Each One Teach One

A few months ago, I posted this picture on my Instagram.

It's a passage from the book Carry On, Warrior by Glennon Doyle Melton. When I read those words, I felt both convicted and encouraged, known and energized. My beautiful friend Nora suggested the  book to me, and I appreciate these words now more than ever.

Dancing is a huge part of South African culture. Even that might be an understatement. There are 11 official languages in South Africa, and those are only the "official" ones. There is a rich diversity among the people I've met: Zulu, Sesotho, Xhosa, Sepedi, and Tsonga just to name a few. Each tribe has its own culture, but dancing seems to be uniform among them. It unites even the most dissimilar people.

Now, I can waltz and do some swing, etc., but I would not call myself a dancer by any stretch of the imagination. So I find myself in new country, living with people I barely know, trying to learn a new language, and in the midst of all this, I have to make a decision. Will I cling tightly to my comfort zone or dance with abandon? Will I risk looking like a fool or saying the wrong thing or will I refuse to speak anything but English or say nothing at all? Will I deprive the world of a gift I may have to share because I'm afraid or will I be bold and courageous?

If I have learned anything these past few weeks, it's that everyone, and I mean everyone, has something to offer that will enrich the world and the people around them. My class has given me their joy. The after-care kids have given me the gift of dance (even if it's not pretty on my part). My team leader has given me her compassion and a new perspective. My friend Mandi has given me hope through her vulnerability and honesty. The teacher I work with has given me patience and friendship. My host family has given me a home in every sense of the word.

Last Friday, my team and I were able to spend some time at the disability center in Olievenhoutbosch after we finished up at the school. When we arrived, I saw a familiar face and went over to say hello. My friend Ntombi and another lady were making jewelry out of beads. The work they do is incredible and intricate. They told me they were each learning a new pattern, teaching each other and learning from each other. They even let me try.

 Ntombi told me,

"I am teaching her, and she is teaching me. We all have something to share."

Ntombi and her friend are both confined to wheelchairs in a society that has a very low view of the disabled and therefore very few amenities for them. The roads are mostly dirt and uneven, and work nearly impossible to find. Yet here she was, smiling, beautiful, and full of joy. I couldn't help but wonder what it would be like if our roles were reversed. I don't think I'd have the faith to live with such joy and to find a purpose if I were in Ntombi's position. And if she let her worries and her fears keep her at bay, the world would be missing her gifts. I would be missing a friend, know fewer words and phrases in different languages, and not be able to make a bracelet out of beads. My life would be less full. I would be less whole.

So often I put up walls rather than sharing something that could help someone else. So often I don't take risks because I'm terrified of being hurt again. So often I don't share what I write because it's never "good enough." And in doing this, I fail to love the world to the best of my abilities, not honouring God's gifting in my life.

As Glennon writes,

"Dancing sober is what I try to do every day . . . I just try to be myself -- messy, clumsy, crutchless. Dancing sober is just honest, passionate living."

In his book The Four Loves, C.S. Lewis writes concerning friendship something I think we all should take to heart:

"Friendship arises out of mere companionship when two or more of the companions discover that they have in common some insight or interest or even taste which the others do not share and which, till that moment each believed to be his own unique treasure (or burden). The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, 'What? You too? I thought I was the only one.'"

We are made for community, and there is more that unites us than we may think. If you need me, I'll be here, dancing like a fool because it makes the kids laugh. I'll be shopping with my host mom and we'll dance in the streets because it makes her happy. I'll work on taking down my walls because I could be depriving someone else of comfort and solidarity. I'll be dancing sober.

Brokenness in the Kingdom

In our training before we started working here in South Africa, we talked a lot about poverty. Simply put, poverty is not merely a lack of material things, although this is how we commonly view it; rather, poverty is nothing more than brokenness, and it can affect even those of us with the most "wealth" according to our society's standards. When we think of poverty this way, we begin to realize that we are all wealthy in ways we may not realize, but poor in ways we might not have considered. And this should unite us, but it is so often something that separates us. We create The Other. The people we'd rather not love, rather not be around, rather not exist if we're being completely honest. Maybe we think we're better than The Other, superior in some way, or maybe we think they deserve to be where they are or that they are responsible for their own suffering. 

And in doing so, we likely compound their brokenness. And our own.

I struggle with the amount of brokenness I have seen and continue to see in this world. I know there is an "already/not yet" factor at play, so it makes sense for there to be some suffering in the world still, but why so much? Why does brokenness seem to increase every day if the Kingdom is already here in some way? I can understand suffering for our faith, but why is there so much suffering that seems to be just for the sake of suffering? In Matthew 4:17 Jesus declared that the kingdom of heaven was at hand. Shouldn't more of that kingdom be present today? 

Luke 17: 21-22 says, "Being asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, he answered them, 'The kingdom of God is not coming in ways that can be observed,  nor will they say, ‘Look, here it is!’ or ‘There!’ for behold, the kingdom of God is in the midst of you,^{'" (ESV).} 

 So I got to thinking, what if the Kingdom isn't found only in that which has already been restored, but in brokenness? Les Miserables is one of my favourite books of all times, and in it Hugo writes, "The pupil dilates in night, and at last finds day in it, even as the soul dilates in misfortune, and at last finds God in it."

I think, perhaps, it's possible that I've been thinking about God's Kingdom in the wrong way. 

So as I am confronted by brokenness, whether it be my own, that of my teammates, of the children I teach and the people I serve, in the U.S. or abroad, in The Other or in my friends and family, maybe instead of being frustrated or discouraged by it, I can recognize the presence of the Kingdom, albeit incomplete. And if the Kingdom is found in the midst of brokenness, it changes how I relate to brokenness, in all its forms. It changes everything.