For the first time on the Race, I’ve been racking my brain trying to come up with something to write in my blog. Writing typically comes naturally for me and, even more so, on the Race in regards to blogs. But, so far this month, I just don’t know what to write about.
I could tell you about the mornings that start at 6 a.m. with coffee, tea, bible reading and some time with Jesus at the metal table in the large concrete room.
I could tell you how I sit outside and watch the orange and yellow sun stretch across the mountains on the horizon and see the most beautiful scene painted before my eyes.
I could tell you about the children that start arriving at the Anchor Center (where we are living) at about 7:30 a.m., even though their preschool doesn’t start until 8:30, because they have to walk miles to school with their older siblings and their school starts at 7:45.
I could tell you how I spend at least an hour every morning (before ministry) with at least one preschool child on my lap with others around me singing and talking in very broken English.
I could tell you how I cherish the Starbucks coffee grounds when I make it every morning that a former racer, Morgan, gave us in care packages. She also gave us peanut butter cups, drink mixes, Coffee Mate creamer, magazines and other comforts of home that we’ve missed. I could also tell you about how some of my teammates cried when they received them—some cried a lot. 😉
I could tell you about our contact, Erica. She’s an amazing, hard-working woman who followed where God told her to go with very short notice. I could tell you about her heart for the women and children of Swazi and how I can see her heart break when she talks about AIDS and the sexual abuse they suffer from.
I could tell you how many articles of clothing we have in our packs that cannot be worn this month; how, even though it’s hot and we’re sweating, we cannot wear shorts or tanktops. We have to wear long skirts when we leave the compound and either loose pants or skirts when we exit the team house, even if for a minute.
I could tell you about our 9:15 prayer and encouragement circle we form on the front “yard” every morning: 21 Racers, 11 New Hope members, 3 Swazi Anchor Center staff, Erica and another missionary from her home church who is visiting for the month. We talk, encourage, give thanks to God and pray. Every morning before ministry starts.
I could tell you about the other team of missionaries here, New Hope Church, and how they have a long-term commitment to the Anchor Center and Swaziland. I could tell you that, besides the younger woman in the group, the average age of the other ten is probably in their late 40s. I could tell you that they’ve been sending teams every chance they have had in the past three years and how they are building life-long relationships through face-to-face interactions and through prayer partner exchanges when they are not here in Swazi. I could tell you of their seemingly infinite monetary resources that have enabled us Racers to do all sorts of projects like painting and building because they have the money but not the man-power.
I could tell you how ridiculous the ministry schedule is. Or how there really isn’t much of one, I guess. We scheduled what we knew would happen during the week: harvesting in a farmer’s garden, watering our local garden, picking oranges from the trees at Erica’s, visiting Care Points (schools that the Anchor Center sponsors), and grocery store trips. But our other ministries are random: picking up trash on the compound, playing with the children, washing cars, painting tires on the playground, cleaning the team house, organizing the kitchen, sweeping the floor, fixing meals, tagging along with New Hope to projects, visiting widows and grandmothers, prayer walks, maintaining the community garden, and who knows what else I’ve forgotten! Every day looks different.
I could tell you how healthy we’ve been eating because we are cooking our own meals. I could tell you how I’m eating things I didn’t even eat at home: squash and cabbage (a lot!), cucumbers and tomatoes for lunch and sautéed vegetables and how I love it. I could tell you about the homemade tortillas and chips I made and the breaded chicken parmesan and red sauce that I made from scratch and how I cooked it all, along with veggies and pasta, without electricity and without an oven. I could tell you how I’ve become an even better chef than I was before! 😉
I could tell you about the salty water we’ve been drinking to no end. How the government doesn’t filter the water because the salt gives the people the nutrients they need and it’s great. But how I drink the equivalent of 15 glasses of water a day and yet never really feel refreshed and hydrated and how I’m even feeling really bloated.
I could tell you about the amazing community of women I am surrounded by this month. I could tell you about how my team of five amazingly strong women have been a constant source of encouragement, love and friendship from the first minute we saw each other’s’ names on the list. I could tell you about the other 16 women that I spend my days with and their persistent attitudes and how we keep each other accountable.
I could tell you about “Sweatin’ in Swazi”, our workout program, and how I have an amazing yoga instructor, who is not only talented, but also a great teacher. I could tell you how I sweat more during our hour-and-a-half-long daily yoga sessions than I think I ever did during high school basketball practice. I could tell you how encouraging and helpful she is and how she never makes people feel ridiculous, even if you are doing a move wrong. (And I’m proud to call her my teammate!)
