I am a failure at prayer

There. I said it. I admit it. The secret is out.

To be honest, my on-and-off relationship with prayer is nothing new.
But I bring it up now because it's especially hard to sweep under the
rug here in Umphumulo.

Because as it turns out, praying is a pretty popular thing to do in
this community. There are two sets of morning prayers every day at the
primary school where I volunteer…as teachers and again as a whole
school. We have a prayer service every morning at the church centre
where I live. We sing countless prayers during church on Sunday
mornings. And I can't tell you how many time I've been at the Mabaso
family's house… and suddenly eight lovely church ladies show up
unannounced, sing and dance their way into the living room, and start
an impromptu hour-long prayer service. Prayer—in many and various
forms—simply happens a lot.

One of my favorite Zulu Lutheran practices is when everyone in the
room prays out loud at the same time. It's usually a powerful moment
to be a part of that cacophony of supplication. But there are also
plenty of times when I simply don't have words to pray. Which sounds
strange, because obviously there are plenty of things/people I could
be praying for at any given time. The real struggle is not what to
pray about, but how to do it authentically, how to fit the deepest
yearnings, sorrows, and thanksgivings of my life into words that feel
genuine.

And for a host of reasons, those most inexpressible parts of myself
have been yearning for a voice more and more. The life of this
community has stirred my spirit, has helped me see the ways in which
my most fervent hopes are intertwined with the lives of our brothers
and sisters in South Africa. It has opened my eyes to see even more of
our world's brokenness and fullness, opened my heart to yearn to
express both cries for justice and songs of thanksgiving. It's
transformative. It's beautiful. But gosh, it makes finding adequate
words feel impossible. And it sometimes makes me feel like a failure
at prayer.

But then there are these moments…these simple, mundane chunks of time
that come out of nowhere, knock me off my intellectual high horse, and
leave me silent in the face of the everyday holiness around me. A walk
through the tall grass, a greeting from a stranger, a smile from a
child, a starry sky. I have no words for moments like these, and yet
they are the closest thing to real prayer I think I've ever felt.

The author Barbara Brown Taylor writes about prayer in a way that
makes sense to me in this chapter of my life: "Prayer is more than
saying set prayers at set times. Prayer…is waking up to the presence
of God no matter where I am or what I'm doing. When I am fully alert
to whatever or whoever is right in front of me; when I am electrically
aware of the tremendous gift of being alive; when I am able to give
myself wholly to the moment I am in, then I am in prayer. Prayer is
happening, and it is not necessarily something that I am doing. God is
happening, and I am lucky enough to know that I am in The Midst."

I am not in control. I am not the one making it happen. My only task
is to yield. And to be thankful. Theme of my year.

So while it can still feel awkward when I'm the only one not talking
during the everyone-pray-at-the-same-time prayers, I'm learning to be
okay with not having words. I'm learning to be okay with admitting
that the fullness of my brokenness is just too much for flimsy words
to hold. I'm learning to be okay with praying in the language of a
setting sun, a hug from a fourth grader, a feeling of exhausted
frustration, a long walk with no destination, and a hopeful silence.

And I'm learning to be grateful for those who are teaching me these
lessons, for my Umphumulo brothers and sisters and moms and dads and
grannies and friends and random acquaintances and strangers on the
road.

Whatever form (or lack of form) your prayers may take right
now…however it is that your prayers happen…however you find yourself
in The Midst… I invite you to join me in prayers for a world which
desperately yearns for peace and reconciliation. And I also invite you
to join me in prayers of gratitude for those who bring hope amidst the
brokenness. Especially on my heart now is the group of young adults
preparing to embark on their own YAGM journeys during the coming year
and a half. Today they find out in which countries they will serve.
This group of compassionate young people fills my wordless prayers
with hope.

A thought...

