A love story.....

Allow me to tell you a love story. Pull up a chair. Grab a glass of wine. I’m not sure how long it will be. But, this I promise you. As usual, I won’t bore you with just a feel-good happy ending story. Instead, I’ll expose the painful process that makes it beautiful. Beauty can be found in ashes. I know this.

This story started so long ago, long before I was even privy to the introduction. And it is still being written.  But I’ll let you glance into the pages.

This story begins with a little blonde haired, freckle-faced girl born and raised in Mississippi. She was raised in the church with a firm foundation in Jesus. She was born into a good and respectable family. She loved well and was well loved.  As the years went by, she dreamed of her future family, and husband, as many young girls do. Early on she dreamed of a family that rivaled a Benetton ad in terms of children—the seed was planted early on for adoption. She prayed for “tall, dark and handsome.” Years passed on and formidable years were spent dating, studying, and hanging out with friends. Somewhere in there, prejudices crept in. Her family raised her to judge a person by his or her character and not by highest education level or skin color. Still, she did. During those crucial years, instances and painful life experiences caused the prejudices to grab hold and fear soon ensued. For her, it was Black men. Of course, there were “exceptions” and those who were befriended but the generalities remained. Coincidentally during this time, she stopped attending church due to disbelief in the legalism and the whole “system” of religion.  

Fast forward through years of “spinning wheels” while living, learning, dating, etc. After a strong need for community and further spiritual development, she found a church that fit her needs and wants. It was in this church that she was moved to take a risk and go on missions in 2006. One trip led to another and in 2007, she took a big step and signed up to lead a team to South Africa. Never had she had this desire due to silly associations with the past. Africa had become the “origin” of pain and discomfort and she had sworn she would never step foot on that continent. However, she was obedient to the nudge and went. She instantly fell in love with the country and the people. She learned about Apartheid and heard the stories from all racial groups from an “outsider” perspective. So much of the struggles and triumphs stemming from recent integration reminded her of her upbringing in the South. In hearing stories of discrimination of Colored and Black groups, she began to see herself. As if she was looking in the mirror only to find guilt, ignorance, and shame looking back. 

She came back. She went back in 2008. She fell deeper in love with the country and the people.

She came back. She went back in 2009. She fell deeper in love with the country and the people. But this time, she fell in love with a boy. She began to see a friend there that she had met in 2007 and seen again in 2008 a little differently. Late nights she spent asking questions, hearing answers and perspectives that she never imagined, and digging deeper to find herself and discover what went wrong in her own outlooks.

She came back. It was only when back that she realized her true feelings and he, his. She dove deeper from afar but kept it safe to herself.

She went back in 2010 with another team but stayed an extra week to seek spiritual restoration and solitude. She was able to see the boy off and on and continue conversations. 

In the beginning of 2011, she went back independently to South Africa to spend more time with the boy. They wanted to be together but there were so many logistics between them, as they were worlds away. Logistics intruded far more than the ocean and miles themselves. She lost vision and gave up. She let too many opinions take her vision off what she felt and knew to be true.

The rest of 2011 and most of 2012 were dark. She felt a despair and regret that was unimaginable. She had not necessarily made decisions regarding what she felt was best for her. Instead, fear and distrust had crept in. She had doubted how big her God is and felt that she was not in alignment with where she was supposed to be. She yearned for reconciliation. Days were dark. She knew the highs of temporary “band-aids” she found to place over her wounds that kept the pain at bay for a bit. She knew the lows over another disappointment. She knew the feeling and pain of fresh hot tears that were uncontrollable. Friends knew her unpredictable emotional state.  

Although it was still sensitive, she felt the nudge to go back to South Africa although she probably would spend little to no time with the boy. But that was okay. Her first priority had always been to serve and the people that she would love while there. However, she expected the sting of familiarity without reconciliation. As months of preparation continued, changes happened with logistics. She needed a ride from the airport that would allow her to feel safe at almost midnight miles from home. She would need rides across town on weekends when she would be there.  She was forced to swallow any pride and ask the boy. He agreed to help. Worry set in. What if he didn’t show up? What if it was awkward?  She knew there were conversations that needed to be had regarding what had already happened. The word “closure” already evoked such a physiological response that it was unbearable. 

