I love all the weird phrases I’ve picked up on since being in South Africa like “eez it?!” “that’s lekker” and “cheers mate!”. Some days when I get home from ministry, I walk into the kitchen to chat with my host mom whom we all call Mama. Mama is sassy and comforting and wonderful. Our kitchen conversations we have while she makes supper have been some of my favorite and most special moments. Anyways, when I walk into to kitchen mama looks at me with one hand on her hip and says “what’s your story bubba?”. When I first moved to Africa, I thought that question was weird to ask in passing. Why not just say “what’s up?” or “how are you?”. I can remember walking to the train station one day and laughing with some of my house mates as we tried to do our best South African imitations. What’s your story bubba? What’s your story? I said it over and over and the more I said it, the more I wondered.
I live in a rough part of town. Our neighborhood and the ones surrounding, are affected by gangs and poverty. From the walk to my house to the train station, I have passed people sleeping on the ground, or rummaging through garbage. It’s easy to keep walking. It’s easy to turn your head and forget the faces you’ve seen. Soon I began to ask each face in my head, “what’s your story?”. Now I can’t just turn away.
Cassidy, the first little girl I worked with in South Africa, was so sassy and difficult. She was constantly biting and hitting and cussing us out. On Christmas Eve we put on a concert in her neighborhood and it was cut short by the sound of gunshots and people running to get inside. That’s her life. That’s part of her story. She has no other option but to be the strongest little 4 year old you’ve ever met. It would be so easy to write her off and label her as just another naughty street child, but that’s not the name our Father calls her by. He knows her story and her struggle and He calls her worthy and adored.
Shakeem, a little boy from Lavender Hill was always hitting and stealing. He didn’t listen and seemed to just not care. But then a little girl told us about how his father hits him, and his parents don’t feed him. I looked at his shoeless feet and dirty face and knew that he had a story that no 8 year old should ever have to tell. A child who was labeled by the world as dirty, rambunctious, and unwanted is labeled by our Father as chosen and pure.
I could go on for days. I could tell you all of the faces I’ve seen and stories I’ve been told, but I won’t. There are some stories that just aren’t mine to tell. I think we so often turn a blind eye to our neighbors because it’s easier. It’s easier to put a dollar in the beggars cup than take 10 minutes to hear about what got him there. It’s easier to write off the grumpy person in line behind you, than to ask him how he’s doing. It’s easy, and we live most of our lives with our eyes shut because easy seems best, but when God told us to turn the other cheek I know this was not what he meant. I am no longer comfortable with “easy”. I can no longer live with blinders on, ignoring the pain in this world because I’m simply too wrapped up in my own. Every face has a story eagerly awaiting to be told. I encourage you today to look around at the faces you pass and ask “what’s your story?”.
