Letter for the Prodigals

Dear Daughter, (or son)

You make mistakes, 

but you are not a mistake.

You lie, 

but you are not a liar. 

You run and hide, 

but you are not unfindable. 

You are guilty and afraid, 

but you are not shameful. 

You break, 

but you are not unrepairable. 

You fall, 

but you are not a failure. 

So get back up and try again. 

Tell your shame that it's a lie. 

Run back home and hide in my arms. 

Let the Light bring beauty from your brokenness. 

Fall into the Arms of Hope, 

for there is no such thing as failure there.  

Love, 

Mom (on behalf of Papa) 

Prisoner of Hope

I can see the light in many dark souls, or so I was told.

I can see the goodness in someone when it does not yet exist.

I can see the future glory of someone who would rather live for the moment.

Seeing like this is a divine gift, but it is also the cross I bear.  

Because of this, I have trusted people who should not be trusted; I have loved people who have broken my heart in return; and I have given second chances to people who threw the opportunities away.

Because of this gifted burden, I have become a fool. I allowed person after person to look me in the eyes and lie to me, but seeing only the good, I chose to trust them instead. I allowed person after person to tell me stories to cover up their darkness, and I believed them, because they claimed to now be walking in the light.

It’s a Friday and I’m driving to drop someone off when I see a girl on the corner selling herself who looks oddly familiar. She is beautiful, and I know that beauty very well. She is my own. Sure enough, we slow enough to make eye contact, as she’s nearly face to face at my window. She sees me and runs. I shake my head as my heart cracks again; it was only yesterday that she showed up at our apartment, apologizing for her nearly 2 month MIA behavior and promising she will visit more and that she’s not on the streets. Not that I should believe her by now, but the pain of seeing her at the same place she was delivered from nearly 11 years ago is a punch to chest that stuns my desire to stay in this ministry any longer. I’m a fool for believing her words and that she will change; and yet, maybe I am just a prisoner of hope.   

It’s a Wednesday and my nanny is at my apartment after taking Benji and Lucia to the bus station to get to school while I attend mass. I had discovered some recent alarming behaviors that seemed to have resurfaced from years back when she was in our home (she graduated from the home a year ago). But over the past year she had proven herself faithful and trustworthy, becoming one of my greatest blessings especially in regard to taking care of the kids since their mother abandoned us last Sept 2017 (without knowing the secrecy and deceit she was living when I wasn’t watching). But some recent confessions from others brought her lies to the forefront and I asked her plainly without her knowing that I know. Of course she refuses and continues to make up extravagant stories to cover the lies. Eventually, I cut it straight and call her out, informing her I know the truth. Instead of an apology, a confession, an acknowledgement, this almost mid-20 year old breaks into a near tantrum, pouring out tears and hurling faults at me that I don’t trust her and that what I’ve heard are all lies, and that of course, she is relentlessly telling the truth. Even when called to facts that can’t be opposed, her mindless pursuit to cover the truth exposes her even more. I have to finally tell her to leave my apartment, go collect herself, and come back to finish our conversation when she’s ready to talk about the truth. But she doesn’t return. In fact, she runs away, leaving her free rental house, her first pay check, and her entire family behind. All because she didn’t want to tell the truth. But the thing about truth is… it will find you, eventually. And more and more was discovered in her absence, of which are so shocking and hurtful I cannot even tell. Once again, I was a fool to fall for her pretense of light when she was meddling in darkness the whole time; and yet, maybe it’s a pretense of darkness and the reality of light that is just dimmed at the moment. So here I am, once again, a prisoner of hope.

