Storytelling is art.
It is beautiful and a gift.
It is messy and it is unkind.
At it’s most beautiful it brings life and hope-
It champions the unsung and whispers glimpses of glory.
And at it’s messiest it prompts and urges it’s teller-
ruthlessly, keeping her awake into the night with the ache of a glory to be told…without the clarity of how or when or any other permissions.
I find myself in a staring contest with a most messy and beautiful story to be shared and lived well.
I can’t distinguish where my Swaziland story began.
The night when I realized I’ll be here for more than just one month?
The moment I signed up for the race?
The meeting when the decision to reroute us here was made?
But on this day, I am very much in the middle of it with no ending in sight.
In the middle of the moments and the waiting.
In the thick of prayer and dreams.
Invested in the plot and promises.
To tell my story of Swaziland is to share with you a tale of heartache and hollowed ground. It is to confess that I’ve never heard the audible voice of God, but I believe He gave me a dream and promise of returning one day.
To share my experience on that mountain is to say, I’ve seen where AYSO jerseys spend their after-soccer season- lives. I experienced the unexpected and unmatchable joy of tying shoes before preschool- and the heartache of tying delicately so the shoes didn’t fall apart in my hands.
Swaziland was taking Ntsiki down the mountain into town for her first time ever. She’s nine. It was hours of multiplication practice and prideful smiles when we got factors right. And I could have looked at her for all the hours and it still not have been long enough…
And while these things, these moments, make up so much of the story- they also leave so much out. My words fail to capture the heart of the matter.
The imperfect art of storytelling allows for this.
It allows for mystery and silence in between moments.
It encourages pauses.
So this is the part of my Swaziland story-
For waiting and remembering.
For reflecting and treasuring.
For big prayers to be prayed around that mountain and sweet nine year old girl.
I will tell and live this Swaziland story as best I can.
I invite you to ask and dream and pray with me through the messy and the beautiful and the waiting and the greater glory. will you join me?
