So it has been quite some time since I last posted an update about my 11 month journey around the world, and to be honest, this is for two reasons: free time seems to escape me (whether it be simply mismanaged, or it is actually as elusive as I think), and because I wanted to take some time to process all that I have learned and experienced in the last 2 to 3 weeks.
That said, my time spent in Lavender Hill; that poverty stricken, gang inundated, government mecca I was writing about last time, has forever written itself into my mind and heart. We spent most of our assigned “ministry time” working in elderly homes, serving in community centers, assisting in paperwork, or rebuilding parks in a nearby squatter camp, but what I found is “ministry time” never actually ended.
Although we would spend 6 to 8 hours a day serving at our actual site, another ministry began the second we would walk down the busy streets in Lavender Hill. What started with reticent greetings and Afrikaans-cloaked questions as to why a group of young white people had permeated the previously un-penetrated boundaries of their community, morphed into mostly excited greetings, warm welcomes, and inquiries as to how we actually had fared that day.
At one point, we had an army of 68 children follow us home, just to spend time on our street playing soccer, tossing the football, conversing, and simply being loved on (I dare not recant the tale of accidentally picking up a child to put them on my shoulder, because once one had experienced the illustrious views from 5’8” off the ground, all 68 kids wanted to, and to be honest, my back still hasn’t quite recovered).
All that remembered, my heart wasn’t prepared for the challenges to come. Most people think being a missionary (or even doing humanitarian aid for that matter) is some secretly self-sacrificial venture, where after you paint a house, dig a well, or just change a diaper, that you will be greeted with a handshake for your selfless service and your spirit will rest easy knowing you did something of value. You can feel good about yourself, because you did the right thing.
The opposite is true, being a missionary (and I use that term loosely, as most doing work have a ‘mission’, mine just happens to be spreading hope through service, in hopes that one day, through my life, a seed might be planted that might eventually, by the grace of God, sprout into a life-giving tree that can nurture an entire community, absent from my actual presence or even knowledge) is difficult. What actually happens, is unbeknownst to you, you become attached to those you are serving, and you want to save everyone, regardless of the validity of that desire. It is not easy accepting that your job, is not to harvest, or even see a sprout of green, but to rest in simply knowing you planted.
Each child and teenager we encountered had a story, most devoid of hope, and many had not experienced anything beyond the violence riddled community they called home. (In fact, there were 10 murders in 20 days within only a few blocks of our home.) Gunshots frequently ripped through the silent nights, and to be honest, many times through a racing heart, I questioned our call to serve in such seemingly dangerous place.
Living in Lavender Hill was not easy, and rarely comfortable, but it is through this, revelation came. It isn’t about me, and what I can get through serving, or even how I feel about what I am doing. It is about giving selflessly regardless of the result. Accepting the possibility of being a complete failure in my own eyes and those around me, knowing that I did what I was called to do, because it was the right thing: not the easy thing, not the convenient, heartwarming, result-showing, fruit-bearing, emotionally satisfying, self-worth-boosting, gratitude-giving thing. Simply the right thing.
And once this sacrifice is made, a victory breaks through the ranks, and changes you, and maybe… if you’re lucky, changes someone else too.