I could tell you about the times that I lay in my bed watching sermons and worship sessions from Lighthouse Chapel in Ukraine. I could tell you about the tears I shed when I see familiar faces because I miss them and the joy I feel when I see their passion and love. I could try and explain the connection I feel to them and how my heart aches to be back there with them and, even more, to be in the apartment laughing and eating with Esther and Williams.
I could tell you how we get together every afternoon, after ministry, and do squats, push-ups, planks, crunches, Russian twists, P90x and run together as a group. I could tell you how we set aside time for family-style dinners and worship nights. How we are united and loving doing life together.
I could tell you about my friends- both old and young- and how we play soccer together. I could tell you how, on the first day of ministry, I played a match with five eight-year-old boys and a 16-year old, who should probably be playing professional soccer. I could tell you how I scored two of the five goals for my team and even saved the goal kicked against me. (Even though it resulted in a probably-fractured-toe and half of my shin bruised and scabbed and now scarred.)
I could tell you about eight-year old Satu and his perfect English. I could tell you how he is my translator for the other kids and how he loves to play catch with me. I could tell about the stories of a hard life that he tells, but only when I ask.
I could tell you about the four-year-old girl who hangs around the Anchor Center at every opportunity. I could tell you things that will bring you to tears about her hard life. I could tell you about the death of her parents and her being left in her uncle’s care. But I use the term “care” loosely. He doesn’t bathe her and she’s always filthy dirty; he doesn’t pay attention to her and she doesn’t even know her own name. Her clothes are caked in dirt and filthy and have more holes than not and they have never been washed. I could tell you how she runs, arms wide open, to me and giggles, bearing the few teeth that remain in her mouth but are rotting away. I could tell you how the other kids treat her like dirt and beat her. Then, I could tell you how much I love her.
I could tell you about five-year-old Tawny and her exclamations of “Cassie!! Come!” whenever she sees me. How she hangs on my neck and calls me hers; how she gets possessive at times and even tries to push others kids away to be able to spend time with me. I could tell you how she sits on my lap and grabs my face tenderly and sings lots of songs. How she introduces me to all the others kids and tries to teach me how to ask them what their name is in SiSwati.
I could tell you how my heart leaps when the kids call my name from far away and come running. I could tell you how the younger kids love to sit on my lap and trace the lines in the palm of my hand. I could tell you how the older kids love to talk about their lives and their dreams. How they try their very hardest to teach me SiSwati and how they giggle when I can’t say the words because I cannot relax my trained mouth muscles into forming clicks and sounds like that. But how they try again, determined to each me.
I could tell you about the community and how they are so welcoming and always greeting me. I could tell you the SiSwati greeting makes me laugh every time I engage in it:
“Sawubona!” (I see you!)
“Yebo!” (Yes!)
“Unjani?” (How are you?)
“Ngiya phila!” (I’m alive!)
I could tell you about the children and their passion for songs. I could tell you how, whenever they are together, preschool children sing “Jesus loves the little children” and a song in SiSwati about Jesus’ love. I could tell you how their rhythm and pitch is perfect and their voices are loud and beautiful.
I could tell you how they peak in our windows when we are inside and how they whisper “Cass!” and try to convince me to come outside—although it doesn’t take much convincing.
I could tell you how three nights a week I sit on the highest platform on the playground and overlook the soccer field where the teenage and 20-something boys are playing a super competitive and serious match. How the boys I know call out to me and wave at me from twenty feet away and ask me to come play with them and how they cannot control their full-bellied laughs when I give them a look of terror and say “No, thanks, I don’t want to die!” because I’ve watched noses break and grown men cry after being pelted with a high-speed soccer ball.
I could tell you how, after each game, my new friends stop and talk to me for about an hour as the sun starts to set behind the mountains on the other side of the compound. I could tell you how the gorgeous sunrise I saw that same morning pales in comparison to the sunset I watch paint itself across the sky.
I could tell you how I’m learning to be romanced. I could tell you how I’ve accepted “God my Father”, “God my identity” and “God my friend” but am now experiencing “God my lover”. I’m allowing him to fill that place in myself where I long to be loved and romanced. I spent nights worked up about my future, mostly marriage, but am learning to let go of all my worries.
I could tell you how we’ve had marriage offers at every turn. How a bus driver wouldn’t pick us up because we had already refused his marriage offer earlier in the day. How, when we get on a bus, the driver and conductor exclaim stuff like “I love you all!” “Who wants to be my wife?” and “I want to marry you!” and how we just laugh and think “Is this really our life?”
I could tell you any of this. I could tell you all of this.
But, whatever I tell you, it just doesn’t matter because words don’t do it any justice.
I wish you could just be here with me.
I wish you were doing life beside me so you can, not just read about these amazing things, but you can feel it and see it– just like I am.
Then, and only then, can you really begin to imagine what I am experiencing this month and why I can’t even begin to tell you about the little details of everything.
