natural landmark.  See the hole?  (It's very impressive in person.)  After leaving, we began the long drive home, which was also very interesting...

We saw an elephant!!...jks, we drove through Addo Elephant National Park on the way back and
saw lots of elephants and other wildlife.  

On the drive back, we took a different route through the little Karoo (semi-desert area), which is totally different from but just as beautiful as the route we took there.  Pretty much, the entirety of South Africa is beautiful.  I might be slightly biased though...

There are about a million and one other stories from our adventure there and back again.  If I were to speak the stories, the meanings, that the pictures cannot illuminate, I would fill pages and pages.  But let me give you just a few glimpses (so you can ask about the full stories when I return the rest of the way back again).

• Watching the change in landscape with every passing hour.
• Walking uphill in the rain in the early morning to sit in an ARV clinic and hear stories of courage, sickness, despair, and hope.  
• Being offered magic mushrooms and dagga (pot) multiple times in one afternoon.
• Listening by the light of a kerosene lamp with Ana about the future.
• Watching the home stay family catch and carry away a chicken, and then eating him an hour later...
• Hiking to Hole in the Wall, wet and bedraggled, and unknowingly asking the area's chief for directions along the way.
• Re-learning to sit in the silence.
• Sitting with the manager of the Grahamstown backpackers as he told us much of his life story.
• Accepting hospitality from a couple desperate to open up their home as a place of rest.
• Seeing once again the infinite beauty of God's unfolding creation, from the dung beetle to the warthog to the elephant.  
• Watching God guide our every step on the adventure.

And so He continues to guide.  Less than three weeks left, folks.  Please keep me in your prayers as transition time hits, and as I attempt to live well in every day left.  Until next time.  

Hambani kakuhle (stay well).

adventures abound, both great and small!

I feel like that should be the title to a Sufjan Stevens album.  I would attempt to come up with some creative song titles, but I have approximately five minutes to write this post.  Why, you ask?  Because adventure abound, both great and small!  The great adventure about to commence in five minutes is a week long trip to the Eastern Cape. Two friends and I are going to stay at a rural home stay for five days, which should be an incredible experience. 

So, a real update will arrive when I return.  But in the meantime, please continue to hold me in your prayers for the last month of my internship.  Four weeks left....

Much love to you all!!

stories.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved stories.  The first story I can remember falling in love with was The Velveteen Rabbit.  My earliest memory of story time at night is of my mom sitting on my bed reading me the tale of the velveteen rabbit as I sat entranced by the words she read and the beautiful pictures that accompanied them on every page.  Every single night for a few years of my early childhood (seriously, ask my mom), I listened to and eventually read along with my mom as she read me the story of the velveteen rabbit.  I could quote half the book by age four, which is impressive for a book that begins by saying, "There once was a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning, he was really splendid."  For real, I did this.  And I have to be honest, the story still gets me.  I mean, the boy loved the rabbit so much that the little bunny became Real, and then because he loved the boy in return, the fairy came to save him and make him truly Real.  I get a little teary just thinking about it.

Maybe The Velveteen Rabbit doesn't get you like it gets me.  But I know that the power of story resonates with you in one way or another.  Stories captivate our hearts, our minds, and our imaginations. They help us to see the world from another perspective.

This past week I had the incredible opportunity that came up sort of spontaneously to go canoeing for four days down the Orange River (which is the border between South Africa and Namibia) with a group of high schoolers.  Most of them were from the youth group one of the churches connected to the Warehouse, but they then invited and paid for six boys from the Superstars, which is the soccer team / discipleship program run in Sweet Home Farm.  There was a last minute empty seat on the bus up, so I got to fill it with the assignment of helping to look out for the Superstars and hopefully help the two groups cross big divides together into friendship.  Kind of a big task for a last-minute add on, but hey, I wasn't complaining.  Five days in the midst of incredible beauty with space and time to think and reflect?  Absolutely worth being called Mommy for the duration of the trip (it was honestly pretty endearing, and a lovely flashback to Fischer staff team...)

As we paddled over the four days, I spent a lot of time thinking about the beauty of this river I somehow found myself journeying down.  There were mountains all around us as the current drew us along the winding path.  It wasn't until the second evening, when we climbed one of the mountains that I realized: the river has a story to tell.

I stood and stared at the incredible beauty in front of me.  The nuances of the river that had been invisible as I canoed down were now perfectly clear.  The river was going somewhere, and coming from somewhere constantly and simultaneously.  The story of the river from this perspective changed seemingly pointless bends in the river into vital chapters and twists in the narrative.  The story of the river is both timeless and ever-changing.  Water constantly moving downstream, carving a path between the mountains and through the valleys.  Not only does the river tell one big story, it tells countless small-scale stories.  Every place the water moves affects the shape of the landscape, even carving away the rock itself.

 The river has a story, and the river tells a story.

