the state of africa (what we're reading)

Africa, as almost everyone on the planet knows, is not the greatest continent in the world. Politically, it is filled with corruption. Economically, there is no place that is poorer. In terms of health, the problem cannot be understated – AIDS, TB, malnutrition, and Malaria conspire to kill well over 10,000 people every single day.

But why? Why Africa?

I have been reading a book called The State of Africa: A History of Fifty Years of Independence by Martin Meredith.

Activist Bob Geldof said that this book was necessary for anyone hoping to understand why Africa is where it is. And he was right.

Imagine. Most African countries have only been independent for a few decades. And many of the boundaries between these countries were poorly thought out. For instance, Nigeria was formed (by colonial powers) up of over 100 different tribes, each with its own unique language and culture.

But as colonial powers fled Africa in the mid-20th century, they left a myriad of political and cultural (not to mention educational) time-bombs behind. Is it any wonder that despots reign? Is it any wonder that civil wars rage? Is it any wonder that money that could be used to fight AIDS is instead used to buy weapons that will only kill more Africans? And should we really be surprised? The US Civil War occurred almost a full 100 years after American independence. One would expect similar proceedings here as infant countries begin to sort themselves out. It doesn’t make it right. And it certainly doesn’t make it palatable.

But, as this book has shown me, the problems are infinitely more complex than they look at first glance. And the future must always be framed in light of the past. This future looks bleak. With a better understanding, maybe it can begin to look a little better.

survivor: mission house and other televised goodies

We do have a TV here. And, although it is not the best picture and sometimes the antenna must be balanced at just the right angle, we do enjoy it. And even though all of the American shows are at least a season or two behind, we still enjoy the home-cookin’.

There are really three shows that we look forward to the most, for wonderfully different reasons.



On Monday nights, we get to watch “The Biggest Loser”. You know this show, where unhealthy, overweight folks compete to see who can lose the most weight. It is really cheesy at times, but is completely inspiring at others. It comes down to the fact that we are just suckers for life-transformation. I mean, to see a dude go from 400 to 300 pounds in a couple months is amazing. Better yet, you get to ride the emotions with him, watching him cry when he thinks of living to see his grandchildren.

(If you are rolling your eyes at us now, remember that we have 4 channels, 3 of which are in another language at any given time – cut us a little slack. If you are nodding your head because you get hooked by these types of things too, then you are a good person and are bound for great things.)

Tuesday night is our big night. We get a half-day off every Tuesday just to enjoy each other’s company. We go out to lunch and then do laundry at home, enjoying being the only one’s at home in a domicile that usually pushes a dozen occupants.

Survivor: Cook Islands is on at 7:30pm. Why is this show so compelling? I think it’s because of the challenges. I mean, who designs the zip-line, rope-climbing, scuba-diving, puzzle-solving challenges? Gates? Hawking? And then how much fun is it to watch these emaciated people pour out every calorie they have trying to win….a blanket? Or some peanut butter? Those rewards make us feel like royalty in our leaky, drafty, collapsing mission house. We laugh at them longing for peanut butter and then we stare at each other and cry for…a proper mattress. Irony.



Now that I think about it, we should have Survivor: Mission House. We could compete in challenges for proper mattresses or roof repairs. We could have a competition with the winners getting a heater or a can of roach spray or something. I could solve underwater puzzles for the right to some chicken fingers or a Frappuccino. I think we may be onto something. I’ll get to work on this. Someone call CBS.

Anyway, Survivor is fun. It is life-change and problem-solving and triumph-over-adversity all rolled into one.

Finally, on Tuesday nights we finish with Law & Order: SVU. I don’t really know how we started watching it. It’s one of these crime-solving dramas, like CSI but without the cheesy blue-lit offices and supreme close-ups of bodily fluids at the crime scene. Translation: It is better.

Basically, it is a show about justice, which, as with life-transformation and underwater-puzzle-solving, we are suckers for. Killers and rapists get caught and, somewhat realistically, sometimes they take a plea bargain. Even better, sometimes, they lack the evidence to convict. But we love justice. God is just. Well, he is terribly unjust, which is how we get grace when we deserve much worse. But the justice aspect is still what draws us.

That’s about all. Besides, the Young and the Restless is about to come on and Phyllis is about to have Nick’s baby!! Gotta run!! (Oh, the humanity…)

"so god made me blind and unable to walk; big deal."

