forget

South African Ladies Praying
photo credit: Newsday.com

There is a certain point of no return you reach in relationships.  The person you know and love is solidly in your heart and you can’t pull back into normal friendship where everyone is supposed ti mind their own business and be friendly and not too familiar.  It’s no different in ministry, where you begin relationships that grow and grow and in your heart and then....BOOM!  You realize that the person is no longer someone you are “working alongside with” or “helping” or “praying for”...they’re someone you really care about in a way similar to family.

One of these ladies that has worked her way in to my heart is a young woman by the name of Forget.  That’s right, her name is Forget.  It kind of makes it easy to remember.

Forget lives in Diepsloot extension 11 where there are more shacks than brick houses and only a section has reliable electricity.  Her own shack is nothing so special, it’s small and has a double bed, a dresser and a table for her food preparation.  It’s been clean every time I’ve visited, even when I’ve surprised her. 

Forget runs a prayer group that meets in the courtyard of four separate shacks that face each other.  The courtyard is covered with old carpet and sometimes puddles in the rain.  Still, the sound of joyful shouting and salvation come from inside of its corners.  The ladies are all known to us as “Forget’s Prayer Group”, but they do all have names and I promise I remember them all.  These ladies have made a bond of friendship in a harsh place and do their best to take care of one another when things are tough.

Things have been tough lately. 

One of the ladies was diagnosed with breast cancer a few months ago and it has spread aggressively.  Last week at church Forget told me that Teresa could no longer feed herself and that her breast seemed infected and swollen.  I made an appointment to go see her the following day, and when I met her I found it was as she said: bleak.  In Teresa’s shack Anna was bathing her and caring for her like a mother cares for a baby.   I was touched.  How often have I done this for a friend?

“How are you Teresa?” I asked after sitting down.  I could tell she was not well.  Teresa cried and pleaded for anything to get the pain to stop.  We made arrangements for her to go to the hospital the following day and I left after a few hours of planning with Forget’s prayer group.  One person to take Teresa, one to wash the bedding while she was gone, how much is taxi fare...etc., etc. 

Forget never wavered, speaking matter-of-factly about every detail that would need to be covered.  At one point she told me the washing powder was finished and we went to get more at a neighboring spaza.  Bessie and I left the place after a good holy dose of prayer that can only be felt if you’ve been in a shack with eight strong Christian women from South Africa.  By the time we were done, my ears were ringing.

I kissed Teresa on the head and she began to cry again.  In a way I didn’t want to go.

This morning I called Forget to see how the whole thing went at the hospital.  She told me some glitches and hiccups, but Teresa was in Helen Joseph where the doctors presented her with even more bleak options for treatment. 

“Forget,” I finally said.  “How are you?”

“I am feeling fine, Janet.”  As is their custom, African women don’t complain.  They think it is selfish to unless you are bleeding from the liver or bruised and can’t walk. 

“Are you feeling well in your heart?” I ventured further.  HOW DO YOU FEEL?  I wanted to know.  She takes care of everyone and does she feel taken care of?

“I have had an incredible time with God today,” she said.  I could tell she was smiling.  What a woman!  What a rock!

“Okay, Forget,” I said.  “If you need to reach me please give me a missed call.”  There was silence.

“I think I am alright, Janet.”

“Okay, but just in case...” I persisted. 

“Yes, Janet.” A bit of silence again, then “Pray for Teresa.”

“I will,” I said.  “I am.”

And then we hung up. 

I walked to the car with Mario who was on his way to another meeting.  I wanted to go back to extension 11 to check in on Forget.  I have never had this feeling before about anyone other than my own kids and Portia. 

“Babe,” I asked Mario as we got into the car.  “Do we have time to go to Helen Joseph?”

“Not today, babe,” he said.  “What happened?”

And as I told him, I asked him if we might go tomorrow.  Our day off, but no appointments. 

As I type now, I am supposed to be answering emails. I keep getting distracted and returning to thoughts of her. 

Forget, my strong friend who needs a hug.  

hush

Hush- a -bye,

Don’t you cry

Go to sleep little baby....

When you wake

You shall take

All the pretty little horses

Blacks and Bays

Dapples and Greys

Coach and Six little horses

Hush-a-bye

Don’t you cry

Go to sleep little baby. 

