You See.?

Out there, that's where it is.

Out there where everything is

And here where everything is just.

Just not in a just way but in a because way.

Out there, where dreams come and go

A hug is like a dream, feels so good but not for long.

And here is where they split, break and never again.

Here, where things are not their way.

Out there they sojourn.

They come only with a pen to draw their border.

They come only with a pen to voice louder.

They come only with their just to rule their square.

"Close your eyes and see it for what it is.

Close your eyes and see what should be.

Close your eyes and be out there."

Maybe then, out will be here, where I am.

Out there has been hiding in there.

You see.

There where here is.

Here where my mind lives.

But here I can't see .

You see.

Childish Goals Stay

I was at a friend's 21st and she had neatly printed out some of her favorite moments, songs, entries, articles, and anything that could be recorded on hard board paper, that was meant to serve as a place-mat and evidence of the  invitation.

The plate that I chose had a poem on it, which I thoroughly enjoyed reading, a drawing she made as a toddler and an entry which really caught my attention. I would've missed it if I was not paying attention. It was a small section from her homework book from grade 3. It was a small list of the goals she had set:
    1. Listen to my teacher.
    2. To be a great golfer.
    3. I will behave.
    4. To do my chores.
    5. To keep quite in class.

Growing up, she achieved many of these goals. The person she then wanted to be is indeed the one she is today (Except for hitting tiny balls into tiny holes in the ground.) She is a hard working lady, a good friend, a listener and comforter to the youth at her church. And needless to say she only gives people half a handful of stories of: that day when she did that... She is now the student, young adult, daughter, and friend, who listens to her teachers, behaves, does her chores, and does not play golf.

Just a few weeks ago I was thinking about how much I used to talk, every moment, and how it used to be so easy for me to be “that guy” who starts the conversation and rescues people from that awkward silence ―cause someone will always say how awkward the awkward silence is and then makes it awkward. It didn't bother me all that much until I realized how far gone I was. While searching for the turning-point I remembered a goal I had made when I was in the 11th grade. I even wrote it down. It was part of a challenge from my bible club; we had to do something for another person. So that day I vowed to keep quite long enough for everyone in the group to have their say.
So that’s what I did. I held my tongue, especially in the group, so that everyone could have a chance to voice their opinion. But as time went on I forgot about the vow. It was so deeply embedded in me that I was giving people a chance to speak, not out of service, but out of insecurities. A single event, filled with goals and promises that broke and built character.

Sadly, I can’t say the same for the goals I have set since then, they either did not work out or weren't worth the energy. The goals I have set since then have been filled with things I must obtain, like getting A's, to lose weight, and to be a great golfer. So I am setting a new goal; to not set goals like an adult. Not to do things anymore, but to be and grow. To strengthen my character, and to rid myself of bad habits… not forgetting to serve and love.

New goals:
1. Don't save for Paris but save.
2. Don't read the whole collection of Jane Austen but read.
3. Don't love more but worship my Creator.
4. Don't hike Robberg but climb the stairs.

Packing Hope

I am sure that this is not how packing a box should feel. It has felt different, I suppose it can feel anyway it wants. But not this way.

Packing my box feel like a journey.
Without...anything really.
It feel like I am getting into a car, driving up to the traffic circle and having to choice between left or right. But I am so baffled and almost horrified by the fact that I have no clue where I am going. Then I start thinking how even that thought has some kind of direction and hope, that all I have to do is choose. Then the road in front of me gets clouded with mist, but even that does not explain my journey because even grey clouds have a sliver lining, all I have to do is move. Slowly. But move, knowing there is something in front to catch my foot.

Packing my box feels or is more like standing at a cliff. Packing my box means stepping off the cliff. Walking in the dark might even be better, but packing my box without a stamp on it is one of those things I wish to never experience again. Assuming that I survive the fall, and not that I wasn't falling before, but that I am falling at a different speed.

                                                                    Part 2.
More than anything, packing a box like this is how I imagine faith to be.
Faith asked me to take a step with both my feet off the cliff and hope that I take the next one.
Faith says  there is  a bridge, its really there, the blind can not see it.
"But it will appear even before you: like disco blocks, like sensing lights, like a bride's aisle."

Packing my box feels like a  journey really.
Packing a box like this is like getting into a car, starting the engine without a destination.
Packing my box is like faith really, packed with Hope. 

Yesterday's Thoughts

Yesterday's thoughts stayed where they belong.
I tried my best to push them through.
I tried my best to remember.
The moment was like when the waves hit shore,
Break down on me and tossed me to the shells.
Then it was gone just like it came.
No recollections.