We were blessed to be able to attend the Global Leadership Summit here in Johannesburg over the weekend. Thanks to the generosity of a couple of the most wonderful people we know, we were able to take 6 young Africans along with us. We will likely share much (MUCH) more about it soon.

For now, take 6 minutes out of your day and be inspired. We saw this father and son’s story at the Summit and had to find a way to share it.

How great is a father’s love…

of leaky roofs and ruthless mercy

Last post about the rain for awhile, ok?

Occasionally, I have the ability to see further than my own nose. Sometimes, I manage to see the world beyond my own circumstances.

There is this set of eyes that I love to wear. I live with them for weeks at a time, excitedly looking at the world and waiting for what’s around the corner. Everything is important and everything is simply a thinly veiled metaphor of something entirely more massive. Life is so good in those eyes. Life is big and deep and appreciative.

Of course, I then go weeks wearing my own eyes (-5.50 if my optometrist is reading this). They are very temporal, very-much centered on how everything looks to me. The only metaphors they see are ones that relate directly to a need of mine that I’ve convinced myself must be met imminently. In these eyes, I don’t see the street-kids begging on the corner, I see the McDonalds and the Big Mac and McFlurry that would make me feel good for about 43 seconds/

Whatever the case may be, I love that first set of eyes.

Last weekend, it really stormed nicely for about 24 hours. Lightning and thunder and the whole production… Andre had just died and I’d just learned of Beauty’s unfortunate issues with the puddles in her house.

So, the rain fell and I thought of Beauty and of Andre. And as we climbed the stairs of the Mission House after a long day, we noticed a puddle of our own. At the top of the stairs was a sizeable amount of standing water. Naturally, we looked at the ceiling above the new indoor pond and found that it was dripping from several places.

The rain had invaded our home, which isn’t the least bit surprising. Stef and I joke that we’re going to be awoken one night by our bed plummeting down from the second story to the first as the creaky old floor we walk on (ever-so-gently) finally gives way. We find vines growing in the walls and little critters everywhere, so the rain dripping through the ceiling was simply another facet of our very old, very dilapidated accommodation.


Then came the metaphor…

I don’t know exactly when the rain had become associated with mercy. And I don’t know if that’s something I made up or something Oswald Chambers snuck into my brain or what. I do know that I always equate the falling rain with the mercies of God falling upon his earth. Every time. Undeserved, life-sustaining mercy.

So, as I hydro-planed into our room, I remembered His mercy. And after a very (VERY) trying week of death and relational strain and loss and sadness, our roof leaked. What a beautiful picture.

I could not outrun His mercy. There was no place that could hide me from His love or His embrace. No man-made structure, physical or otherwise, could combat His overwhelming force.

He alone, the author of all that is good, gives rest to the weary. He finds the destitute in their most desperate places – and He pours His love out upon them. He found me there. He continues to find me. And remind me. I cannot outrun Him. I cannot hide from His goodness, His holiness, or His all-consuming nature.

Today, I am again thankful for the rains. And the leaky roof.

de-romanticizing the rain

Tired of stories about the rain yet? Too bad…

So, as has been mentioned, I love the rain. Love the sound, the smell, the taste, the coolness it brings with it…

And, surely, about half of you reading this are nodding as well. A lot of people love the rain. I mean, they sell candles and detergent and body wash and carpet cleaners and hand soaps and a million other things that smell like “fresh rain” - only the never smell anything like fresh rain. I hate that.

There is a certain romance about the rain, though, isn’t there? Here, we happen to live in the tin-roofed Mission House. The rain on a tin roof is unlike anything else in the world. Maybe I’m just desperate for that God-embrace, but as I lay in bed last week, listening to the rain beat the weathered, red roof of the house, I felt as if the Lord Himself was holding me in his massive palm.

Maybe I’m just over-romanticizing the rain, huh?

A lot of things are romanticized, though. War movies are always popular, although war might be the most destructive thing ever invented. Long-distance love stories always look fun. Then you have a friend with a long-distance love and you figure out that the whole thing is a lot of work and usually leads to a lot of sleepless nights. Ever seen a beer commercial? Those guys are always having so much fun, cracking jokes while they hang out with their perfect dogs and girlfriends while watching football. Umm, there is another side to that story to be sure.