When I was pregnant with Vincent a mommy friend of mine gave me a cassette tape of lullabies that I loved.  I was a single mother, a recovering addict and had no idea where my life was going.  I had one thing: renewed hope of a life with my son and a new Savior I had just put my hope in.

For some reason, as I sang them to my infant son, I sang them to myself.  I sang in hope that the peace cooed over my baby would somehow bring me comfort.  It did.  It brought a soothing hope that calmed me down.

Hope.

It is the thing with feathers. 

It pits itself against tragedy and lifts its head up to the sunlight.

There is something better tomorrow, even if today has my heart broken.

I think it has been one month since I last blogged.  Blogging is a normal part of my life, an online journal.  To say I’ve been unable to blog is not so true.  I’ve been able, just not desirous....

I came home like a wet dog that comes in from a storm and collapses on the tile floor.  It took me awhile to bounce back and sing this lullaby to myself again. 

I had gone home to the USA for my granddaughter Alannah’s first birthday.  I had a short (and incomplete) visit with part of my family.  I had to leave in a way I had never done before, leaving me weeping as I took off.  I lost my passport in Dubai (found it in the airport lounge) and almost didn’t make the plane.  By the time I recovered from jet lag I was still coping with the heartbreak of living in two worlds.

Did I mention that I came home with my original manuscript of my newly completed novel, inked-up with re-write suggestions from my editor?  I also submitted a proposal to an agent my editor recommended ...and she rejected me... or at least rejected my “project”. 

So here I am, back again.  Back in the blogging saddle, writing as an update of how things are going.  It sounds so bleak, but I have seen the light and I am uplifted again.

I have hope, the thing that will not disappoint me.  I miss our families and I think I always will while I am here, but nothing can change the distance that separates us, other than us moving back, which we are not doing right away. 

In the last week, I started reading a new book that my neighbor, Gill lent me.  It is written for people who find themselves disappointed in life.  It is called “The Secret of a Radiant Life”  by W.E. Sangster, first published in 1957 (I wasn’t born yet...). 

I want to end my post with the last part of the second chapter, which I have just finished.  I think I want to end this post with it because in all of our lives we are desperately in need of hope, hope that can only come from God.  I am hoping that it will encourage you, like a lullaby so that in an ocean of emotion that will not stop churning you can find hope in the simplicity of His arms, like a lullaby. 

“We need God! There is the truth of it.  The demands of our turbulent nature are not to be calmed and controlled by the human will alone.  The stupid purposelessness of a universe without meaning sickens us in the very soul.  The vanity of still supposing our race can save itself from destruction even while we drift to the things we dread is a conceit we can no longer entertain.  The ache for inward peace, and the outward sheen which tokens its presence, are not made on this earth.

We turn to God.
‘Help us, O God!’

Where the saints and seers of all the ages have found victory and peace, we will find it too.”

Dubai

A challenge for any one who writes is to synopsize the heart in a short amount of time. 

I have fifteen minutes in this airport lounge before I have to high-tail it to my gate... and catch the plane that will take me to San Francisco.

Ten years ago I didn't have a passport.  Today, going through South African customs I was reprimanded for having only two pages left.  I will have to get extra pages from the closest embassy.

Travel used to be exciting - cathcing planes and going to new countries.  The stamps, visas and permits in my passport were a source of joy and accomplishment in a way: "Look what  have done for God!  Look where I have gone and sacrificed myself!"  It's easy to get pumped up when you see how God works in different areas of the world.   It is nearly addictive.

Today, planes are like cars - I know the different models; the ups and downs of each airline.  They get me where I want to go, and it is always the people waiting for me on the other side that I want to see. 

I have left Mario (my heart, my right hand, my prince) back in Johannesburg and am half-way between South Africa and the USA in Dubai.  Situated in a beautiful country of United Arab Emirates, flying Emirates airlines (my favorite).  The Dubai airport is like a city, similar to the Beijing airport - a hub where all roads come into and go out of in the middle east.

I will arrive in San Francisco and be picked up by my little sister Shari.  I still remember her on the top of the slide waiting her turn to splash into our pool when we were kids.  She was always small for her size, and made my heart leap forward in protection anytime I sensed danger.  Now she has four kids and a homestead in Rescue. 

