Sweat the Small Stuff

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            “Mama, are you okay? Have you been crying?”

            Indeed, my eyes held a pool of tears. A drop of sweat simultaneously fell down the side of my face along my jawbone.

            “No, no,” I rubbed my swelled up, puffy eye and the pooled tears streamed down my cheek. “Well, maybe this is my body’s way of crying about this heat though!” I wiped my eyebrow which had started glistening with sweat as well.

            “Aw, shem. Sorry Mom. Yeah, I can see your eyes are swollen again. And wow you really do sweat a lot!”

            “And it’s only 7:30 in the morning!”

I remember in high school when I played basketball, my face would get red and I’d sweat a lot. In fact, it was so much that my friends started calling it the “drip drips.” I would be lined up for a free throw and drops of sweat would drip from the hair tucked behind my ears to the floor. I used to think that was the most I could ever sweat. I was wrong.

My first week back to Swazi I experienced a shock I’ve never had before: heat without electricity. I had moved from the city to my new house on the girls home property just 3 days before I was Stateside for my 3 month furlough. So, I hardly “lived” in it until I came back.

But it is now in the heart of summer. And, coming from the Wisconsin winter, I was far from prepared to endure heat without air conditioning, let alone a FAN! Not having electricity also means no cold water. I mean, can you imagine sweating in the heat and not even being able to drink a glass of cold water? The water coming out of our faucets are either hot, warm, or at best gently cool in the evening, but certainly far from cold. No electricity means no way to keep food cold either. It means no fans – not in the day and not at night when I’m trying to sleep but can’t because it’s still 90 degrees at midnight. I woke up one morning at 3 a.m. with a pool of liquid on my pillow – not drool, but sweat. Yuck!

Luckily, though, I didn’t have to go without electricity for too long as I’ve been able to run a generator for half days and nights. But even with a fan, this heat has been unbearable. My eyes are still swelling and I have skin rashes. The bugs are something else, too. Not mosquitos in this particular area (maybe it’s even too hot for them!), but many other biting bugs I wish I could go without. I have to wait to shower until evening time when the water coming out of the pipes is cool (no hot water for showers or baths, but that’s okay for now because it’s way too hot for that!) so that when I get out of the shower, I can stop sweating. That’s 9 p.m. Basically I sweat from 7 a.m. when I rise to 9 p.m. before I go to sleep in front of a fan.

Yet, even with my skin rashes, my swollen eyes, the bug bites, and the constant sweat, I am so happy. So so happy. After the first week of intense 100 degree heat, I nearly cried like a toddler throwing a fit because I just couldn’t handle it. But then I said a prayer, asked others to pray for me, and decided to change my attitude. There’s no way I can change the heat, so might as well change my attitude! So instead, I decided to play basketball with the girls in the 94 degree heat at 5 p.m. If I’m gonna sweat, might as well do it for a reason! I spend time in my air conditioned car – the best few minutes of relief! And I have the generator so I can have cold water and even ice! But my joy is not really about that. There is something deeper, better, stronger that is anchoring me. I am full. My cup is full and overflowing! I am ME!

My 3 month furlough started out rough, but the second half was a dream come true. I remember waking up one morning, opening my eyes and being filled with a sense of satisfaction I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I smiled, put my toes on my carpeted bedroom floor and said, “Kate’s back!”

It’s a feeling I cannot describe, but one I never want to lose again. Genuine joy. Gratefulness for the small things. A sense of loving myself again. I remember last year thinking and even telling others that I already feel bad for my future husband – poor guy, he’d have his hands full marrying a girl like me in a ministry like this! But now? Whoever he is, he is a lucky fella if he happens to win my heart and to be counted in among the strong hearts of this Hosea family.

When I left the States, I was full and fully me again. I had spent time and time and time again with family and friends who filled me. I got to live with my parents for 3 months, which at first was a bit of a challenge and adjustment, but was undoubtedly my greatest blessing. My mom and dad are my pillars, and they spoiled me with love, encouragement, and blessing. Telling me over and over how great it was to have me home and how hard it is to watch me leave again. I also have the most remarkable friends. You know it’s true what they say about choosing your friends wisely. I somehow happened to have the best women in the world to circle and support me. When I came home from some visits with friends in different cities, my mom could even see a visible difference. “You are so blessed to have friends like that,” she’d tell me. “I can see how much they fill you.”

And now that I’m back in Eswatini, back in my very first home, I am still full. 2020 is going to be the best year yet. I know this because of how it started (and how 2019 ended). I arrived in Eswatini on New Year’s Eve, and I surprised the girls with a sleepover at our local church. The screams and the way the ran to greet me was enough love to last a lifetime. Enough affirmation to know this is exactly where I’m supposed to be. Their hugs were home. And we continued the night with worship that was unlike any other. We ended 2019 with unity, praise, and love, and we proclaimed goodness yet to come.