The plane ride to South Africa in November 2012 was full of emotions. What started out as excitement morphed to fear and regret as the hours passed, especially between Amsterdam and Cape Town. Waiting for the baggage was spent halved between dreading the situation on the other side and looking forward to what was on the other side. 

The boy was there, as he said he would be, on time, smile included and quick to help.

They hung out most every night after her serving activities were completed. They laughed. They continued conversations that began in 2009. He challenged her to think beyond her capacity. She felt that no time had passed. She felt as if “this” had always been. They sat in silence and just enjoyed being in the same spot in a very big world. They had dinners. The boy took her wine tasting [her love language]. They spent time with her friend Candice who came for one of the weeks. They roamed around Cape Town. They did not, however, have that closure conversation.

She came back. But, she won’t be going back this year because he will be coming here instead. A visa application and wedding planning are in the works. 

Their story is beautiful and perhaps  one of the single best love stories of all time.  It’s a beautiful story because it is not just about a boy and a girl. It’s also about a God that they both share who riddled their story with themes of reconciliation, sacrifice, forgiveness, redemption, mercy, grace, abundance, courage, and 2^nd chances. It is beautiful because we practice what He first showed to us. Hindsight can be breathtaking. Beauty from ashes. 

Even through the disappointment, she believed. Her God heard her questions. He saw her tears. He cried with her. But, he knew the timing would be best served later to fulfill a purpose together. Only He knew the plans he had for not just her, but for the both of them together. 

For still the vision awaits its appointed time;
    it hastens to the end—it will not lie.
If it seems slow, wait for it;
    it will surely come; it will not delay.

Habakkuk 2:3

Oh, and “tall dark & handsome?” Touché, God, touché.

 Cape Point: a place in South Africa where the two oceans {Indian & Atlantic} meet

3 Sundays ago...

Sundays are very special to me. I love Sundays.

I love Sundays in South Africa as well. When there, I visit Harvester Church at least once. It is just like a "NewSong away from Irvine." I love the openness, and the pastor and his family are very dear to me.

This year was different. Before leaving, the pastor had asked me via email if I would share the message one of the Sundays that I am there. My immediate response, you want? Honestly? "Not no, but hell no" was whispered under my breath a few times." That's not "my thing." After the initial shock and pants-soiling moments, an immediate conviction rushed over me. I knew I had to do this. The problem-solver in me kicked in and immediately asked "What do you have?" or "What is in your hand?" I knew it. My story. It's all I got though it is riddled with pain, mistakes, doubt, and prejudice but yet redemption, hope, love, blessings and surprises. It's all any of us have. I was reminded of Esther and "such a time as this." You see, part of me knew this day was coming. Bits and pieces have come to me over the past few years but I was never ready or it just wasn't the right time. I felt that affirmation as I reread his email and the words that followed the statement that I have been there many times: "it is time." 

This isn't a big deal for many, but for me, it's REALLY not "my thing." 

I spent days pushing aside the anxiety and feelings of inadequacy to ask: What part of my story will I tell? Would it be relevant there? How could I do this to not put undue glory on me or highlight myself?

Driving home from NewSong a week later, "it" began as soon as I sat in the car. It was like a download. On the way home, I told my story to myself as the words came to me. It flowed [as much as it can being a raw draft]. I walked into the house, turned on the laptop, and typed it out from memory in less than 5 minutes. I wasn't sure if it was the perfect message, but I knew it came in a way that it had to be told as given.

On that Sunday, I woke up and was suddenly gripped with doubt: Is it silly? It seemed okay when I left, but now that I'm here, is it relevant? Am I going to look stupid?