I am broken. I am imperfect. I am not enough.
I want so desperately to be a part of this community.
I yearn to live in solidarity, to glimpse the true life
But I cannot walk in their shoes without taking off my own.
I cannot fill my heart with the joys and sorrows of this world
Without first being emptied
Of the preconceptions, expectations, and need to control.
And it is the emptying that is leaving me weary.
Because at the end of the day I am who I was raised to be
And no amount of effort or yearning
or pull-up-myself-by-my-bootstraps determination will change that.
I'm not even sure I really want to change that.
And yet every single moment holds the potential
Not to utterly transform
But to mold
The soft clay of my identity
If I only choose to remain open.
No, I don't even have the strength to make that decision on my own.
If only I fall—over and over and over
Into the grace that sees this dusty clay
And the clay of every human life
And says that it is good.
Not good enough
But simply and forever and undeservingly and gracefully good.

Gratitude

A recent conversation at Umphumulo Hospital:

Doctor: What are you doing here?
Me: I'm a volunteer with the Lutheran Church. I stay at the church
centre up the hill. I'll be here for about a year total.
Doctor: Oh. And where are you from?
Me: The United States.
Doctor: What a sacrifice!

I left the hospital that day with a pit in my stomach. And I'm not
talking about the stomach bug that was the reason for my visit.
Sacrifice?! A good intention on the doctor's part, but that word
caught me off guard big time.

Yes, there are naturally sacrifices associated with spending a year
living in another country. Like being away from my family and friends
in the United States for a really long time.

Or living without Snickers bars for 11 months. Rough life. Ha.

But seriously. As my gut reaction to the doctor's comment reminded me,
I would never choose the world "sacrifice" to define my life in South
Africa. So if anyone out there was considering feeling sorry for me or
commending me for making such a big sacrifice…I appreciate the
kindness, but please channel your emotions into a sentiment that
better fits the situation.

Like gratitude. Because at the end of the day—no mater how confusing
or frustrating or exhausting it may be—the opportunity to live as a
member of this community is an overwhelming privilege. To have the
support of so many wonderful people in the United States is an
overwhelming privilege. To be molded by an increasingly expansive
vision of church and family and faith is an overwhelming privilege. To
be invited into spaces of deep heartbreak and deep joy within the
lives of my neighbors here is an overwhelming privilege. To become a
neighbor, a brother, and a son in Umphumulo is an overwhelming
privilege. To wake up each day to a God and a community who
relentlessly love me even when I feel unlovable is an overwhelming
privilege. And to realize that I did absolutely nothing to earn any of
these privileges…that's grace, my friends.

And so no matter how overwhelmed or confused or frustrated I may be at
times, I pray that the emotion that rises to the top of the jumble is
one of overwhelming gratitude. For this place. For this time. For this
family. For this global church. And for the grace that binds our
gratitude together.

Kuyashisa Kakhulu (It's Really Hot)

Today in Umphumulo, the temperature hit a whopping 104 F. According to
my neighbor Sifiso, that's the hottest it's been here in a very long
time. It really hit me when I realized that it was literally 120
degrees warmer here than it was in Minnesota last week. As we say in
isiZulu, "Kuyashisa kakhulu. Kakhulu." It's hot. Really hot.

And as luck would have it, this afternoon I found myself walking to
Umphumulo Primary School during the hottest part of the day. Uphill
the whole way. In the sun. Yeesh.

As pretty much any of my college friends will tell you, I have a bad
habit of walking too fast. Four years of having classes on opposite
sides of campus allowed me to perfect the cross-campus-dash.
Unfortunately, the habit stuck, and I still tend to walk about twice
as fast as a normal human being.

Today broke that habit pretty fast. The walk to the primary school
from where I stay is tough on a day with reasonable temperatures. But
in 104 degree heat, it was brutal. All of a sudden, my typical pace
seemed pretty unreasonable.

And so I walked. Very, very slowly. And I paused in the rare spots of
shade to wipe away the sweat. And I walked some more. Very slowly. I
had the time to savor the shade. I kept my eyes up. I noticed things I
didn't notice before. I walked (slowly!) with a mother and daughter. I
had a conversation I wouldn't have had if I were moving faster. We
talked about how it was hot and how we were tired. But we made it. It
wasn't that bad after all.

This evening, when it finally cooled down enough for my brain to
function normally, I realized that there's probably a life lesson or
two tucked away in that trek up the hill. Here's one that speaks to me
in this particular "season" of my YAGM year:

Sometimes the conditions can be tough. Sometimes I feel like I'm
walking uphill the whole way. Sometimes the destination seems distant
and the journey intense. Sometimes it would be easier to just stay
inside out of the heat. Sometimes the circumstances make even normal
tasks seem more difficult.

