get it//week22

Last week I found myself yet again at the Cape Town International airport. I think I know that place better than most. The influx of visitors to MCM these past 5 months has landed me at the airport at least twice a month.

However this trip was unique. Because I drove out of that airport with the most precious visitor to Africa this year; my mother.

After three years of stories, my mother came to see it for herself. She came to see what it was that managed to steal her daughter away time after time.


She saw the beauty, the dirt, the hope, the hurt, the wealth, the poverty, the people, the animals- she saw it all. And after several ordinarily sacred encounters, she understood. Finally, my world made sense to her.

I will never forget her words, “Jenna, I understand your passion now. I understand why you have to keep coming back. I get it.”

She gets it.

I still don’t get it.

I think that’s mysterious wonder of this adventure God brought me on. I don’t get why he called me here.

I can’t handle a spider the size of my pinky finger in the States. Last night I found a spider 2 times the size of my hand in my bathroom. I like being settled. In the last 5 months, I’ve moved 7 times. You can find me a Starbucks at least 7 times a week. There isn’t a single Starbucks in South Africa. At first glance, the only thing about me that seems to point to Africa is my backside.

I’m an unlikely candidate. But God chose me. I don’t get it. But she does. Probably because she’s a mom. Moms get everything. But don’t tell her I said that.

So as she’s reaching to understand why I’ve moved 10, 000 miles away from her, I’m still trying to get it myself. And the mystery continues to point to God. And for now, that’s all I need to get.

servanthood//week21

In between arguing with my pestering cough and spiteful fever, I spent my time this week helping finish up a crèche [preschool] in the township. I’ve painted giant rainbows. Moved boxes. Scrubbed floors. Moved more boxes.

And I embarrassingly admit it was one of the biggest lessons for me in servanthood this year. Because it forced me to do things I didn’t want to do at times that I didn’t feel like helping. I was either too hungry or too sick or too tired or just not in the mood.

We all know serving involves putting your self aside and making sacrifices. And some times that’s easy. Sometimes serving is really fun. Like dishing soup to hungry children. Or helping one of the mamas with her washing. Or playing Bingo with the elderly.

But dirty floors don’t smile at you and brown boxes aren’t cute. It’s just not as fun.

But as I halfheartedly scrubbed floors that were only to be trampled by many dirty feet minutes later, I realized I needed a lesson in serving. I began to thank the Lord for the chance to serve when I didn’t want to. And thought of how many times Jesus must have been so tired and didn’t feel like serving others and yet he did.


How many more floors will I need to scrub until I truly have a servant’s heart?

moments//week20

I’ve been blessed with so many “moments.” Moments that I know I’ll relish forever. Moments where my world is engulfed by sweet laughter and genuine camaraderie. Moments that words nor photographs can ever do justice. Such moments have taken time to arrive to, because it takes time to build relationships; especially when you are considered a stranger. And so I cherish these. And every once and a while feel compelled to share.

This week I spent a treasured afternoon with Andiswe’s family in the township. There was nothing profound about the afternoon. Such happenstances have now become ordinary, which to me makes them all the more sweet.

Afternoons are my favorite time of day in Mbekweni. The children are playing in the streets. The mamas are finishing up the chores. The men are starting to return home from work. The setting sun creates a humble glow around the rusty shacks. And the smells of unbathed children and slaughtered chicken create a peculiar smell that my senses oddly welcome.

On this afternoon, while soaking in all the delights of the neighbor, I sat with Andiswe’s parents, Joyce and Wiseman- I should add that those are their English names; I’ve failed miserably on several accounts to pronounce Xhosa names. I watched Joyce hang the washing on the line, which created a brilliant rainbow that sailed above the rows of brown shanties. Wiseman sat outside in a stiff chair that seemed to refuse him the relaxation he was seeking after a long shift at the factory. Inside was Andiswe, washing the dishes in a worn out rubber bin. And their precious neighbor next door, who I only know affectionately as mama, sat and mended her youngest son’s pants. And as I sat on a wooden bench, which struggled to support my prospering backside, I began to fade into their world. And there was my moment. I was greeting the passing neighbors, asking Joyce what was for dinner tonight and listening to one of Wiseman’s grand stories. My moment continued on for hours. It was one that left me gleaming for the rest of the night.

And it’s moments like that where I again find joy in the simplicity of life.

I wish many moments upon you all this week.