I immediately emailed my prayer shield in the States. It was late at night in the US so I worried that everyone may be sleeping but I knew the right ones would be awake and would intercede on my behalf. The emails of encouragement came flooding in. Thank you guys, you know who you are! Because of your prayer, this lamb felt like a lion. 

Thank you, April Diaz, who offered these verses that I read over and over and over [and then "over" some more].

He must become greater; I must become less (John 3:30)

My message and my preaching were not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of the Spirit’s power, so that your faith might not rest on human wisdom, but on God’s power. (1 Corinthians 2:4-5)

Thank you, Mqokeleli for sharing the platform so I could "storytell."

After hesitation, I decided I would post it here. Vulnerability is hard, but I should "practice what I preach" and share it in the event that someone needs to hear it in its entirety or part of it.

Here's my story as I shared it there before I led us into communion:

I wish I could stand before you and tell you that I have always wanted to be here. That I have always wanted to visit Africa. That it has been my desire to do missions. But I can’t. You see, if I could, that would be my story. But, I can tell you that I stand before you now in love with South Africa. In love with the people. In love with missions. And that is God’s story. I grew up in the Southern United States where racial tensions were and still could be high to some degree. I was sexually harassed by Black men at school and had, I believe, rightfully earned my prejudices. I had no desire to love or serve that community, and I remember saying that I would never go to Africa because for some crazy reason I equated it with the men in my town. Funny how God takes notes to pop those things into your story later on in life. As my relationship with Christ deepened, I began to be more open to just be obedient to what he had planned. As he worked through my own pain through reconciliation with him and others, he also revealed my passions—passions I could have never dreamed for myself. In particular, my life forever changed when I came here to South Africa and it was an open door to so many other revelations and joys that I never would have known. To name a few, I now have a passion for children in orphanages and foster care, I plan to adopt, and I have an increasing passion for black boys in foster care and preventing them from ending up in the prison system when they aren’t adopted. Only God could have turned my pain into my passion. 

I feel like some of you have pains and you cannot imagine becoming passionate about the group or the idea that is causing pain. I urge you to pray into that and just be open. God calls us to use our pain. It is biblical. It is a catalyst. It’s the most human feeling that connects us to one another. 

2 Corinthians 5:18-19 commands this:

All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them. And he has committed to us the message of reconciliation.

For the past couple years, God has whispered a theme for my life. Throughout the year, it never fails that I see that theme interwoven across areas of my life and through people that I meet, and I’m often surprised just where I see it. This year, my theme is redemption. I won’t go in to that but am always happy to share further 1:1. Next year’s theme came early and I wasn’t sure why but I think that I’m supposed to share it with you. Last month, the theme of “storytelling” came to mind for next year and I shared that idea with some close friends at NewSong. I’m not sure what it will entail, but I do feel that God will fulfill some promises that I’ve been waiting for – promises that I’ve clung to in the midst of a trying couple of years of “pruning.” I’m reminded of my favorite holiday, Easter. I feel that we go through the same process Jesus did. We experience life, humility, death, but then there’s a resurrection. I’m excited to see how God wants to use my story.

Like I said before, I’m from the Southern part of the United States, which tends to more rural and people-oriented than some of the other areas. One thing that I love about the South, is the art of storytelling as a pastime. We convey so much through stories and that is how we pass information to our children. We spend so much time sitting around the dinner table telling stories until wee hours of the night. It is especially common in the black community which is inherited from their African culture. I’m told that when the black people were enslaved, they relied on sitting around and telling stories. 

This is nothing new to God. He’s so awesome that he created each of us with our own story. Noone’s story is the same. Each is filled with tragedy and triumph, sadness and celebration, highs and lows, and mountains and valleys. (Ecclesiastes 3:1--There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven). We love to hear the good things and celebrate with others. However, it can be hard to relate to someone’s “mountain” when we are walking through the “valley.” Instead, we connect through the valleys. So often, we don’t want to reveal the trials. We don’t want to look weak. We are fearful of exposure. 