But the rain is really perfect, right? I mean, a little rain has never been more than an inconvenience to a traveler or a surprise shower to a passer-by. Right?

Our friend Beauty was up at church with us on that Wednesday when the first rains came. I was buzzing from window to window, watching puddles form and waiting for thunderclaps to awaken my soul. She stared out the window longingly.



Eventually, I inquired about her long face (skipping all relevant horse-walking-into-a-bar jokes). She half-smiled. It’s the rain, she told me.

What could be wrong with the rain, I wondered. Nothing. Obviously, nothing.

Beauty then explained to me that whenever it rained, puddles formed in her shack. When it stormed, she almost had her own river. The thunder boomed again. Only this time I recoiled at the sound.

Beauty is my dear friend. Stef and Beauty might as well be sisters. And Beauty lives in a tin and cardboard shack half the size of a one-car garage with her three children in the squatter camp. Beauty does not enjoy the rain.

And so, there on that same Wednesday that we lost Andre and the dry season, I lost something else. I lost a great bit of my romanticized view of the rain.

I still enjoy the smell of a shower on the horizon. I still spring to life when the first drops begin slapping the roof. I still like to sit and stare and just ponder the genius of a Creator who would have chosen such a beautiful medium with which to refresh his earth. I still enjoy the rain. Only, now, I enjoy it with a tinge of sadness. It brings a little more melancholy than before. I now enjoy the smell while I think of my friend and her children hoping that it will stop. And I think of the millions upon millions like her in this country. They probably don’t like those puddles much either.

Perspective - especially unwelcome perspective - can be a bit of a bummer.

nobody wants to die

We buried Andre on Tuesday.

Strange things, funerals…

They cause such consideration about life and mortality. And, really, as draining as they can be, I am starting to believe that we need more of them in our lives.

We, as a society, are so ignorant of our own mortality. We believe in the lie of invincibility. We buy age-defying creams. We spray hair onto our bald spots. We do anything to convince ourselves that we’re not slowly dying, that our weak little bodies are not quietly shutting down. And yet, we all pass on at some point.

All of that to say this: we’ve been blessed by all of the funerals we’ve been at lately. We have another one on Thursday. Again, we’ll consider what our lives stand for. We’ll wonder what people will say over our remains. We’ll think about what changes we have to make to prepare to leave this world better than we found it for the glory of His name. In the end, we’ll be better for the whole exercise.

I’m reading a book right now called “Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven – But Nobody Wants to Die” by David Crowder and Mike Hogan. It’s really a prolonged look at death. It is also a walk through the history of the soul (and bluegrass) and a way for the authors themselves to grieve. It was their friend and pastor who was electrocuted while baptizing someone in Waco a few years back. The book is, well, different; but enjoyable. Recommended…

labola

Ever heard of “labola”?

Labola is the African cultural practice of a young man “buying” his wife from her family.

When a young couple decides they want to be married, the male familial elders of the potential groom go to the potential bride’s family to “negotiate” a price for her hand in marriage.

Once a price has been settled upon, the potential groom goes about trying to raise that money, which can be quite a large sum. One friend of ours has been quoted R60,000 (almost $10,000). This is a ridiculous amount, especially since our friend earns about $1500 a year.

So, he attempts to find a way around the issue and does one of three things…he leaves the girl (least likely). He quietly gives up hope to marry her and attempts consummation anyway, without any of the formal commitment. He promises to raise the funds while attempting (usually feebly) to deny the urge to impregnate her to try and force the potential bride’s family’s hand in lowering the price.

What labola ultimately leads to is an increased number of illegitimate pregnancies (since he can’t afford to marry her but wants the benefits anyway). It leads to an increased prevalence of HIV/AIDS, since young people engage in sexual relations more often outside of the realm of marriage (again hampered by labola) without firm commitments to each other – so when a big fight comes up, there is no marriage to stay in and the couple splits only to reenact the entire scene again with new partners.

Labola was a pastoral idea set up to compensate a family for a daughter, who would leave the family and join her husband, meaning that her birth family does not get any of the benefits of her labor, which means she costs a lot to raise and provides nothing back in long-term benefits. So, the husband would pay the family, both for raising her to that point and to compensate for her future absence.

An outdated idea had migrated into the cities of modern Africa and has only helped to spread the scourge that is killing so many.