I will see my daughter, Alicia....my baby.  I will see Harmony, her baby.  And the smallest baby Alannah who is celebrating her first birthday.  The emotions tied up in the last two sentences are incabable of describing the supercharged emotion surroundimng them. 

I will not see Vince, who I need to see and have been missing terribly. 

I won't see the other granddaughters or Joe - I might see David.

I will see my immediate family and we will party for all of the August birthdays among us. 

In the middle of all of this celebration is a place of beauty and comfort, but impermanence.  I am reminded that I am in between two worlds - physically and emotionally.

This morning I pray, as I dash out the door to catch the next plane... that God will grant me supernatural grace to celebrate in that middle place where I have no sure footing without Him.

All of us have our Dubais.....

kingfisher

                    

              

The heart, my grandmother used to say, was like a scrapbook.  It held pieces of memories that together made up a wonderful collection of things that made your life unique to someone else’s.  I have learned, over the past few years than my heart has several scrapbooks, making me feel either rich or disjointed, depending on what kind of day I’m having. 

In my South African scrapbook, I have a new page.

Today I turned over my calendar to August (yes,I still have a wall calendar, and I still keep appointments on it).   The picture gracing the top of August was the South African Pied Kingfisher, perched above the water, ready to strike a fish. 

The Pied Kingfisher is found in all of the South African game parks we’ve visited and being a noisy bird, it is hard to miss.  They have black and white feathers and feed by hovering over the water to see motion from an unsuspecting fish before diving (vertically, bill-first) to capture their prey.  It literally takes my breath away to watch such art and beauty in one thing.

South Africa has a way of taking your breath away at the oddest times. 

Yesterday, at the London Olympics a South African swimmer named Chad le Clos shocked everyone to beat American Michael Phelps in the men's 200m butterfly, taking South Africa's second gold medal of the 2012 Olympics.  It was an absolutely amazing moment.   Le Clos had the odds stacked against him, with Phelps leading the race for most of the way. BUT  the 20-year old managed to snatch the win at the last second and on the final stroke, shocking everyone – especially Phelps and himself.   

"Phelps is my hero and I love the guy. To beat him, I can't believe it,”he sputtered during an interview, in tears and disbelief. “You don't understand what this means to me. This is the greatest moment of my life!" 

The only thing more surprising than that moment of his win was my reaction to the awards ceremony. 

I love America.  I love The Star-Spangled Banner and get teary eyes when it plays – ESPECIALLY at the Olympics.  This morning to my surprise, instead of pouting about Phelps’ loss, I teared up hearing South Africa’s national anthem, Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika.  The only one crying more than le Clos on the podium was Mario and I as we watched it, touched by the swimmer’s incredible feat and added humility... and a strange pride in our adopted home country.

Inside of me, I was that Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika had evoked such a reaction.  That place belonged to The Star Spangled Banner, I thought.  The anthem took my breath away, and I was proud of deClos like he was my fellow countryman.

 Tomorrow I fly to the States – a rich and lucky woman going to see my granddaughter, Alannah,  turn one year old.  I still remember her birth – and in my scrapbook, its picture is one I turn to often.  I go back to my home with love and eagerness.  I will suck up the August and the Mexican food and my family like there’s no tomorrow. 

But know this: there is a new page in my heart, and it makes me tearful and proud to be a permanent resident of the great country of South Africa.    

 The sound is poor, but to see the award ceremony, click here.

Alicia

Our friends call it “The Conception Tape” – just to rile us.

“Are you sure this is the tape of her birth, and not when she was conceived?” Dave Smith, my husband’s best friend asked, the first time he saw it.

Mario and I had seen too many “birth tapes” where we awkwardly watched the delivery of the much-awaited child into the world.  “Really, folks,” we’d think.  “We have to eat dinner with you after we watch this...”  So we vowed that there would be no such visual splendour of the birth of our baby that we were expecting in the late June that year.   When I went into (pitossin induced) labor AT THE END OF JULY Mario kept the lens cap on our video camera during the birth. 

We were expecting a boy.