Sometimes I'm tempted to react to these circumstances by moving
quickly, by pulling up those Midwestern bootstraps, fixing my eyes on
the road, and plowing through.

But sometimes it's better to walk slowly in the heat. To feel the
fullness of the challenge. To appreciate the moments of rest. To take
time to notice the details. To savor time with companions. To admit to
one another that the way is difficult. To admire the strength of the
other. And to share in the vulnerability of the walk.

Why I Don't Use the Word "Busy"

I have made a conscious effort since I came to South Africa to avoid
using the word "busy." Why? Well, for one, I think I used that word so
much during my four years of college that I've already maxed out my
lifetime quota. Typical interaction: "How are you, Kaleb?" "Oh, I'm
doing pretty well, but I'm just really busy." In college, being busy
became a comfortable part of my daily life, something that I was proud
of, something that maybe even started to define me.

I sometimes think about what my lifestyle was like eight months ago
during my last semester of college, and then I look at my daily
schedule here in Umphumulo (or total lack thereof, as it were), and I
just laugh. Just for kicks, I pulled up my calendar for the month of
May 2012, and I'm pretty sure I had every single hour of my life
blocked out…classes, study sessions, meetings, rehearsals, review
sessions, pre-graduation arrangements, etc. I even had to schedule in
times to sit down and talk to specific friends, because I knew it
wouldn't happen otherwise. Looks pretty unpleasant from the
perspective of Umphumulo.

Because today when I woke up, I knew only one thing about my day. I
knew I would be going to Nyamazane Primary School. And that's it. No
schedule. No plan. Just a beautifully unknown, unforeseeable,
surprising 17 hours of life. And that's not just today. That's every
day.

And now it's 11:00 pm, and even though there was no plan, even though
my day was by no means busy, I am totally exhausted. Because
today—like most days here—was not busy, but it was incredibly full.
Let me show you what I mean:

At 6:45 this morning, I left the church centre to go with Mama Mabaso
to Nyamazane. Today was the first day of school for the entire
province, so excitement was in the air. We stopped at her house just
long enough to admire Mvoto's new high school uniform and to pick up
1.5-year-old Akabongwe, who was sporting a tiny new backpack for her
first day at the crèche (preschool). After putting the backpack on
Akabongwe's back and watching her giggle and tip over backwards about
four times, Ma decided it was time to go. We dropped Akabongwe at the
crèche, and a lifetime of first-day-of-school memories flooded into my
mind as I watched her and Ma say goodbye to each other through the
tears. (Sound familiar, mom?)

Fortunately, the emotional goodbye was followed by lots of happy
reunions with the Nyamazane teachers, a fantastic group of people who
I genuinely missed during the holiday break. After plenty of hugs and
stories of Christmas celebrations, we gathered to sing and pray like
we do every morning at school. And then began perhaps one of the most
fascinating logistical processes I've ever witnessed. Imagine the
sorting hat from Harry Potter times about 27 intensity. Herds of
slightly confused students getting rapidly distributed into classrooms
based on grade and gender. I felt overwhelmed, but the teachers
obviously had it under control because within ten minutes the
schoolyard went from chaos to total order. Magic, no doubt.

Right away, our Grade 4 class dove into a math lesson, intermixed with
my comical attempts to create a roster of the students' names. It's
hard enough for me to pronounce some Zulu names, but you should have
seen me trying to spell 30 of them correctly and in alphabetical
order. Ha. Once we collectively cleared that hurdle, it was smooth
sailing for the rest of the day. We organized a cupboard. We counted
by tens. We weeded the garden. And I learned the Zulu names for the
months of the year from a few brilliantly patient fifth graders.

Once school was over and anxious mommy was reunited with Akabongwe, we
headed back home. We ate a snack with Mvoto and Siwe (girls I consider
my sisters here), shared stories from our first day at school, and
participated in our daily ritual of listening to Mvoto and my favorite
Rihanna song (the slightly annoying one about diamonds in the sky). At
one point, Siwe and I strolled to the tuck shop to buy airtime and
talk about life. Mvoto and I climbed onto the roof to try and fix the
TV satellite. Ma and I planned out our next culinary endeavor (pizza).
Mvoto and I drank tea. I typed a document with Baba. Baba drove me
back to the church centre. I chatted with Sbo (and drank more tea).
And here I am. What a day. Not busy, but full.