And in the first two weeks of 2020, amazing things already happened. Two more girls graduated, four girls are now currently in college, and we will get two more new girls next week! I’ve been able to reconnect with umntfwana wami and already hosted my friends for our monthly game nights in my new house (and luckily, it was the coldest day we’ve had thus far)! Lastly, I have the most amazing nanny who did an incredible job in my absence and continues to help around the house and with the kids while I adjust to the heat and bugs.

2020 – My Cup Overflows

Me? I Travel Alone

When people ask how long I’ll be in the States and I tell them I’m here till Christmas, they are floored by my response, “Oh, how lovely!” “How wonderful!” “Good for you!” “I bet your Mom and Dad love having you this long.” “What a nice long break!”

Another comment I got recently was, “I wish I could have a three-month long vacation!”

Or “Are you on furlough? That must be nice!”

But I am not on a three-month long vacation. Furlough for me is not nice, lovely, and wonderful. It’s hard, frustrating, and painful. Staying till Christmas is to stretch myself and allow God the time to fix what’s broken in me. So I’m not exactly ‘on a break’, but I am acknowledging I am broken and need time and space for renewal. Staying for 3 months was not my idea, plan, or dream vacation. But it’s what God had been pressing upon my heart for the time needed, not what I wanted. If I wanted vacation, I’d be hitting up Cape Town cruises or skipping over to Madagascar or finding some beach time and watching the whales. (Way cheaper to vacation that side than in America.) Not sitting alone in my parents’ house watching Hulu because I have no energy for anything else.

I know I’m sounding grumpy and this post might come off full of complaints (heads up, sorry), but I just need to get it off my chest. This first month has been already really, really, really, really, really, really hard. And I have 2 more to go.

Most missionaries I know go on furlough with someone. Because most missionaries I know are married. And have children. Or have children(adopted) even if not married. Their furlough may involve some vacation time which is needed, but who wants to take a vacation alone? Most travel with families, spouses, or children. Me? I travel alone. I leave my family behind – both places. Every time. Both ways. The single passenger on 30+ hour flights to and from, over and over for the past 6 years.

But I’m staying with my family when I’m Stateside and I’ve got incredible communities of support, so what’s the problem, right? The problem is I just don’t feel like I belong. I have no ‘place’ here anymore. I’ve been traveling a lot the first month and doing a lot of Hosea’s Heart work with the goal that I will be off and resting the remaining of my time. While I’ve been traveling, it’s a few days here, a few days there. Hard to stay in one place for too long for fear of being a bother to those hosting me. I mean, let’s be honest. It’s hard to host someone in the middle of your own work week, schedules, kids, marriages, etc. Even when I host people Swazi-side, it’s such a joy to have visitors but it is also a bit stressful to fit them into my schedule and constantly changing work days that side. For example, when may parents visit, I give up my bedroom and sleep in the extra bed in Ben and Lu’s room. Of course, I wish more people would come because I would take the blessing of visitors anytime over the stress of hosting, but what I’m saying is I understand what it’s like to have the pressure of hosting a visitor or a missionary all the way Africa. The normal schedule of staying a few days here, a few days there is okay and manageable for my last trips because I’ve only stayed a month. But doing this for 3 months is just not gonna work.

So my parents’ house is the rest place. But what happens when even that doesn’t feel like rest? Even that doesn’t feel like I belong? Not that my parents make me feel unwanted, but they’ve been empty nesters for I don’t even know how many years, and now their 33-year-old daughter is crashing back in her old bedroom and looking like a bump on a log. Or a bump on the couch. They don’t mean to send me the wrong messages, because what they say is beautiful and wonderful: “We’re so happy to have you home!” But I can’t help noticing the other things, the small comments that make me feel like I’m still a visitor depending on someone else’s generosity:

“You running up my electric bill?” a comment not meant to make me feel bad, but it does. Because I can’t help it. I need to turn the small heater on and sit by it throughout the day because I’m so cold. My feet and fingers icy cold. I’ll even put a winter hat on while I’m sitting in the living room. I just can’t help needing to be warmer than others here.

“Do you realize you walk so heavy, loud?” No, I didn’t realize it. But now I feel like I need to walk softly in a place I’m supposed to be relaxed.

“Oh, good, once you clean that desk off, you can work in your room instead of the kitchen table.” It wasn’t a comment to kick me out of the kitchen intentionally, but again just another feeling that I’m interrupting someone else’s schedule, system, life, while I’m floating on air through mine.

“He’s spending so much money on those cars!” True, my dad is a natural provider, and one thing I can always count on him for is the condition of my car – making sure it’s in working condition, fixing it, paying for new wiper blades, new light bulbs, and sometimes even filling the tank! But what’s meant to be a blessing, again, makes me feel like a burden when I’m reminded of their difficult financial status and see how hard my parents work every week. And I wonder, should I even stay here very long? Am I using up all their money? Eating all their food? Seeming ungrateful? Putting unnecessary burdens on them? They will never be the ones to say so, in fact they ask me to stay longer than I usually do. But still, I can’t help but still feel like I am just an ‘extra’ anywhere I go/stay.