Mario had had two boys, David and Joe, with Cathy (his first wife).  I had had Vince with Randy (my ex) and we were newly married, expecting another child...too scared to say we wanted a girl out loud. 

When she was born (after a harrowing labor) my midwife, Arlaine, looked into my eyes and said “Guess what you have?”

Mario could not stop crying.  He was a mess – tears flowing from his strong face, his hands at his mouth as he stared at our new baby being delivered. 

“A boy?” I said, loudly enough for the tape to record.  Arlaine shook her head. 

“A girl?” I asked, nearly shouting.  It was too good to be true. 

Arlaine nodded, and Mario looked at me, overcome with emotion. 

“A GIRL!?” Mario finally embraced me, weeping uncontrollably.  All you could hear on the tape was Mario’s muffled sobs and me screaming: “Oh, Mario!  Oh, Mario!” 

It sounded obscene.

Still, with translation, people could put together how excited we were – the excitement of having a girl after three boys.  The excitement of a daughter....

Whatever was said about daughters being exciting was twice as true with Alicia.  Alicia had a way of being supercharged with excitement.

In shopping malls, she befriended funky people, who followed us as I tried to train her that this was not cool.  She knew no strangers.  Once in a health food store, we all popped in for a frozen organic yogurt, served to us by the quintessential hippie.

“JESUS!” she greeted him, near tears, going to hug him. 

“I’m not Jesus,” he said, glaring at me.  His look was hard to misread- control your kid. 

Alicia could not - would not - be controlled. 

She was a unicorn in the world of daughters- a beautiful dancing mythological creature, leaving sparkles and rainbows in her wake.  Controlling her was not so easy. 

“Alicia,” I told her on a week-long vacation to Hawaii when she was six years old.  “It’s important not to shout to people that a totem pole is a false god.”

“Well, it is,” she said, looking at me squarely in the eye.

“Yes, honey, but we’re in Hawaii.  There are these totem poles everywhere,”

“And if people worship an idol made of wood then they’re stupid,” she said.  

I sighed.

“It is their history,” I tried a teacher’s tactic.   “They don’t worship them anymore, it’s just their history.”

The next day, at a National Park, Alicia pointed at a large carved totem and yelled, “Look Mom!” I steeled myself, preparing for the rest of her synopsis.

“HISTORY!” she yelled.  Mario and I looked at each other, relieved. 

So it went with her. 

As she grew, she had exciting spurts of color that used to drive me nuts. 

“Mrs. Rodriguez,” I would wince every time I saw a teacher approaching me in the lunch room.  Not only were we co-workers, but they were teachers of my teenage daughter.  I knew the condescension of “Mrs. Rodriguez” when it pertained to one of my kids....

“Your daughter spent the bulk of exam time in the bathroom with one of her friends,” her teacher told me, incredulous as I was. 

“What were they doing?” I asked, fearing the worst. 

“I cannot run to the bathroom to see what your daughter is doing and run an exam in my classroom at the same time!” She said, satisfied that she got to deliver the line she had rehearsed. 

“Cassandra broke up with her boyfriend,” Alicia was telling me on the way home.  “That jerk!  He broke up with her during recess and ‘SURPRISE!’ he now asked Kayla out!  She couldn’t stop crying.”

I was less concerned with Cassandra and Kayla (don’t worry, I changed the names) and more concerned about my daughter passing her classes.  School, she seemed to think, was her social universe, with a little academics mixed in. 

“Alicia,” I began.  “Dad and I spend a lot of money for you to go to school, not to be a counselor to your friends in the bathroom...”

“Yeah, well who will be there for Cassandra?  Her mother? Her Father?  No one gives a ______ about Cassandra!”

“Language!  Please!  I’m just saying that....”

“Well, if I had to do it all over again, I would do the same thing!” she sat back, angrily in her seat. 

How could I argue?  She knew part of me agreed.

Graduation.  

Africa.  

Boys.

Then, it was a certain person who changed everything, while we were separated by oceans. 

“We are going to name her Harmony,” Alicia told me, as she and her boyfriend, Brian heard that their baby they expected was a girl. 

Harmony.

She sounded like another unicorn. 