So what's the point? Eight months ago, I was so caught up in being
"busy" that my busyness began to define who I was. Every day was about
getting through the list, making it to the meetings, accomplishing the
tasks. Life was stressful, and life was exhausting. Today was also
exhausting, but in a totally different way. I had no schedule, no
plan, no list. And yet every moment was full. Lack of schedule does
not mean lack of time well spent. In fact, I would argue that this
totally un-busy day involved more meaningfully spent time than some of
my busiest days during college.

I'm not sure there's a profound take-home message to this reflection.
But I do know that my un-busy life in Umphumulo is reshaping the way I
think about time well spent. When the schedule went out the door, all
of a sudden it made room for things that I would say matter far more
than the to-do list: conversations, cups of tea, tears, walks around
the neighborhood, bad (but catchy) pop music, jokes, stories, meals,
breaths.

I don't use the word "busy" to describe my life anymore, and I think
I'd like to keep it that way. I'm sure that I won't be able to escape
the schedule and to-do list forever, but I now know that busyness does
not define me. It is the conversations, the shared time, the common
space, and the relationships that make me who I am, that fill my days
with meaning. And with that in mind, as I look back on this
beautifully un-busy day, I'm feeling pretty blessed.

O Come, O King of Nations, Come

A reflection written shortly before Christmas:

I distinctly remember the day. I was sitting in daily chapel at St.
Olaf sometime in the fall of my sophomore year. The chapel speaker was
talking about a program of the ELCA that sent young adults to live
overseas for a year. She shared some exciting stories, and I remember
thinking to myself, "That could be a cool way to spend a year. But I
don't think I could handle being away from home for Christmas." Of all
the fears that could have gone through my mind at that point, it was
missing Christmas that came through first.

Irony of all ironies, two years later that naïve little sophomore
ended up signing up for that very same program. And now, almost three
years later, he is doing what his sophomore self thought he could
never do…living through his first Christmas season away from home. God
has a sense of humor.

While December in South Africa hasn't been as challenging as I might
have predicted as a sophomore, it's come with its fair share of
sudden-onset waves of nostalgia and homesickness. I missed the family
Christmas tree decorating traditions, complete with Chinese take-out.
(The 1-foot-tall Christmas tree in my room here just isn't quite the
same.) I missed Christmas Fest at St. Olaf. (Surprise! There are no
Norwegian sweaters or platters of lutefisk in Umphumulo.) I missed my
brother and sisters' Christmas concerts and programs. (Who doesn't
love hordes of proud moms wearing Christmas sweaters?) And boy, oh
boy, have I missed the Christmas music. (Confession: Sometimes I sit
in my room at night and sing Advent hymns out of the hymnal that I
lugged with me halfway across the world. Total nerd? Absolutely.)

And here I am. It's December 23rd. The temperature is somewhere
between 80 and 90 degrees F. Instead of evergreen branches twinkling
under a fresh coat of snow, I am looking out my window to palm trees
swaying in the summer breeze. And all of a sudden, most of those
beloved Christmas songs that play on the radio make absolutely no
sense…"Baby It's Really Hot Outside," "Frosty the Melted Puddle," "I'm
Dreaming of a Sunburned Christmas," "Oh Banana Tree."

So much of what I have identified as signs of the Advent season just
isn't relevant here anymore. And it would be easy to make myself
miserable listing off all the things about Christmas at home that I
miss. But as several wise and wonderful people have reminded me this
month, it is a beautiful opportunity to live Advent through the eyes
of my brothers and sisters in Umphumulo.

And so I've tried, and failed, and tried some more to drop my
preconceived ideas of Advent and to get a glimpse at what life here
looks like in light of the coming Christ Child. And slowly, I'm
starting to see a recurring theme: waiting.