Places have stories.  Though the river is a beautiful example of story in motion, it is just one picture of thousands.  From mountains to houses to cities, every place has its own distinct and valuable story.  Places gain value when we know their stories.  The restaurant where dad proposed, the house with secret passageways for runaway slaves to hide, the bench that Wheaton students spray-paint and claim as their own every few weeks.  Places that are seen as dispensable, unlovely, and unimportant are transformed in the light of story.  A church bathroom is transformed from a standard functional facility into a sacred space chosen by a young child to meet with God. (True story, ask me about it some time...)  But knowing the story of that place allows me to see the space with different eyes.

It's easy to look at the sun setting over a river from the top of a mountain and see the beauty of that story.  It's much more difficult to stand in the midst of a physically broken space and see, beyond outer appearances into the beauty within the story.  A few weeks ago I walked around Sweet Home Farm with the girls' youth group and took pictures to go with letters they wrote to government, complaining about the broken and unfit municipal facilities in their community.  This is what we saw.

Most people would look at this photo and only see a place unfit for anyone to live.  But knowing the story of Sweet Home Farm gives me different eyes to see the beauty hidden under a thin veneer of poverty.  Stories of hope in the midst of seeming hopelessness do not negate the pain and injustice that exist in this place, but reveal beauty in spite of the pain.  These stories of hope are the stories of people. Knowing the girls' youth group, and the team in the Warehouse, and the six boys that went on the canoe trip changes how I see Sweet Home Farm.  In place of shacks and overflowing sewage drains, I see faces and stories that fill me with joy, rather than hopelessness.  In Sweet Home and across the world, people are the stories that transform places of suffering and despair into places of joy and hope.

One of my absolute favorite books that I've read since coming to South Africa is Denise Ackermann's After the Locusts.  In it, she writes letters to friends and family remembering the stories of God in the midst of a broken and disease-ridden world.  She slams home the power of story when she says, 

“I have heard stories that speak of triumph, of resistance, and of hope.  Imagine a kaleidoscope with thousands of different-coloured fragments.  As it moves, it forms patterns.  The myriads of stories of suffering and joy make up the big story of AIDS, in which each fragment is unique.  My life has been changed by knowing the stories of people living with the HIV virus.  Hearing and telling stories challenges stigmas and prejudices.” 

Denise isn't just talking about AIDS.  She's calling on humanity to see the brokenness in every individual story and every meta-story, recognize it for what it is, and then see the hope in the midst of those stories. We are called to live in a deep tension that comes from being the Church with AIDS.  Our stories must tell of the brokenness of the world and yet of the hope and triumph that is found in Christ.  The human story holds both together.  It is only in this tension that we can see true beauty if we allow one another's stories to capture our hearts, minds, and imaginations.  Through this kaleidoscope our view of the world is transformed.

People are stories.  When we listen to one another, our sight is transformed.  Life can be seen in the midst of death.  Abundance in the midst of poverty.  Unity in the midst of division.  And hope in the midst of despair.  That is the power of story.

living on a prayer.

I have a confession to make: there are moments in my life when all I want to do is blast some Bon Jovi at full volume and sing along at the top of my lungs.  Though some (Alex Recker) might judge my poor musical taste, I no longer live in shame of my fondness for obnoxious rock music, particularly Bon Jovi.  Because, one, who doesn't have a little soft spot for Bon Jovi somewhere in their heart, and two, his music (ok, one sentence of one song...) pretty perfectly describes where I am sitting currently.

Woah. We're halfway there.  (JBJ sounds a little more excited when he says it...)  But last week marked the halfway point for my internship at The Warehouse!  Three months down, three months to go...  It's pretty incredible to think that my time has flown by so quickly so far.  In some ways I feel like I've only been here for a day, but then it also feels like I've been here for forever.  The thought of halfway brings up a myriad of emotions: terror of being already and only half-done, yet excitement about three more months, which will probably fly even faster than the first; joy over what I've been able to experience here so far and what I will continue to be a part of, yet sorrow over the painful stories and situations that I've heard and seen in my time so far and will continue to hear and see.  All those feelings and more tend to run through my head about 17 times a day at the speed of sound.  Though this has been somewhat constant throughout my internship (and my life...), the halfway point has given me a good excuse to sit a while and reflect on life.  And in that reflecting, I've realized that the second half of Bon Jovi's song is equally appropriate in my life, both right now and in general.


Whoa.  Living on a prayer.  If I've grown in any way since I've been here, it's been in how I see and value prayer.  Prayer is an integral part of life in the Warehouse, and their passion for communally seeking God and justice together has reminded me and further revealed to me the absolute power of prayer in our lives.  Not only have I been challenged in how I pray, I have been challenged in how I then live as a result of the power of prayer.  I am so incredibly blessed to have such amazing friends and family across the world praying for me in my time here.  I wanted to take time at this halfway point to both thank you for your prayers and for your love.  I'm reminded anew how vital they are to my time here.  And I'd also love to update you in how you can continue to be praying for me.  More than ever I'm seeing that I really am living on your prayers throughout my time here.

So in terms of specific things for you to be praying for, here are a few random but predominant ones: pray that I would continue to strive to be fully present in every moment here, and not hold people or experiences, both beautiful and painful, at an arm's length, but really let everything affect my heart and mind and life; pray that out of communally seeking God together as an organization so passionately, I would be more persistent and consistent in seeking God in His word and in prayer on my own; pray that I would continue to listen deeply and be courageous enough to speak when God calls me to speak; and please pray that I would live in faith, trust, and hope even more deeply in the second half of my HNGR journey.