“That’s a really cool name,” I said.  I was trying not to sound surprised, worried or too much like the mother that she said I forfeited the right to be.  My daughter would be having a baby with a boy I hadn’t even met yet, and she seemed not to care much what I thought. 

I prayed to be the best mother I could inside of the situation, and finally, we scraped up the airfare for me to go back and be there for the birth of this child.

I saw her walking toward me, my little girl I had given birth to. 

The girl who shouted at totem poles and counselled friends in the bathroom.  The girl I nursed until I went back to work, reluctantly leaving her with a child care provider while I worked the night shift.  The girl who brightened my world by being a star athlete when I couldn’t keep my balance.   I saw her waddling toward me, nine months pregnant with long hair, blowing in the wind. 

There she was, my little girl, who I hadn’t seen in a year, and now was going to have a baby.  I burst into tears and wept on her shoulder. 

“It’s okay, Mom,” she said. 

“Where did you go?” I cried.  “You’re all grown up.”

She stroked my hair, and I wept for ages.  There, outside the hospital I am sure that people were passing us, thinking that we had just lost someone dear to us and I was grieving.

Brian and Alicia

“Where is he?” I finally asked, looking for Brian. 

“He’s parking the car,” she said.  

I think it touched her that I was crying.

First came Harmony ( a unicorn that leaves glitter and rainbows in her wake) and then came Alannah (the happiest baby in the history of the world).  My daughter, a little mother, has evolved into a mother herself, feeling the joy and heartbreaks of her own daughters...and will see more to come.

In those early days, we called her “Quicksilver”, a constantly moving element that cannot be contained by walls or spaces.  

She can’t. 

Today, on her twenty-fourth birthday, I am overcome, once again, at my love for her.  She has never been predictable, but she has always been bright and beautiful.  She glitters when she walks, and makes everything look so easy.

As her mother, I have learned to appreciate her for who she is, rather than who she isn’t.  Today, I look back and say, “What a unique gift!” and I mean it.

She is my daughter, a unique gift to me – and to this world.  

The day after Alannah was born

Monica

Jenny kissed me when we met,

Jumping from the chair she sat in.

Time, you thief! who love to get

Sweets into your list, put that in.

Say I'm weary, say I'm sad;

Say that health and wealth have missed me;

Say I'm growing old, but add-

Jenny kissed me!

Leigh Hunt wrote the poem “Jenny Kissed Me”, read to me aloud by my freshman English teacher who had to wipe away a tear when he was finished.  The reading had a profound effect on me and I wasn’t sure why.  Maybe because Jenny was so special that she bestowed on Mr. Hunt the blessing that only she could have: a kiss of acceptance in a cold world.

I woke up this morning and stared at the ceiling fan, a four-paddle affair that was in the shape of a cross. 

Jesus.

Two days ago I found out that Monica died.  I have been out of focus since.  I feel disjointed... running from one harried activity to anther just to fill the space in my heart that can’t believe this.  Monica was in her thirties, leaving behind two kids under ten years old.  She was getting better.  What will Dumisani do?  What will their church do?

What will I do?

Monica, after all, was special.

She was a blessing. A delightful, funny, cheeky, brave, complicated friend. 

My friend.

When I came to South Africa, Monica accepted me.  Even though she was at first a little wary of me –new to this continent and full of reckless zeal to build Christ’s church any way I was allowed to.   Soon enough, though, I made her laugh and she relaxed into comfortable acceptance of who I was.

 I loved her.

She wore large bright earrings and had the most beautiful smile.  She talked in a deep voice and walked with a confident swagger that made you know she knew who she was.

One morning, as she walked toward the church in a flawless white dress, I snapped a z and said “Giiiirrrl!! You look smokin hot!”  She smiled, shyly.

I was  quickly corrected by a (very caring) friend who over heard me and took me aside. 

“You don’t know this, since you’re new,” my friend said.  “But ‘girl’ means that she is your permanent live-in servant.  It’s a little derogatory here.”  Things are so complicated because of the Apartheid hangover...

She could tell by my reaction that I was shocked. 

I went back to Monica, explaining the differences in our cultures – after all, “GIIIIIIRL!” was a greeting given to Gail by Oprah.  Given to your bestie when you were being playful.  Monica giggled as I explained nervously. 