And tonight, I have held one of my oldest girls in a hug as her tears soaked my shirt and her body shook with pain of betrayal; for we had both discovered that the young man who claimed he was planning to marry her someday was living a double life, dating two girls at once. This is not just any young man, this is the young man I called my son. The first of the first, 11 years ago, when I stepped foot in Swazi for the first time. He was before Hosea’s Heart, before the girls, before my dreams, before the 12 year old who changed my life forever; before all of them, he was the first I connected to, and he has never left my side for the past 11 years. In fact, he is the one who has saved my life on several occasions. It is this young man who has looked me (and many others) in the eyes for over a year as he lied and lied and lied. But what’s done in darkness will come to light. And it did, but it’s painful. To think a man I trusted above all others, a man I said is not like other Swazi men who date multiple women at once, a man whom I’ve bragged about even in his presence, went to extensive measures to cover up his double life, and it makes me dumbfounded to wonder how I could’ve been such a fool to fall for his falsity. And my heart breaks even more for not just his ex-girlfriend, but all the girls in our home who called him brother and looked up to him as a man set apart from the others, a man who renewed their own hope in Swazi men. I was a fool to think he could be/would be different; and yet again, I know he is – he is different, he is not like this – and I cry my own tears in my prison of hope.

Betrayal of this kind has worn my patience. I am tired. My vision is starting to fail, because all I see are disappointments amidst my own failure. Surely if three of the closest people to me are three of many who have chosen double lives, surely I have failed this mission, surely I have done something wrong. Choosing to see the good in someone after they have looked you in the eyes and lied, abused your love and grace, and continue to run away is absolutely EXHAUSTING. And it makes me feel completely foolish. Like, how did I miss this? Of course after I know the truth, then many others come out and say, “Oh yeah, I knew that…I just didn’t want to tell you…” like really?  Why am I the one falling for the goodness of others? Indeed it makes me feel weak, not strong. It makes me feel foolish, not wise. It makes me feel used, not loved.

But there’s a lyric that keeps repeating in my head, “To everyone who’s hit their limit, it’s not over yet, it’s not over yet. And even when you think you’re finished, it’s not over yet, it’s not over yet. Keep on fighting out of the dark into the light, it’s not over. Hope is rising. Never give in, never give up. It’s not over.” (It’s Not Over Yet by for King and Country)    

So I refuse. I refuse to give up. I choose to be a fool of this world if that means I am a victor in Christ. I choose to see. I choose to tell him he is a man of God, and even King David fell for the flesh but rose again in humility and fear of the Lord. I choose to pray for her, knowing she will one day return with a restored faith and vision to take Hosea’s Heart to places we have never yet been. I choose to tell her, “I love you,” when she calls me the day after I find her on the street, and I hear the tone in her voice break, like a chain falling to the ground. I choose to feed her and love her baby, because I know HER STORY IS NOT OVER YET.

But I am weak, and I am tired. So pray with me that I may continue to use my ability to see light in dark places as a gift and not a burden. Pray for truth and that the only fear would be the fear of the Lord. Pray that I can always remain a prisoner of Hope. 

"Christ IN us, the HOPE for Glory..." - Col 1:27

All I Want for Christmas is Mom

            “I miss Mama Kate,” sighs one of the girls after a volunteer had asked a group of them what they thought about this year.

            “What do you mean?” asks the volunteer. “She’s here, though.”

            “I mean, like, I miss mom,” she clarifies, and the others nod in agreement. “I miss the way she used to kiss us goodnight and the way she would wake us up with her guitar in the morning.

            “I miss the way she’d sometimes leave flowers for us or other small surprises,” another adds in.

            “I miss the way we’d just sit on the porch all afternoon and chat or laugh with everyone and we’d do her hair.”

            “Or play ball in the driveway.”

            “Yeah,” another sighs with hopelessness. “It’s like she’s only running the organization and she’s no longer our mom.”

 (Trying to reason that we don't live in the same house anymore so some of those things don't happen wasn't a satisfying answer.)

            I can’t begin to describe the piercing pain in my soul when the girl who said the last statement shared all this with me. “I see how much you do for me, for us,” she added. “But sometimes, we just want you, Mom.”