Seating with a crowd
Reading about my heart in more ways than one.
Then something happened inside me,
It shacked me awake and set me off.
But time still moved
And so did friends
And so did something.

Yesterday's thoughts stayed where they belong:
In the moment that they found me in
In the place that I felt and left them in.
Yesterday.

Dear Word

Nothing like words to hold on to
Words that fall like rain
Seem so hard to catch
Word. Free to those who once had them
And accusers to those oblivious to them
These are the people who are blessed enough with ignorance

Blessed enough not to save themselves
With just an utter
Words  packed with security and death stands at the back of the row
Soon, if not already, his turn will come.

Words, I find myself at your mercy and instruction
Am wrapped in your charm and wink
In the way that you look at me
And fill my quick desire to be present with you.
Words, how I am so lost with you
And speechless, out witted.

Word, word I cant find it lately
Word, word is all I can say
Word, word I have no letter left
For the first time I find myself
Drowning, trying, failing
To blurred out the ghost stuck in my throat

 Word, I find myself without you
When I can not share you
Word, they cant hear you past what I my heart is silently screaming out
Word, I find myself holding on to paper in the land filled with honey
You in the balance for my heart
Word, I find myself holding you
And presenting you to people who do not understand you
It seems I am lost for words when I can not share you.

Holiday Club 2013

It is almost time for the most exciting time of the year. In the 3 years that I have done holiday club it has always been a life changing experience where I meet amazing people with stories I would otherwise never hear. And where I make friends whom I hope to keep for a life time.

This is one event that which as soon as it is done planning for the next one begins, it needs intense detail to leave enough room for fun, for the kids and the leaders. Its funny how this whole program is a process that can only be seen for what is it by someone who was in it and was out of it. It cannot be judged in the meantime only after. Holiday Club builds character and that is one thing you can not buy or do on your own.  I have a totally new appreciation for the directors and behind the scene faceless crew who make all of this happen. I say new because in the past I have always seen it as people who have to organize the piece of the puzzle but now I see that the puzzle pieces have to be made before they can be used. The making is the most difficult part because of the time it takes to prepare and the clear vision it requires. One can not simply make something without seeing how it will look and what it will be used for.

And so I encourage and applause every single person who invested into holiday club: leaders, mentors, directors, pastors, businesses, and the church. Thank you for your dedication, time, focus, finances, prayers and willing hearts so that in one week there can be lots of fun and importantly that thousands of lives can be changed.

Dedicated to Eastside Community Church.

How much for the bride?

Being a South African black girl in her 20-ties and living in a white community but grew up in a black community makes this question odd and old for me. I have had many of my white friends ask me about lobola ( A tradition practiced in a black culture where the bridegroom would pay the bride's parents  either in a form of cows, land or nowadays cash. But then the brides parents pay for the wedding.) and many of my black friends would joke about how their parents still believe in the lobola practice. I often, if not always, joke with them and go on about how silly the thought of someone paying for you is not only illiberal and archaic for us (new generation) but that under the line it is insulting.  What if you get a poor husband, or a rich husband who believes in saving or a husband who disagrees? What if your parents ask for too little or nothing for you? How do they calculate how much you worth and can they really stop you from getting married?

A white friend of mine asked her black domestic worker about the lobola practice. Her worker explained to my friend that the husband pays in cows and then turned the question around: "How many cows did your husband pay for?". Everybody knows only black people practice lobola. Right? Not this black lady. In short my friend was caught off guard by the same question she asked a minute earlier and got thrown to the lions. She took a moment to think and pounded at how strange it is to be asked a question she has nothing to do with, a few more split seconds of pondering, she calculated that her wedding ring is worth just as much as her worker's lobolas' trade, maybe. So oppositely similar.  The whole week she could not stop playing that short, innocent scene in her mind. Some would call this a culture shock... in your backyard (that for free).

What took her a week took my the opinion I have been strongly preaching away.  When a boy takes a girl to the movies he pays, when a man marries a woman he buys a ring and gets down on his knees (in white culture), and when men wants to get married he pays lobola (in black culture). I would have never understood this since I pay for my own movies and take myself out and see idylls of equal love.

It is not human to think that sacrifice is necessary but sacrifice we do.

I think of Jesus here. He loves us, He loved us all this time but He could not be with us because of sin. So He sacrificed. He died for us than rather not be with us. Like a perfect gentleman, He paid for the movie, He bought the ring, He went down on His knees and He paid lobola and acted Father who paid for the wedding.

Lobola might be "a black thing" just like wedding rings are considered "a white thing" but at the end it’s the same, what matters in not how much you worth but the sacrifice.