“I knew what you meant,” she said, smiling.  “I knew what you meant because you’re different.”

She was married to Dumisani - a tall, statuesque guy that had the command of a room as soon as he walked in.  We were fast friends. 

“Timna means ‘ours,’” Dumi said, holding his baby daughter in his arms the first time we went out to lunch.  “It is a name we chose especially for this one.”  He looked at Monica who smiled back at him.  I was transfixed on them.  Their eyes sparkled at one another, very un-African like!  I loved the way they related to one another, as equals and as friends and romantic partners.

Dumi and Monica became sounding boards for us as far as the culture went.  They were a Xhosa couple, living in Diepsloot.  It surprised me, simply because Dumi seemed highly educated and greatly respected by the community. 

One day, after taking them home, they invited us in for tea.  There was a bed and a an area used to prepare food in a small room that they called their home.  They were the first Diepsloot family that ever invited us into their space. It was a high honor.

“Why do you live here in Diepsloot?” I asked, maybe a little too boldly for the first time I was in their house.

“We have no choice,” Dumi answered honestly.  A teacher, Dumisani was just short of his master’s credential, leaving his employment opportunities less than what he could make a decent living on. 

“Where we are from,” Monica said, answering the deeper question.  “There is the ocean right outside and our families all live nearby, but there is no work.”

The thought saddened me.  Still, as I got to know them better I was encouraged with the way that neither of them seemed bitter about it – and not defined by their address.  Instead, they reached out to their neighbors, bringing the gospel to the desperately poor - people who put our faith to shame. 

One night, our church had a celebration where all the different home groups were asked to host a table of ethnic food, prepare a dance or presentation to perform and dress in ethnic clothing.  While our home group became Mexican for the evening, Dumi and Monica’s became Xhosa.

 Monica was dressed beautifully, but when it came time for her dance, she broke free into a very bold dance and song that made everyone stop what they were doing and watch her.  She sang powerfully and loud. Her motions and movement were much like the Hawaiians when they did the hula, but imagine the hula with more power and determination.  Shortly afterward, the electricity went out, and we all went home.  We made a joke that Monica was so smokin' hot that she short-circuited the power. 

We hung out a lot.  We worked side by side, especially in the Diepsloot community. Everytime she saw me she said, "Hey, Giiiiirrrl!!"

Jo called me right after I made dinner on Thursday, and gave me the news.  Jo (short for Joanna) employs Monica’s sister, Apilele, and heard from her that Monica had succumbed to a short illness that had come at her hard and fast.  She had gone to the Eastern Cape the Tuesday before, yearning to be with her mother and her family there.  She checked into hospital and said she was feeling better the last time I talked with her (on Monday).  Now, I type this, less than a week later and have seen and felt the devastation that losing Monica has brought. 

Dumi (finally in a profession he loves) was interrupted Thursday night as he was teaching to meet Mario, his sister and his brother and me in the school courtyard to be told that his partner and friend had gone to heaven.  His sister delivered the news to him, and he broke into sobs that were loud and heart breaking... I couldn’t look at him.  I buried my face in my poncho and thought of their children, her sisters, her mother....all of her friends. 

This morning I woke up thinking of her.

I was drawn to the image of the cross above me, the rock I have shelter in.  Jesus’death and resurrection makes so many things possible, but most of all, it assures me of the eternal life that we will share. 

I know I’ll see her again. 

Still, the death is damn unfair.  It is a waste of a bright, warm woman who wasn’t afraid of life.  She glowed with excitement about the smallest of things.  She laughed with her whole body and loved with no boundaries.  She was a mother to orphans, to anyone who came in her front door.  The last detail seems so insignificant: she was my friend. 

It hurts to lose her.  It hurts to have death invade a life lived so out loud.

Still, Monica lives....

Monica thrilled me when we met,

Dancing Xhosa and singing along.

Death, you thief! You came and stole her-

Tore her from unfinished song.

Say she’s taken, say she’s gone;

Say her family will weep and gather;

Say our hearts will break, but add-

Monica lives – and you don’t have her!

Monica (in white hat) was the life of any party.

shift

Craig, our lead elder congratulates the graduates

Nonlanla leads the Paradigm Shift
graduates in song!