             The pain came for many reasons. One, because how do you explain that running a non-profit organization comes at a cost, and often it’s the cost of time. How do you explain that the beds they sleep in are a result of spending hours, days, weeks driving around and finding the right size beds to fit in the rooms? How do you explain that the room they sleep in was carefully designed after 100s of hours, weeks, and even months of taking out my measuring tape, drawing, marking, doing calculations, hand writing the architectural layouts for the homes before submitting to the paid architect to professionally design? How do you explain the meetings with the lawyers, the land owner, the contractor, the workers, the fence guy, the security guy, the bankers, etc. How do you explain the hours in my office calculating, marketing, recording, planning, modifying, hiring, letting go, waiting… How do you explain that spending my time and heart doing my very best to run the non-profit is for them?

            But then I remember my desires for my own mom. I remember when us kids would be all set to watch a movie and mom would be doing dishes but we wanted her to watch the movie with us instead. Or when we’d be playing games before dinner while she’d be cooking but we still begged her to play with us instead. We’d complain that she didn’t spend time with us, not understanding that if she did, there would be no dinner on the table when we were hungry. And who would be upset then? Us, of course.

And so I understand their longing to just spend time with me, not understanding that time spent with them may mean losing something else they would need later.

The second reason the pain came, is because I consciously did try to step away to make room in their hearts for the house moms we hired. I knew that if I always filled that space, they would never let the house moms in to fill it, too, no matter how much I wanted to keep filling it myself. I loved being their mom. They were and are the why behind what I do.  But again, how do you explain stepping back was a self-sacrificial act of love? Because to them it probably felt more like a piece of abandonment.

And thirdly, it’s because most of my time is now spent in my car traveling to and from the girls home to my home and back again. The travel time really adds up, and especially in the summer, it really makes me tired. I ache and ache to get my house built on the land so I can finally live with them. But we had to build the multipurpose center first because that became a greater need for space for temporary home school until our future school building is up. So my house got pushed for last stage of phase one, and by this time… I think we’ve exhausted all our funders who have faithfully supported us financially through this entire expansion process. Now that’s it’s my house that needs funding, it becomes a lot harder to ask for financial support.

But after the girl shared her heart about how they miss Mom, I started reflecting and seeing things with a whole new view. For the second half of the year, after the move to the land, the girls have lost so much joy and life at the home. It’s been hard to see the joyful ones become stagnant and like they are only going through the motions of life. I figured it was due to the transition of moving and grieving the old house and living in town with running water and electricity. But what I noticed is the grieving was for something deeper, and things like their acting out against the aunties (house mothers) was for more than teenage hormones. They were grieving the loss of mom, and I had no idea. Until now.

I still don’t know how to marry the two roles: mom and director. I don’t know how to let them keep me as mom without fearing they will deny the real house mothers. I don’t know how to give them more time when I am exhausted from the other tasks. I don’t know how to explain to them that my days aren’t filled with me going off and having fun without them, that my lack of presence is because I’m working very hard for them and the future girls coming. But I do know one thing: something has to change! And with certain changes, I can still do the things I used to once do that made them feel loved and special.

I can name two things: one you can help fix, the other is up to me and God –

1)    My house being built will finally bring Mom home! 

“A home without Mom is still chaos,” one of the elder girls told me plainly, asking me to hurry up and move to the land. I told her it depends on God’s timing and his provision. But I ache like her. There is so much more of myself that I can give once I’m finally living alongside them again.  I'll have more time for playing and being, I can kiss them goodnight before I head to my house, and I'll be able to sneak over to the houses in the morning and wake them up with my guitar again.So, if you have extra Christmas money you’re wanting to spend for a good purpose, please know that if it goes to building my house, you’re investing not just in a building but reviving motherhood itself!

2) My heart needs some revival.

I also realized this year that I got so tired of getting hurt that I put my heart away. I mean like I started becoming numb unconsciously to protect myself after two girls had run away in September. My heart gets ripped out every time something like that happens, and I was so tired of that kind of betrayal and heartache. But in trying to protect my heart, it meant I became unfeeling. You see, you can’t just block the pain, you block all the emotions, including love and joy. The only emotion that seemed to be consistent was my anger. So after having a personal retreat time with Jesus, I rediscovered all of this and am in the processing of learning to have a hard shell while maintaining a soft heart.

So, in essence, all we want for Christmas is a new home and renewed heart, so I can be Mom again.