We're halfway there, folks.  Thanks for your prayers.

shalom.

So I'm not really into sharing my papers with everyone, but my Global Christian Perspectives paper for August really speaks well of the things I've been thinking about this past month, and has a few stories from life lately in the mix. That, along with my woeful lack of updates lately, has convinced me to share my paper with you.  That said, I hope you like it.

We live in a world that often appears to be the antithesis of shalom.  As I sat in a movie theatre last week, I was reminded of the acute and all-encompassing brokenness present in our world.  The film, The Bang Bang Club, exposed the hatred of man toward humanity for me as it followed the lives of four South African photographers as they captured images of the violence among South Africans in the early 1990’s.  They witnessed senseless and horrifying acts of violence between Xhosa and Zulu South Africans, yet did nothing to stop the violence, developing a growing numbness toward the inhumanity of the brutality.  I left the movie that night, overwhelmed by the nature of man and the lack of peace in the world still today.  For though the tribal warfare of the early 1990’s is a thing of the past in South Africa, inequality, indignity, and violence continue.  Peace is still all too clearly absent in every aspect of life.  

Augustine names human nature as incurvatus in se, that is, continually curving inward on itself.  I have been constantly struck by this image since I’ve been here is South Africa.  Not because there is any greater amount or prevalence of sinfulness here, but simply because in comparing the paths of South Africa and the United States toward transformation, I’ve been able to see more clearly how far both still have to go.  Humans, regardless of race, gender, or class, are bent inward on themselves.  As our walls grow thicker and enclose us more tightly, we become isolated, and soon can see nothing but ourselves.  As a vessel on a pottery wheel, our walls naturally curve in, and we revert to a crumpled mass of clay.  We are constantly curving further and further in on ourselves, with eyes blinded to see, ears deadened to hear, and hearts numbed to feel any experiences outside of ourselves.  Yet this is obviously not what God intended for humanity.  

God’s intention is peace.  Not just peace, as in the lack of violence.  God’s vision of peace is shalom, the holistic peace.  Wolsterstorff speaks of the nature of whole peace and justice, writing, "To guide our feet into the path of peace, of shalom: that is what the presence of Jesus in our midst means, that is the significance of this declaration in the synagogue and to John’s disciples– that in him the word of the prophet Isaiah is being fulfilled.  For Isaiah was speaking of the day of shalom.  In shalom there are no blind; all see.  That is the significance of Jesus’ healing of the blind.  In shalom there are no lame; all walk.  There are no lepers; all are well.  There are no deaf; all hear.  There are no dead; all are alive.  And there are no poor; all have plenty.  To limp is to fall short of shalom.  To be impoverished is to fall short of shalom.  That is what is wrong with poverty.  God is committed to shalom.  Jesus came to bring shalom.  In shalom there is no poverty" (77).

The world in which I live has obviously not reached this shalom.  There is greater physical impoverishment present in Cape Town than I believed possible in the world.  The lack of shalom is made more clear in the disparity between rich and poor; townships and informal settlements are rife with violence, disease, hunger, and littered with garbage, while suburbs next to the mountain are spacious, safe, well sanitized, and never hungry.  The depth of poverty is perpetuated in part by the immensity of wealth.  Township-dwellers travel to rich neighborhoods to work as cleaners, caretakers, car guards, gas pumpers, or taxi drivers, earn minimum wage serving the wealthy, and then return home with just enough money to survive.  This poverty is more than just monetary; it is a social poverty.  It is an impoverishment of dignity and an impoverishment of power for people to live physically as neighbors, yet socially and spiritually as strangers, isolated by human nature.  These types of poverty, just as much as economic poverty, reveal the absence of shalom.  Holistic poverty exists; therefore, shalom cannot.  

In the midst of a wholly broken world, then, where is the hope for change?  The possibility of shalom is birthed in the created nature of man.  For though every person is perpetually curving further inward on him or herself, the seed of God’s original creation still exists within.  Wolsterstorff quotes Calvin in speaking about the imago Dei, the image of God present in all of humanity (78).  Just as much as human nature is recognizably broken and sinful, it just as clearly bears the image of God.  According to Calvin, the seed of the imago Dei hidden within our incurvated nature is the foundation for relationship that leads toward compassion and love.  Since the image of God gives every person worth in the eyes of God, it must also give every person worth in the eyes of the rest of humanity. Christ’s call to love your neighbor is then a call to recognize the imago Dei within one another.  But how do we, with natures that are continually curving inward on ourselves, see outside ourselves to recognize the image of God in one another?  The imago Dei is present within every person, yet is veiled, hidden, and marred.  The continual inward curvature of self encloses and buries the image of God and blinds humanity to the image of God in the Other. 