As I write and “complain” I suppose it sounds like I’m being so ungrateful. But I don’t mean to be; it’s just that I feel I don’t fit in. I don’t belong. During others’ work hours, I’m sitting at home watching episodes of The Voice or So You Think You Can Dance. It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s that on the two days I’m home in-between my travel or in-between events, I’m so emotionally exhausted, I don’t have energy to do anything but sit and watch. Also because it distracts me from the aching feeling of missing my kids.  

And when I do work, it doesn’t look like work to others. Because telling our story, inviting others into the opportunity to be world-changers is something I live for! It is something I love doing. So my traveling and giving speeches and presentations certainly don’t look like work because while I’m doing it, the Holy Spirit sweeps over me every.single.time. It lights me up. But the before and after are the hard parts. I still get nervous every time I speak, no matter where or what event. The physical stress of my nerves before hand is one thing, but then after wards is a whole other element. Because after the presentation, it all catches up with me. The adrenaline is gone, the Holy Spirit high is over, and I’m left emotionally exhausted. The emotional toll it takes on me and my body to tell the story over and over, while I cry and embarrass myself because I can never tell it without tearing up or straight out crying for the good and the bad…it takes every ounce of strength in my bones to stop the dam from breaking completely… and then to tell one story that after 11 years still doesn’t have the happy ending, but tell it in a way that convinces the audience there’s still hope (in an effort to convince my own heart), that it’s not over yet.

But as a writer who lives on plot maps and resolutions, to tell a story without one, to skip the parts that are tearing at me right this moment… (the one where she is almost killed, being choked with a belt by her abuser who also tried drowning her in the river, and being thousands of miles away, desperately wanting to just hear her voice after that and tell her ‘I love you,’ but for all my efforts to be in vain because she’s now refusing to hear from me or communicate with me because suddenly I am an enemy… I mean…talk about turning the knife blade that’s already in my heart. Ugh. To forgive her without ever hearing an apology. To wonder if I am ever going to see her again, to beg God not to let her die without me seeing her one more time, and hoping the dream He gave me with her wasn’t the ‘one more time’)… to skip those parts and smile in front of others, with my friends, even with my own parents because admitting I am in pain is also sometimes too hard to face. To video chat my boy Benji and see him cry on the phone saying, “I just want you, Mom!” and not being able to comfort him or tell him, “I’ll see you soon!” Instead counting the days and saying still 7 weeks to go. SEVEN WEEKS… I’ve never been away for more than 6 weeks at a time in the last 6 years, but this time I’m away for 14 weeks. To hear Lucia ask, “Why do you have to miss my birthday?” Or hear my other big kids say, “Mom, I just need your hug.” It hurts a mother’s heart. x19

So, this time is certainly no vacation. It’s necessary time for me to sit between the rock and the hard place. And do only that – sit. And boy, is that a problem in itself for me to do! To do nothing. Sit in the Rock and the hard place. The hard place being my old dreams, the life I once left behind. My dreams are way different than Hosea’s Heart’s dreams or God’s dreams. Sometimes being so close here to the dream I left behind is unbearable. To be immersed in the lives of my best friends and sister’s families, while I still remain the single lady, is hard. Don’t get me wrong, I love them – all of them – their spouses, their kids, their lives. But it’s hard not to want that for me, too. It’s hard to know I’ll be going back to a continue a ministry and raising kids as a single mom. It’s hard sometimes to trust that God has my best in store for me. Especially when I wish it would look different.

And then I reread a letter one of my girls wrote me. In one phrase she said, “You are a glass that cannot be broken.” And I just stare at it. Because it is so wise, so powerful, beyond what she could’ve known when she wrote those words a couple weeks ago. A reminder that it’s okay to be delicate, fragile, breakable. To be glass. A reminder to know that it’s okay that I’m in a season where I’m highly sensitive and get my feelings hurt. To be glass. But to know the Potter holds me – fragile, weak, cracks, and all – and refuses to let me break. It reminds me of the 2 Corinthians 4:8-10 verse says:

  8We are pressed on all sides, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 9persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed. 10We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body.…

And then another reminder sweeps over. One my mom gave me: “The earth’s thy ship, and not thy home.”

No wonder I struggle so much to “belong” and to feel “at home.” This is not our ultimate home. No matter where I go/stay/am… (as St. Augustine says) I will be restless until I rest in Him.

And so my true travels will never be alone, since my aim is to bring as many souls to heaven with me as possible. So, I need to find ways to enjoy the ship, wherever it takes me. And so, although I’ve just spent a whole post basically complaining and venting, I’m also looking forward to making the most of the 2 remaining months.

Because, me? I will not travel Home alone. J

And you? Thank YOU for journeying with me. <3 p="">