Through the theme of storytelling, God is calling us to share the whole story because it is His story. Pain connects us. Too often, especially at church, we are hesitant to share the pain or admit our sins because judgment may be more intense in church than out. As a church community, it is imperative that we create space to share and remember that there is no condemnation in Christ. If we can’t support each other and love each through pain “in here,” then we are entirely unable to share the gospel through our lives “out there.” Remember that your story may be at a painful chapter right now, but it is continually being written and it will be redeemed. It’s not over yet. A resurrection is coming. 

Focus on God’s glory through your story. When you are on a mountain, and see someone in a valley that you recognize, connect. Pray and cancel out fear that may prevent you from sharing. Keep your eyes above.  I’m going to end with an experience that I had at NewSong that illustrated this reminder to me a few weeks ago. I was seated at the front in the 2^nd row. We have this space between the stage and the first row. The band was playing and I noticed a small girl around 4-5 go into that open spot and start to dance. She caught my eye because she was cute, especially as she twirled with arms out, with pure abandonment of any awareness that anyone else was in the place. I could not take my eyes off of her no matter how much I tried. She occasionally went back to her father to hug his leg at which time he would pat her. She would return to the open area to dance. She never took her eyes off of him. Had she looked around, she may have stopped when she saw that hundreds of people at service that day. At that moment, something inside me clicked. She showed me something that I had been missing. We must dance as she knew how to. We must only keep our eyes focused on our heavenly father. At times, we will go to him for comfort and assurance and then we will dance again. 

This also brings Hebrews 12:2-3 to mind: ² Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

So I beg you to dance. Twirl in His presence. Keep your eyes on him and dance with all abandonment. I had never seen Luke 18:17 like this before (“I tell you the truth, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.")

One of the most beautiful acts of service to me is to serve communion to each other. I love communion because of what it represents but also it is a visible reminder of the family that we are in Christ. We are all brothers and sisters who have been adopted into a great kingdom. I remember attending harvester during one of my first trips here and being absolutely overwhelmed by hearing you sing, listening to different languages, and seeing different skin colors but knowing that we are one. I thought to myself, “This is a glimpse of what heaven will look like.” So as we take communion today, I’d like us to serve it to each other. Look your brother and sister in the eye and just take in the beauty of the family we share.

Grateful for all those who have written my story,

Danielle

Observing MLK day...

This weekend, I’ve been thinking a lot about Dr. Martin Luther King as the holiday brought his speech to the forefront of my mind. Last week, I read a thread online from a small Southern town (link to town gossip) that brought such anger and sadness. Posts basically in a not-so-nice way stated that people should stick to their own kind and not mix races (even using God’s name in there as it being his intent…WTH?). I know, it’s always the 1% of stupid of any group/race/region that make the other 99% of normal ones shake their heads and wonder why. It made me process through a lot of feelings and at what perfect timing!

I’ve never paid as much mind to MLK day as I have this year. Growing up, I always got fed up with the obligatory Black History month and all the work that went behind it (I know, it has taken years to appreciate the effort of our school system to expose us, I’m a slow learner in some ways). While I valued the efforts of the Civil Rights movers and shakers, I never appreciated focusing in on one individual or race. It was kind of like church to me—force me do it and I’m not interested. But, like church, as an adult when allowed to freely encounter, embrace, and explore it, it became more personal and I began to own it, appreciate it, and apply it. On this day of observance, I sit at the table researching agencies and countries through which to adopt (don’t worry, in the future). Who knows what will happen, but I highly doubt that my future adopted child will have the same lovely transparent pink skin color that I have. I’m also not sure what skin color my future husband will have (God willing and Dear God, you can send him soon please and thanks). This year, the MLK holiday means so much. We’ve come a long way since that movement, but as I sit back and think about the gossip link’s comments, I realize how far we still have to go. 

When thinking about my future family who will no doubt blur the lines and may even look like a United Colors of Benetton ad, I share the same dreams that were so eloquently described on that day in 1963.

I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today. 

Dr. Martin Luther King