Human nature must be restored.  The vessel that has fallen inward on itself must be reshaped and moulded to become curved outward, revealing the imago Dei within.  Not only does this unveil the intended nature of an individual, but it also then shifts that person’s focus from looking inward to looking outward, to others and to the world.  Both aspects of the reshaping of the vessel are necessary in the move away from brokenness and toward peace.  By ourselves, we are unable to change our nature and our shape.  It is only through Christ that we are able to be remoulded in this world.  In Christ, what was once broken is being restored.  His incarnation into the world demonstrated the perfect example of a life created in the image of God and focused outward.  The Word became flesh and dwelt among men, and walked with them in His life.  His pace was three miles an hour, not only living alongside people, but seeing them, hearing them, living with them, and loving them (Bonk 81).  Christ’s life was our example, and His death and resurrection made it possible for us to be transformed by the Potter into vessels looking outward, following the example of His life.   

God transforms us to live like Christ, yet this is meaningless as individuals.  For centuries, Christians have tried to preach and live solely in salvation for the individual.  This is not the Gospel Jesus preached and lived, nor is it not the Gospel that brings shalom.  The church of the individual pietist has done nothing but create more strife, violence, and separation in the past.  God desires shalom in this world, and shalom is a state, not of an individual, but of a community.  Shalom will only begin to break through in this world by the transformation of community.  Wolsterstorff  declared that the coming of shalom is only possible through a change in communities, stating, “Only if we once again see society not as a heap of souls on a piece of ground, but as a God-willed community, as a living human organism, can there be a cure to the misery of poverty” (81).  Becoming fully human, or returning to the original shape in which God created man, is a communal activity of deep redemption.  

Imagine God reshaping a community, revealing the imago Dei within every person and shifting their gazes from themselves to the image of God in one another.  In seeing one another’s humanity, we can see the hope for shalom.  Yet it also becomes clear what stands in the way in society.  Suddenly, it becomes impossible to ignore the spaces where shalom is absent, where race, class, and gender remain unreconciled.  The oppression, injustice, and inequality created in the past and perpetuated in the present is made clear to both the oppressed and the oppressor.  As a community founded in Christ and focused on the Other, this oppression is no longer acceptable, and the community stands together against injustice and inequality and for shalom.  In her reflection on James, Tamez recognizes the power of this pursuit of peace in a community, stating, "In his eagerness to encourage the Christian communities James asks them to reflect on the positive side of experience of oppression.  He does not perceive the recompense for this unjust suffering at the end of time; rather it occurs now, in the heart of praxis, in the life of the communities; they experience wholeness and integrity within themselves.  Paradoxically this is a humanizing process.  In the very process of resisting dehumanizing forces, the communities and their members are humanized" (Tamez 47).  In seeing oppression and standing together against it, we are turned inside out more and more, living for one another rather than for ourselves.  And as we live for one another, we live for shalom.  We aim to see the end to every form of poverty that prevents and opposes shalom.  As we do so within community, we act as true bearers of the imago Dei in a world that needs to see the presence of God more than ever.

A few weeks ago, I stood with a few of my co-workers in midst of the charred remains of a woefully small shack in Sweet Home Farm, an informal settlement the Warehouse works with closely.  The shack had burned down around the the mother and her small child in minutes, and all that remained were the corrugated tin walls and a few pieces of garbage and nails on the dirt floor.  We stood in this sorrowful space, overwhelmingly aware of the pain, loss, and structural brokenness it represented, and prayed, asking God to speak, to comfort, and to bring peace.  As I looked out the gaping hole that was the roof, I could literally see shalom coming and shalom yet to come.  With one glance, I could see both a landscape of shacks in the immediate foreground, as well as the mountain with all its associated wealth in the background.  At the same time, though, I could see God’s peace breaking through as we prayed for healing and wholeness in the community.  The sun broke through the clouds and shone down into the broken ruins, hitting us with rays of light and hope.  Suddenly I imagined a small plant springing from the floor of the shack, a small but tangible piece of life growing out of death.  This is the nature of God’s shalom.  Out of a scarred and broken shell, the seeds of God in the world are slowly but surely giving birth to shalom within communities.

Shalom is not an easy aim in a world that exists in opposition to peace by nature of fallen humanity.  Yet in the words of Wolsterstorff, “Shalom is both God’s cause in the world and our human calling” (72).  Jesus calls us out of our inwardly curved natures into transformed community, where the image of God within individuals draws the body of Christ together toward holistic peace.   This is God’s calling for us in the world.  Though we live in a place where shalom is still so visibly absent, there are seeds being sown and springing to life in communities all around Cape Town, and all around the world.  So we live in community, standing together against poverty and injustice, and standing together in hope as we seek God’s holistic peace. 

just now....

which is not the same as now, or even now now.  And here is South Africa, none of them mean NOW the way people in the States would mean now.  Now here and now in the States, I've realized, are two entirely different things.

In the US, now is exactly this instant, without delay.  Time is of the essence; once you say now, you're on the move.

In South Africa, now is sometime in the vaguely near future.  Now now is very soon-ish, now is probably coming, and just now is eventually, at some point, maybe.

The moment in time of Now in the States is focused, narrow, and singular.

In South Africa, Now represents something broader, less rigidly defined and more fluid and free.