Chances are, most of you have heard Advent referred to as the "season
of waiting and watching," the four weeks when we anticipate the birth
of Jesus, when we prepare ourselves and ask God to come and sort
things out in this world. "O come, o come, Emmanuel," "O come, thou
long expected Jesus," "Come thou fount of every blessing"… We ask, we
hope, we wait.

My friends and neighbors here at Umphumulo are darn good at waiting.
When you take public transport in this area, you can expect to wait
anywhere from 5 minutes to several hours for the taxi to leave. When
church often lasts 6 hours, you get pretty good at waiting for lunch
or waiting to use the restroom. When most of the offices and
businesses in the country shut down for almost the entirety of
December, you simply have to wait until January to finish those
errands on your to-do list.

I admire the patience of my brothers and sisters here. But even more,
I admire the way they often approach the task of waiting. Waiting is
not necessarily a bad thing. Waiting is a natural part of life.
Waiting is an opportunity to rest. Waiting is a chance to have a
conversation. Waiting gives us time to think and process and pray.
Waiting can be a gift.

But waiting isn't always a gift. One of my closest friends here has
been waiting many months to complete his tuberculosis treatments so
that he can study again. I've met many, many people in my community
who ask me if I can help them find a job, because they've been waiting
for months or years to find a steady source of income. And I've heard
the stories of young children at school who live through violence and
sickness and deep family loss…and who wait with unspeakable
perseverance for something to change. Waiting can be exhausting,
terrifying, and life-consuming.

But I sincerely hope you understand that the people of Umphumulo are
defined by far more than the social and health and financial issues
they face. They have homes and families and dreams and personalities
and names and complex stories. They are friends, neighbors, the people
I interact with every day. Some are living in a time of stability and
health. Some are not. No different than my community in Farmington,
Missouri, or in Northfield, Minnesota…or in whatever places you call
home. And so please don't let these stories of waiting be the only
ones that come to mind for you during this Advent season. In all
places, there are brothers and sisters waiting for the night to pass.

In fact, I hope that we would all include ourselves in that expectant
group of wait-ers. Not just in December, but in all seasons of life,
we wait. Whether it is our own darkness or that of someone else, we
wait. Knowing that who I am is bound up in who we are, we come
alongside one another and wait. Together, as families and communities,
we wait. In solidarity and in vulnerability to one another, we wait.
Proclaiming that our waiting is not an act of passive submission but
instead a cry in the desert, a plea for change, we continue to wait.
Trusting that our pleas are heard, we wait. For justice. For healing.
For security. For unity. For the Love that is always coming towards
us, who inspires us to pray, to yearn, to sing:

"O come, O King of nations, come,
O Cornerstone that binds in one;
Refresh the hearts that long for you;
Restore the broken, make us new.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to you,
O Israel."

You Can't Manage Conversion

The angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you
are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has
risen, just as he said…He has risen from the dead and is going ahead
of you into Galilee." Matthew 28:5-7


I've thought a lot about expectations during the past several months.
This summer, before I left for South Africa, I persistently told
myself to abandon my expectations for the year ahead. As much as I
longed to know what was coming on the other side of that plane flight,
I also knew that if I arrived with too many expectations, I would be
setting myself up for a rough transition. Even during in-country
orientation when solid details seemed to be finally falling into
place, we were warned that things can change, that we shouldn't be too
attached to any one image of our host communities. In the midst of a
monumental transition, we sought to embrace the uncertainty and to see
the value of remaining open to surprise every single day. We were
fighting hard against our expectations.

And, for much of the past three months, I feel like I've gotten pretty
good at this whole no-expectations business. I can't even tell you how
many times I've hopped in someone's car with pretty much no idea where
we were going or why we were going there, just that it would be a
valuable learning experience in the end. Every morning when I wake up,
I rarely know exactly how I'll be spending my time for the rest of the
day. It all depends on who asks for my help, who I bump into on the
road, who invites me to their home, and even whether or not it happens
to rain that afternoon. While it sometimes leaves me feeling totally
out of control, that's probably exactly what my control-freak self
needs right now. Abandoning expectations can be terrifying, but it can
also be liberating.

