I was sad when I wrote my last blog. I felt heavy spiritually and was fighting hard against vulnerability. Against the world, I felt weak and overwhelmed by its sin condition.
In the last five months, I’ve stared some big issues in the face—human trafficking, prostitution, orphans, poverty, narcissism, the exploitation of women… even the ones in suburbia America. These issues are huge. They’re deep and inherited.
And the more I think about them, the more impossible a legitimate, finality-bringing solution seems.
I see old men openly displaying hate for an anti-trafficking organization, and the more impossible a solution seems. “Look at how these women dress,” one Ukrainian man angrily pointed and yelled. “They bring it on themselves. Besides, they make money, so what’s the big deal?”
I see beautiful little children living in orphanages and slowly turning into stoic, emotionless beings, and the more impossible it seems. “Their mother is a night butterfly,” the workers told us. “She comes to visit her daughters less and less.”
I see families living, literally, in garbage, and the more impossible it seems. “They don’t know anything outside of the dump. They don’t have any dreams,” our ministry contact explained.
I see myself struggling with appearance and materialism and pride, and the more impossible it seems. Beth Moore once said that America is mass-producing narcissists. And I agree. We’re obsessed with ourselves—with having the perfect clothes and car and job and home and family and hair and skin and life.
So I sit, and I think about these things. And all of a sudden, I find myself unable to breathe… with what feels like a 500-pound weight sitting on my chest. I become mad and frustrated and sad. I ramble a lot. And I hate rambling.
But while all of this was going on inside of me, something else was going on too.
Last month, I wrote in my newsletter:
“I thought about being in Ukraine, and two words came to mind: His mercy. So that's what I told the church about. And it’s what I want to tell you about. I want to share this journey with you to give you a glimpse of what He’s doing in this part of the world. (…) God is present, both here and in the U.S., and without Him, my work is rather pointless… wherever I go.”
And last month, I wrote to my squad leaders:
“God has been revealing His mercy to me, and I’m coming out of Ukraine with a spirit of thankfulness. I’m thankful for where He has me, for what He’s revealed to me so far, and for promising to continue His work in my heart. It’s been a humbling experience for sure—realizing that I truly am nothing without Him.”
We flew into Johannesburg, South Africa three days ago. After the least-painful customs experience of my life, Jesse and I went on a bathroom hunt. We found a place close to where our squad was hanging out, and on our way out, a lady stopped Jesse and said something to her.
“I’m sorry, what did you say you want?” Jesse asked. Again, the lady said something, but I didn’t catch it. Honestly, I didn’t really care. I wasn’t paying much attention.
“Yeah, we can buy you some baby formula." Jesse responded. "Where do we get it?”
I was skeptical, but thankful Jesse didn’t just hand her some cash. She’d probably just buy drugs if we gave her money. Why does she need us to go to a store upstairs? Is she trying to lead us into the hands of traffickers or something?
Yeah… these were the kinds of thoughts running through my head. Paranoid, maybe.
Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s important to be safe—to “listen to your gut.” But this woman didn’t make me feel uneasy. My intuition wasn’t telling me to run. And… there was that thing God had been teaching me more about.
That thing that brought me to my knees when I thought about God giving it to me. And that thing that I seemed to forget all about when given the opportunity to extend it to someone else.
Looking back, I thank God for Jesse in that moment—for her 'yes' answer.
As we walked upstairs to Woolworths, I talked more with the woman. We talked about her baby, Genevieve, who’s eight months old. We talked about the reason we're in South Africa. And we talked about her parents, both of whom are dead. We talked about Genevieve’s father, who recently lost his job after being diagnosed with TB.
While we were in Woolworths, she stood a couple stores down because she'd already been kicked out for asking other customers what she asked us. Jesse, Molly and I bought two tins of formula, water, and some food. She only asked for one tin of formula, but we wanted to give more.
When we handed her the grocery bags, she received them. And when she saw the extra things we bought, she showed joy and thanks. Not pride or shame or entitlement—joy and thanks.
By this point, I realized I didn’t know the woman’s name. So I asked her.
“Nomsa,” she said. “It’s a black name. It means mercy.”
I choked. But somehow, I kept my composure. I kept it through the rest of our conversation about black names and colored names and white names, about Jo-Burg and Cape Town, and about Swaziland and Mozambique. But when we prayed over Nomsa, I started to lose it.
I don't think I cried because Nomsa needed food for her child, or because she had a long walk home. I cried because God was providing—for her and for me. To the world, Nomsa has basically nothing. And to the world, I have practically everything. But the world is a liar.
I needed hope. And hope in the Kingdom is everything.
I spend so much time worrying about things that are beyond my control. I worry about things I can’t change. And I lose hope in the good. I lose hope in my God.
My God is bigger than I can even imagine. He knew Nomsa needed physical provision that day. He knew I needed to be reminded of who He is and of what’s been done for me. And so, I believe He crossed our paths.
My father has poured an undeserving portion of mercy onto my life. And every time I start to lose sight of that truth, I’m going to think of Nomsa. I’m going to remember to hope. And I’m going to remember to receive… with joy and thanks.
Heart full in Africa,
Julie