At first, the difference drove me mad.  I felt there was a lessened importance of Now.  But I'm beginning to realize that it's not less, but more.  Slowly but surely, it's changing how I see Now, and how I live in Now (Now now, now, and just now).

So all those thoughts to say, I've been living in the now.  But that makes writing posts a little difficult.  However, expect a more coherent, eloquent, and comprehensive blog post just now...

moments.

Dear everyone,

I'm sorry for my absence!  I feels like I haven't updated you all in a long time.  I promise I haven't forgotten about you.  Every time I sit down to try and write something, I get stuck.  Stuck between having so much to tell that I struggle to find the proper words, and feeling like there's nothing I could write that would capture my experience or your interest.  That, plus the busyness at the Warehouse, HNGR work, and living life has led me to neglecting you.  (Sorry mom!)  Needless to say, I won't let it happen again (at least I hope not)....

With that said, I want to tell you about moments.  Part of my lack of updates has something to do with my perceived lack of memorable moments.  I felt like I had nothing intense, radical, or incredible enough happening in my life to write about.  Life the past few weeks has felt normal, ordinary even.  And who wants to read about that?  But as I thought more about it and tried to figure out what I could write about, I realized that there is great beauty and depth in the ordinary moments of life.  I tend to overlook the gifts that are the daily moments.  Yet the simple moments are many, and hold deeper power than I imagined.  Let me show you what I mean...

Waking up every morning to faint sunlight streaming softly in my window, and stealing ten extra minutes to enjoy the warmth of my bed in the chill morning air.

A steaming bowl of oatmeal for breakfast almost every morning.  

Walking out of a quiet house into the morning sunshine to soak up on the walk to the Warehouse.  

The first cup of coffee of the day at work, accompanied by often groggy but warm greetings (and teasings) from co-workers.  

The hush that falls before morning prayer time begins, and the reverential silence that lingers at the end.

Laughing, crying and listening over lunch together in the single sun-lit space in the Warehouse.  

Cheering for the Superstars of Sweet Home Farm as they play football on a chilly afternoon.

Dreaming and drawing the journey of the church toward social transformation.

Leaving work early on a Friday to grab a cup of coffee with friends.

Celebrating Christmas in July.

Watching 7 de Laan every night with my family over dinner.

Sitting on a Sunday morning with high school girls, sharing stories and dreaming about reconciliation.

Weekend family lunches that last all day.

The last cup of tea of the night.

These moments often sneak past me, slip under the rug of normalcy, and remain there, forgotten in favor of bigger and better things.  But life is lived in these moments.  As my weeks settled into quieter patterns, my heart grew anxious for lack of moments.  But somewhere in the midst of my restlessness, a still small voice spoke to remind me that today is the gift.  As I sat in that truth, God flipped back rug to show me the moments I'd been taking for granted.  I suddenly realized that these are the gifts.  Yes, big and beautiful moments happen as well, but they hold no more value than the simple and seemingly mundane moments of everyday living.  And like it or not, my life right now is made up of the little moments.  It's not a very easy thing for me, but I'm learning to rest in the moments, enjoy the moments, and see God in the moments.  Pray that I would live in the gift of the moments of each day.

a sheepish correction...

So everything I wrote in this last post is true, except for one small detail....after some in-depth google mapping, I discovered that the water I saw with my family, False Bay, is actually part of the Atlantic Ocean, not the Indian Ocean. Oops. This makes the title of my last post slightly untrue. But to make up for it, here’s a few pictures of the Cape of Good Hope, and the dividing line between the Atlantic Ocean and False Bay. Looking at the pictures, you have to give me a little credit. I mean, Cape Point, in all it’s incredible beauty, ought to be the dividing line between two oceans, really.

This is Cape Point, to the left is False Bay, and to the right is the rest of the Atlantic.

A photo of the Cape of Good Hope from Cape Point.

The old lighthouse on Cape Point.

The view from Cape Point back toward the rest of Cape Town. (Incredible, eh?)

Sitting on the Cape of Good Hope...

Thanks for sticking with me, geographical errors and all!

Peace,
Meredith

between two oceans.

I saw two oceans in the space of two days.  

Last Sunday afternoon, my host mom, brother and I drove over to our Aunt and Uncle's house, where we all piled into my uncle's bucky (truck) and drove out to their niece's home.  (If that confused you, don't worry, I'm still trying to work out all the family relationships!)  We were driving along, talking and laughing, when all of a sudden a huge body of water was in front of us.  I stared out the window, eyes wide, and asked which ocean I was looking at.  My uncle said it was the Indian Ocean.  As I tried to hold back a giant grin, I told them it was my first time ever seeing the Indian Ocean.  They all looked at me, slightly astonished, and then my uncle proceeded to drive up and down the road that ran next to the ocean, telling me about the different towns and beaches that we passed.  I stared out the window, amazed at the incredible beauty of this place I get to live.

I then spent my 4th of July with two other American interns traveling around the city bowl via giant red bus taking pictures– probably the most American thing we could have done for the holiday. But we had a beautiful day, getting a chance to see the side of Cape Town most visitors see first. We drove partway up Table Mountain, and the view there left me completely convinced that Cape Town has to be one of the most beautiful places in the world. Later in the day, we stood on the beach of the Atlantic Ocean taking pictures and accidentally getting our feet wet, laughing and enjoying a day of relaxation.