When I was growing up, sometimes I would complain about how little we had.  I was convinced I was one of the most deprived children on the planet, going without regular soft serve cones from the Snow White or Cocoa Pebbles on our breakfast table.  Having four other siblings, sometimes we would commiserate together, loud enough for my mother to hear. 

“You think we’re poor?” she’d say, when she’d heard enough.  “Get in the car, I’ll show you poor.”  We knew better than to speak, then.  We obediently got into our station wagon and drove to the “other side of town” – the part where only the migrant families lived.  There, we saw small homes, mostly constructed of cinderblocks, some with windows that had been cracked and held in place with masking tape.  Children played outside, sometimes, in raggedy clothes.  After a few views, my mom would say “How would you like to live here?”  Silence from her children, who were so boisterous only a half-hour before.  Sometimes I cried going home, thinking of how selfish I was.  My mom had a way of making us shift our eyes and focus on what really mattered.

“How would you like to live there?” My mom never knew how much the words haunted me.  It encouraged me to shut my mouth about my perceived hardships and look outside of myself.  The thoughts haunted me my whole life, and haunt me still.

The poor, even Jesus said, we will always have with us.  And there is never enough - never enough -help to alleviate all of the hardship; all of the hunger;  all of the want in this world.

So, my heart for helping the poor has been with me since I was a very young girl.  Only very recently, my idea of helping the poor has changed.  Here, poverty affects 80% of the population.  Poverty mindsets are crippling.

Paul Jennings

Our friend, Paul Jennings is a business man who decided to start a program called Paradigm Shift last year.  Modelled after the concepts similar to Grameen Bank in Bangladesh, Paul saw an opportunity to do more than just provide blankets and food parcels to families who were struggling in the nearby township of Diepsloot: he would be part of reshaping the way they saw money. 

Grameen Bank, founded by   Muhammad Yunus, enabled millions of Bangladesh citizens, almost all women, to buy everything from cows to cell phones in order to start and run their own businesses. Most of these women had nothing, as in only a few possessions, so could never qualify for loans at conventional banks.  He saw something extraordinary: if the women were of noble character, and promised to pay back a small loan, they usually did.  He taught them how to budget, brand and run companies without any previous business experience.  It was a relatively new concept when it started, called  micro-credit.   The success of Grameen Bank with their microloans and microcredit has inspired similar projects, like Paradigm Shift, around the world. 

Yesterday, in front of our church, Paul stood and announced the first graduating class of Paradigm Shift Business School.  They stood; wearing caps and gowns, and sang to us, in celebration of their accomplishment. 

The class of seventeen students had just completed the Entrepreneur Survey Training course, which included training in branding, pricing, record-keeping, advertising and budgeting.  The training was done by other business owners and entrepreneurs in our church.  Normal people who had begun their own businesses would come home from work and spend Monday evenings at the Junxion Center, pouring themselves into these folks, so that they could start their own businesses and succeed.    

The thought warms me: until yesterday I never knew how many were involved.  After church, Paul and his wife, Margie, hosted a party that celebrated the start of these businesses.  Grown men and women, in caps and gowns, were all smiles, declaring that the course was already changing their lives. 

If you can imagine a thousand dollars changing generations...   it breaks the imagination.  For a poor person in South Africa to borrow money (even eight thousand rand) is impossible from financial institutions.  To lend, banks need to make sure you are not a financial risk.  This involves collateral that the poor don’t have, but are desperately trying to get.   It is the private programs, like Paradigm Shift that are providing the opportunity to those with nothing to change the outcome of their lives.  It involves mentoring and training and commitment from busy business owners to break the cycle of poverty.  It is too exhausting to do, without God. 

Yesterday, Paul and Margie didn’t look exhausted from the whole process.  They looked all lit up inside.  They made me feel all lit up inside.  Our whole church felt like we were part of something huge...and we were. 

Around here, the poor are much more poor than those kids on the other side of town.  Here a widow and her child have real possibilities of starving.  This is why programs like Paradigm Shift are doing more than “helping the poor”.  They are helping generations of people overcome the cycles of poverty. 

Paradigm Shift is one of the reasons I am happy to be here and part of a church that realizes that our social responsibility goes hand in hand with our spiritual responsibility for this world.