My nearly six-year-old has felt the strong tug of his South African roots these last three years. If my heart is buried beneath the purple bower of a Jacaranda tree in Pretoria, his must be blooming in the back yard of my father’s house where he first crawled, walked, and tasted the red dirt of our shared homeland.
His father and baby brother were both born in Michigan. But Jackson and I call the golden veld that stretches as flat and far as the eye can see beneath the Southern Cross home. We love the farmlands of Michigan, the family of the Midwest and the adopted home of the Washington, DC area. But we feel the gravitational pull of the south and winging our way home has been a gift we received with both hands.
To re-introduce my son to the places he has only walked in my memory – how does one put a price on that?
The land of lion parks, Appletizer, sunsets that set the skyline on fire, dust that burns noses and throats and makes eyes weep happy – this is home. The late night teas with family gathered three deep around the table, space heater warming up the corners of the room that the laughter missed, mint chocolate chip pudding on each plate and crumbs of the amazing day dusting our shirt fronts – this is home.
Karabo and Lulu – close in age to our own boys – being raised by my parents – this is home.
A complicated, beautiful land located on the southern most tip of a complicated and beautiful continent.
Because along with the love and the sunshine and the hope and the full helpings of family, there is another side to the homecoming. There must be if Jackson is to own the inheritance of this country that runs in his blood.
Today he came face to face with it for the first time.
He looked, he laughed, he played guitar on the jungle gym, he watched the big boys play soccer, and he told me he’d made a new friend. Then he climbed up into my arms and hugged me as tight as he could, told me he wished he could hug me tighter and whispered desperate into my ear, “I don’t want to live here, mama.”
And there’s no neat Bible verse to sum it all up and explain it – there’s just the dirt road that stretches for miles and the dust that flies around the soccer ball and half a dozen big boys while the littles climb up and run down a pile of stones for fun in the early afternoon sunshine that has us all squinting against the light.
This is the story of many, many South Africans and my parents are brave enough not to close their eyes, so I take my son by the hand and bravely show him how to open his too – to this inheritance of the land he asks me each night if we can stay in just one more day.
The inheritance of children left orphaned, abandoned, and sick. South Africa is rich with these precious souls. Rich with their smiles and their unquenchable hope. They took us by the hand today and lead us into their world. It looked a lot like ours – food, games, friends. In fact, it was so much like ours on the outside it made me run desperate circles on the inside.
There is a boy the age of my son; there is a baby the age of my daughter; there is the woman who cares for all these kids holding my baby.
I swallow my sadness down. They are not interested in my pity. This day is not about me. I take the small hands offered and we run at the sun. We wrestle and chase and take endless photos till my small boy finds his way into my lap and wants his own place back.
We watch potatoes peeled by the bucket load and admire the strong arms that stir stywe pap into the evening meal. We open our whole hearts to where they live and work hard to invite them in. The only thing holding us back is ourselves.
The only thing holding us back is ourselves.
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Lisa Jo, There’s a whole world outside my door waiting for me to run into it and grab hands–compelled by love, not pity. You’re so right on. The only thing that’s holding me back is myself. Oh, Lord, open my eyes and let the dust of this old world bring me to tears. Let your love spill over. Break down walls of fear and apathy. Let me run with You into the world.
As always, Lisa Jo–thanks for stirring my soul.
Hi Lisa-Jo. Big thoughts here. This is a post I would appreciate hearing you read aloud, to hear your inflections and hear how you are affected by these realities.
Oh yeah, I’m with her. ANY TIME you want to read what you write, I’m in.
This is lovely, Lisa-Jo – and spot on. It’s NOT about us when we’re welcomed into a reality different from our own. These are good lessons you’re teaching your boy. Thank you for this peek into another facet of life in your homeland.
Wow. I’m just a new reader, sent over by Candra Ryan Georgi.
Every post I read connects with my heart. You are amazing in your efforts to capture emotion with words. Mari said it best–you stir my soul each time. Thank you for inviting all of us into your world.
Wow. Thanks.
When my friend Liz went back home last year to visit for a month (she’s also from South Africa), she said what touched her most was the need of people. After living in Canada for three years, she had almost forgotten the many people in South Africa in need. But she knew first hand, before she left, what that looked like – just living in the comforts of a country whose impoverished are still so much more rich than the impoverished of her homeland put it at the back of her mind. And now she’s gone home to her people.
I love reading about your journey, Lisa-Jo. I know we’re called to South Africa someday and I know that we need to prepare. I soaked up everything I could from my friend, and I’m loving the chance to soak up more here.
My heart tugs at these pictures. Those are such precious people; such sweet, innocent children. I remember struggling with the clash of worlds in that beautiful land. It’s so important to teach our children about the realities of the world around us. That there is so much more than what they see out their front window. Thanks for taking us to SA with you!
Thanks, Lisa-Jo for taking us along and sharing. I love to hear all of it and also of these people you share your homeland with, their stories woven with yours.
Absolutely loved this piece. You are so right in saying that they don’t want our pity. My short stay in Ethiopia taught me that. We are all so equal, so in need of the same things. Thank you for these words, this reminder.
Beautifully written – captures the reality of the place perfectly… I struggled to write about it after visiting yesterday. Love your photos too – I think I need to go back later this month, just sit and get to know the children better and then take more pics… I look forward to seeing more of how you share about the realness of all that surrounds you.
Baie dankie~ x
I stole some moments this afternoon to catch up on your homecoming – I knew your posts would strike a familiar chord in my own heart… and oh how they have. I really have no words – just tears.