One of my favorite musicians (Josh Garrels, look him up), has a new CD out called Love and War and the Sea In Between. I’ve loved listening to his songs since I’ve been here, one, because they’re just really great, and two, because they’ve been speaking so much into what I’ve experienced so far. In Cape Town, it feels like there is no sea between love and war. Both exist so clearly, and they live right next to each other in every day and every space. Here, it’s both Love and War in between the Seas. Clearly, it’s been a few weeks since I wrote the first part of this post, and since then I’ve gotten the chance to see a few more pieces of Cape Town in all its complexity. As cool as it was to see two oceans in the space of two days, it’s been even more powerful to see two worlds in the space of one city. And just like I'm between two oceans, I'm between these two worlds. My prayer is that God would draw them back together again.

beauty and pain.

It's funny that I'm only just now watching the final episodes of Oprah with my family here, even though her show was finished in the States over a month ago.  I'm not really a big fan of daytime television, but I figure, since I'm already watching soap operas, it's only right to watch Oprah as well.  I have never watched Oprah before in my life, but as I sat Sunday night watching the world celebrate her and the legacy she has created, I could not help but feel the emotional impact of countless of stories of despair transformed into stories of joy.

You might be reading my posts and thinking that the most impactful parts of my time here come from watching tv.  Thankfully, this is false.  I'm not going to lie, I do have a new-found love for South African soap operas and the Oprah Winfrey show.  But Sunday, Oprah provided for me a connection point.  This past week was filled with so many experiences, and so much emotion.  I witnessed incredible beauty, followed immediately by deep, deep pain.  The juxtaposition of the two has left me dazed, and I have struggled for several nights now to even begin to find the right words to fill a seemingly insurmountable blank page.  But then, Oprah.  Stories of pain, and stories of beauty.  Stories of despair, and stories of joy.  Most of all, stories of hope.  So I'm going to tell you a few stories from this past week.

Tuesday morning after prayer, I sat at my temporary desk, planning to finish a HNGR paper for the work day.  After five minutes, my boss came in, asking if I wanted instead to go spend the day in Khayelitsha, one of the largest impoverished communities in Cape Town.  I said absolutely yes, walked outside, hopped in a van with a few co-workers, and off we went.  We drove over to Sweet Home Farm, an informal settlement built on a garbage dump that the Warehouse works closely alongside, and picked up nine young boys to come with us and help build a house.  At this point, I realized just how unprepared I was for this spontaneous adventure.  We arrived in Khayelitsha, and I was introduced to Mama Chop Chop, the woman whose home we were working on.  I helped Mama Chop Chop make tea for the boys, and then the real work began.  As they started mixing cement, I was faced with a decision: did I stand back, watch, and maybe help make food later, or participate, guaranteeing wet feet, destroyed boots and cemented clothing?  The choice was clear.  I mixed and threw cement until my boots, pants, hands, and hair were covered with the stuff.  And then I helped make lunch.  It was a day of beauty, of laughing with boys even though I spoke English and they spoke Xhosa, of feeding hungry boys until we ran out of food, of helping provide shelter for a woman in need.  Yet in the midst of the beauty, it was impossible to ignore the painful facts: the boys were hungry, and yet we could provide only one meal; Mama Chop Chop's extension is built out of sand bags, two by fours, and cement; Khayelitsha is Cape Town's largest township, and extends for miles.  The tension between beauty and pain was vivid that day.

Though I felt joy mixed with sorrow while in Khayelitsha, I felt as though I were drowning in pain by Wednesday morning.  On the drive back to the Warehouse, we found out that a young boy had been attacked and killed in Sweet Home Farm by a pack of stray dogs.  The shock of the news left me numb; such a thing couldn't be possible.  But it was possible; the layers of poverty and the family situation led to a horrifying tragedy.  As we sat and prayed in the Warehouse on Wednesday morning, I wept tears of sorrow and anger.  How could God allow such poverty to even exist?  I felt swallowed up in despair, held under a heavy weight of hopelessness.  The pain of the story felt insurmountable.

Yet somehow, God brought hope back into a community steeped in hopelessness.  Over the weekend, thirty youth from a wealthier neighborhood's church slept in the Warehouse and partnered with some youth from Sweet Home Farm to run a kid's club in the community.  Even in the short time I spent there, I couldn't help but see love filling the playground, flying across the tiny lumpy soccer field with the kids playing, and pouring out of every child's laugh, smile, and embrace.  After such a pain-filled week, the weekend was an incredibly beautiful picture of reconciliation, joy, and hope.  Though the pain was not forgotten, the fuller picture of God's redemption was once again visible.