But during the past month or so, I've begun to realize that giving up
control is more complex than just abandoning the daily planner. I've
really been struggling to put words to this discomfort, this yearning,
this unanswered question that has been churning in my mind. But last
week, during our first YAGM SA retreat, Pastor Philip Knutson, a
long-time representative of the ELCA in South Africa, offered a
framework that has helped me begin to sort through this
lesson-in-progress.

Working from a lifetime of missionary experience, Philip had an
enormous wealth of wisdom and insight to share with the YAGM crew. But
the phrase that has stuck with me the most is this: "You can't manage
conversion."

I believe that, in many ways, the YAGM year is a time of conversion.
Although the word "conversion" certainly carries some baggage, and
although every young adult's experience is ultimately unique, I think
we all hope to be changed by our experiences this year. I've had lots
of conversations with other YAGM about changing our perspectives on
power and privilege, changing our lifestyles to be more simple and
less focused on consumerism, changing the way we engage those of
different culture and background, and changing the ways in which we
see God at work in the world. We hope to be changed, to be molded, to
be shaped by our brothers and sisters around the world and by our God.
We are certainly not here to convert other people, but I for one sure
hope that I undergo some conversion this year. In many ways, I am here
to be changed, and one of my deepest fears is that I will come out of
this year unchanged. Spending a year of life as a YAGM is too much of
a privilege to miss that opportunity.

And so I've spent a great deal of energy and worry these past three
months trying to make sure I don't miss out on the conversion this
year has to offer. Some days, this yearning for change is a positive
thing…it helps me push outside my comfort zone, and it encourages me
to stay open to the lessons each day offers. But then other times it
has become a big source of frustration. That day when I made 3000
copies in the diocese office didn't seem very much like the conversion
I had envisioned. I get angry at myself when I feel like my incredibly
slow progress with the Zulu language is keeping me from really getting
to know people in my community. I feel guilty when I take a bath with
running, heated water, and I think to myself, "Am I really living in
solidarity with my community when I know that many people in this area
live without running water?" I get frustrated when I feel like I'm not
learning "enough" about the history of South Africa. I daily ask
myself, "Am I trying hard enough? Am I putting myself out there
enough? Am I changing enough?" And every day, I struggle with trying
to figure out where God is in all of this.

And so here I am. Trying to abandon my expectations, striving to live
into the unknown opportunities of each day…and all the while grasping
tight to a vision of conversion that I must somehow achieve if this
year is to be "successful." Sure, I can deal with not having my day
scheduled down to the minute. But it is another thing entirely to
realize that I cannot, no matter how hard I try, make myself change on
my own terms. Who am I to say that making 3000 copies isn't a learning
experience? Who am I to say that my imperfect Zulu is a barrier rather
than an opportunity? Can I really dictate exactly which lessons of
simple living I'm going to learn this year? Is it really in my power
to make my friends and neighbors tell me about their experiences with
apartheid? Can I really be the one to decide whether I'm living
intentionally "enough," whether I've changed "enough," whether I've
been converted "enough"? And, for goodness sake, who am I to determine
where God is at work in all of this?

I can't manage my conversion. Just like the women at the tomb, I
showed up here and expected to find Jesus right where I thought he
should be. "Here I am, show me Jesus," I said. But, thank goodness,
there was a voice—or in my case, many voices—that reminded me, "He is
not here…He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into
Galilee." Jesus does not fit into the box of my expectations. And the
road to Galilee—the road of my conversion—does not follow my
well-mapped plan. As usual, God is messing with my expectations. Even
the way I think about change is changing.

And I'm certainly not in Galilee yet. Every single day, I find in
myself the impulse to hold on tightly to control, to somehow force the
change I think I need out of every day and every interaction. I too
often assume that I know where I'm supposed to end up at the end of
this year's journey, that I know the person I am supposed to become.

It is in these moments that Jesus meets me, reminding me that the path
of conversion is far from tidy, comfortable, and predictable. It is a
daily journey to the tomb, a daily reminder that "he is not here; he
has risen," and a daily willingness to travel the road toward Galilee,
to trust the promise that Jesus goes ahead of us to meet us along the
way. To share the companionship of brothers and sisters who will often
point us in surprising but meaningful directions. To trust the call to
abandon control. And, against all expectations, to trust deeply that
this journey is one of abundant conversion.