As I sat and watched God work this weekend, I felt my hope restored as well.  Beauty is real, just as pain is real.  I saw them both so clearly this past week.  It's easy to choose to place hope in the beauty, but beauty often is overcome by pain, and hope crumbles.  For hope to stand, it must be rooted in God, His power, and His goodness, mercy, and love.  I choose to cling to those truths, to place all my hope there.  I know joy and sorrow, beauty and pain will be the reality of these six months.  My prayer is that I would see and experience everything in the light of the hope of the Gospel, and that I would see that hope well up throughout the city of Cape Town.  That, friends, is good hope.

city snapshots

You probably saw the title of this post and got excited to see pictures of EVERYTHING.  You expected snapshots of the most beautiful city in the world, from the Table Mountain and the ocean to my workplace, my family, and my home.  Unfortunately, this is not that post.  Honestly, up until today, my camera hasn't left the cupboard I placed it in when I first unpacked.  There are a couple of reasons for this: 1- I'm chronically terrible at remembering to take pictures.  2- I feel a little awkward beginning my work and home relationships as the girl who lives behind a camera.  (Also, taking pictures of and with people you don't really know yet is just a little strange.)  3- Taking pictures leaves me feeling very much like a touristy white American, a stereotypes I would love to escape as much as possible.  But in all honesty, even if I had diligently photographed every moment here from day one, I still don't know if I would be able to share those pictures.

The problem is that I'm afraid– I'm afraid that a picture will inaccurately portray the context in which I'm living.  Cape Town is a complex and diverse city, in more ways than one.  So before I begin posting photos of people and places here (or even begin taking pictures, for that matter...), I need to "show" you a few city snapshots.  So imagine with me for a minute...

From an aerial view, you see the city sitting on the edge of South Africa, the historical entry of colonists in 1652.  Table Mountain and the rest trail south along the western seacoast, and just north of mountains sits the "city bowl," the center of the city.  All roads fan out from the city center eastward, to the interior of the country.  Once you get past the city bowl, you move into the "suburbs" (kind of a cross between Chicago neighborhoods and greater Chicago-land, as far as I can tell).  Now, this is where history gets important.  (Let's be real, history is always important.)  During the days of apartheid, the city was forcefully segregated.  Black and coloured (not a racial slur, but a separate racial group in South Africa) South Africans were forced to move further out east from the city center into the Cape Flats, an area further from the mountains, less desirable, and, under apartheid, held in deep poverty.  A certain road called the M5, that runs north and south a certain distance from the mountains, marked the dividing line between white and black, wealthy and impoverished.

Apartheid ended over fifteen years ago, but the history of segregation continues to shape the city.  Though racial separation is no longer law, in some ways it is perpetuated via class.  Everyone knows that the closer you live to the mountains, the wealthier you are.  And the fact is, the closer you get to the mountains, the more white people you see.

I get to see Cape Town from a different point of view than most.  You see, my family lives about five minutes east of the M5, in the Cape Flats.  The Cape Flats itself is diverse, ranging from nice neighborhoods with modest homes (like where I live) to dangerous neighborhoods with low-rise apartments, to the townships of today, which expose poverty unlike anything I have ever seen.  These areas are all mixed together to form the Cape Flats. This is the part of Cape Town I have seen most.  The wealthy part of Cape Town is foreign to me.  I've only crossed the M5 a couple times since I've arrived.  I have not been to the city bowl, and I have not seen the ocean.  But I have been able to catch a glimpse of the city from the periphery.  I've begun to hear stories, of the past and of the present, of poverty and injustice intermingled with stories of joy and redemption.  From my perspective, I get to see both beauty and pain vibrantly. To me, that is worth more than a thousand views from atop Table Mountain.

Soon (hopefully!) I will take some pictures, so I can show actual snapshots of the context I've tried to describe.  The only photos I have to share are two pictures of the mountains I took from the window in my bedroom.  Though they're a long ways off, I love to look at them.  They remind me where I am, and they remind me why I am here.  Because as much as God lives on the mountain, God also lives in the Cape Flats.  My hope is that I can see Him as I live here too.

the view through my window bars

a closer view (zooming in)

baby steps.

In the movie What About Bob, Bill Murray is slightly insane but looking for a way to cope in his overwhelming life.  When he goes to see a psychologist, he's told that the best way to deal with the difficulties of everyday life is to take baby steps.  Bob took that advice and applied it literally, taking baby steps to the door, baby steps out of the office, baby steps down the hall, baby steps into the elevator...

This movie has always cracked me up, mostly because of how ridiculous Bob is.  (Just seeing it in the Taylor's movie collection is enough to have me rolling on the floor...) Somehow though, the movie somehow seems a little less humorous, because this past week has left me feeling a lot like Bob.  Not in a I'm-suddenly-neurotic-and-psychotic-and-think-I-have-every-mental-illness-in-the-book-but-still-manage-to-crack-people-up kind of way, but in an I'm-in-a-totally-new-and-slightly-overwhelming-context-and-have-no-idea-how-to-cope-in-everyday-life sort of way.  The only possible way for me to manage is by taking baby steps.  I've been suddenly plunged into a new place full of new people, and though I've had to enter the experience head-first at full speed, I still feel like I'm taking baby steps. 

Baby steps into my family.  Who are wonderful.  My host mom and brother are hilarious, and I love sitting with them and hearing stories or watching tv.  I'm working on learning Afrikaans by watching 7 de Laan, my family's favorite soap.  (One of the actors looks just like Amy Poehler, it's the funniest thing to watch her speak Afrikaans and act like a soap star.)  But I'm learning how to be a part of the family, whether that means following the plot of 7 de Laan nightly, figuring out where all the dishes go in the cupboards, or picking up the lingo. (and a bit of the accent, eh man?) 

Baby steps to work.  That one's sort of literal, I live three blocks from the Warehouse, but since I don't have a key yet my host mom still drives me there and picks me up.  She's trying really hard to help me acclimate slowly.  Soon, though, it'll be literal baby steps to the Warehouse. 

Baby steps at the Warehouse.   I'm beginning my internship slowly, but learning more about the Warehouse and how it works daily.  This week has consisted of me sitting like a fly on the wall in a bunch of meetings, trying to soak up all the information about the different programs the Warehouse run and the new structure they're proposing. It's definitely baby steps to understanding all of the ideas there.  Luckily, I get to hear the basic information like six times, so I think by the end of the week I'll have it down.  I'm also getting to know the staff team slowly.  I can see already what an awesome group of people they are, which is slightly intimidating for an introvert who's generally awkward at making small talk.  I'm baby-stepping my way into the family (as they call themselves), drinking about four cups of rooibos tea a day, laughing at all the jokes, and even beginning to crack a few of my own.  I'm really really loving it, and am looking forward to the internship and friendships to come. 

So I'm baby-stepping.  And slowly but surely, my baby steps are taking me somewhere.  I'm hoping, unlike Bob, to soon move past the baby-step phase.  Because I want to run.  I want to take everything in, to experience life here in South Africa, and to walk the path here that God has laid before me, in faith.  Thanks for the prayers and love, and for walking this journey with me. (See how I did that??) 

With hope (and a good pair of sneakers),
Mer

24 hours later...

I'm in cape town!  My parents and I left my house at 2:30 in the morning tuesday night (wednesday morning?) to head to the Detroit airport. We said our goodbyes, and I began my journey to South Africa. I flew Detroit to New York, switched airport in NYC (I was pretty proud of that accomplishment), flew 15 hours from New York to Johannesburg, and finally from Jo-burg to Cape Town.  Somehow, both my luggage and I managed to arrive in one piece Thursday afternoon exhausted, but successful.  Craig, the director of the Warehouse, met me at the airport with a sign his kids had made for me.  It's incredible how welcome one hand-colored construction paper sign can make you feel.

Craig drove me back to the Warehouse for a moment, and then two blocks further, to my host family's home.  My host mom, Joan, welcomed me in, introduced me to my host brother, and showed me my room.  I suddenly had not only a sign, but a whole family and place to call home, at least for the next six months!  I got unpacked, and fell asleep for a much needed nap, only after my host mom made me some delicious soup.  I got up the next morning and came here, to the Warehouse, where I'm now sitting, slightly stunned that I get the opportunity to work at such an incredible place for my HNGR internship.  I've only just arrived, but I've already felt so welcomed in.  Just the thought of it fills my heart with joy.  I can't wait to share how God works in this community, and in me.  TTFN!

Peace,
Meredith

here we go!

Hey there everybody!

I'm less than 24 hours away from flying out from Detroit to Cape Town!  So I figured now was a good time to start blogging.  I've never really done this before, so I'm just going to write what I want, and hope it makes even a little bit of sense to you all.  I've been thinking and preparing to go for so long, now that the time is finally here, it doesn't quite feel real.  I'm about the venture off into the great unknown of a new place, new people, and a new community, which is incredibly exciting, but slightly terrifying.  After spending this past year as an RA on Fischer 5 West at Wheaton (shout-out to 5 Southwest and staff team!), immersed in such an amazing community, it's going to be a big transition to see community in such a different place, and in such a different way.  In spite of that, though, I'm expectantly looking forward to seeing God's faithfulness in every aspect of life in Cape Town.

I decided to call my blog good hope for a couple reasons.  First, I figured it was pretty practical.  I will be living and working in Cape Town, which is located on the Cape of Good Hope.  so, good hope.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that hope is an idea I want to focus on and live in throughout the six months of my HNGR internship with the Warehouse (see the links for more information on either of these).  I spent a lot of time this past year thinking about the intersection between joy, peace, and hope, and role community and the church play in growing those fruit in a way that transforms society.  Not only am I looking for those characteristics within and for myself, but my greater desire is to see hope in the communities in which I will be living and working.  I've spent a lot of time reading and learning about South Africa and the role apartheid has played in society there.  It is an easy place to lose hope, as the process of reconciliation and healing is a long and difficult one.  As I go, and begin to see real life for the people of South Africa, I want to be able to place my hope solely in Christ.

So as I leave home and arrive in Cape Town, pray that I would be filled with good hope, hope that trusts fully in God and His goodness.  Pray against fear as I leave the familiar, fly for 24 hours, and arrive in the unknown.  And pray that I would see and participate in the body of Christ at work in South Africa.  Thanks so much for coming alongside me on this journey, your thoughts and prayers mean so much to me.  And I'll post again soon once I have my feel firmly planted in Southern Hemisphere (and South African!) soil!

Much love,
Mer