Success has been on my mind lately. I’ve been home from South Africa for 6 weeks and I have been using this time to get geared up for a commitment to success over the course of my master’s program and other aspects of life. And since Tony so easily spelled out the steps to success, all I have to do is fill in the blanks. And that’s what I did, given that the answer was clear to me.

Something to hold onto. Well, that’s an easy one: God. To succeed, I can’t hold onto myself. When I give everything to God, who is the source of all that I have and am, I give him the opportunity to succeed through me. “Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up” (James 4:10, NIV).

Something to motivate you.  Daily I am motivated by the Holy Spirit who lives inside me and witnesses to me. It’s the Holy Spirit who calls to mind key verses or nudges at insight and direction. Without the Spirit’s direction, I can’t find the path I need to take to succeed.

Something to inspire you. By now the pattern is clear: it’s Jesus, the third person in the triune God. Right now I am reading through the Gospels, and every day I have new inspiration from Christ’s actions and words while he was on this earth. If you’re looking for inspiration for how to treat others or for some introspection, a read through the Gospels will have you inspired to live a new life and have a new love for God and others.

It shouldn’t come as any surprise that God is the key ingredient to any success we can have. He is the answer to success- not us.

I quickly realized that I could serve another purpose in the orphanage beyond what I originally came here for. It was something I didn’t expect, given that I’m not South African and couldn’t foresee this kind of issue coming up. It was apparent that, even though every child in our home was born after apartheid, the thoughts of black inferiority still linger, even in the minds of children who otherwise shouldn’t even be capable of drawing that conclusion themself.

I’m not trying to say that they are actively taught that they are inferior, but there is something still there in the lives of children who never even witnessed a world of apartheid.

For two years I have heard the children say hurtful things about their own kind, accepting it as though it is fact. When one child asked me how old you must be in the States to get a driver’s license, I told him it is 16, unlike South Africa’s age 18 restriction. It’s like a lightbulb went off in his head, except it was the wrong kind: “Oh, that’s because white people are smarter than black people so they learn how to drive easier.” Even though I said that isn’t true, he insisted to me, now considering himself in the position of the teacher. “Yes, I’m telling you, that’s the truth.”

I have heard all kinds of self-hatred and negativity from the children, so I found that I had another mission: help get the children into a different mindset that they are equally valuable as white children. It’s a difficult challenge in post-apartheid South Africa, but on top of that, these are the neglected, rejected, and orphaned children, who already feel they have so little value because they don’t have a family. Getting the children to believe they are not inferior? Mission: Impossible.

For two years I have sat in the sunshine daily, initially because I love the heat, but also to make a point to the children. The first time I was questioned about it, it was Refilwe: “Why are you sitting in the sun? Don’t you know that your skin will be black?”
I smiled. “Yes, I know. And that’s what I want.”
“But why? White is so beautiful.”
“No, I like black skin. I want to look like you.”
“I’m telling you, the sun will make you black, and then you will cry. But when that happens, don’t come crying to me about it!”

My lesson is simple: We want what we don’t have. White people are trying to be darker, and black people are trying to be lighter. But beyond that, I wanted them to repeatedly hear that their skin colour is still very beautiful– you don’t have to be white to have beauty.

Between beauty and brains I felt like I was getting nowhere with the children. Their belief was simple; white people have both, and black people have neither.
“That’s rubbish,” I said, in response one day to hearing once again about white people being smarter. “How many languages do you speak?”
The child counted. “Four,” she said.
I asked other children, ranging from 2-5 languages spoken per child.
“And how many do I speak? Only one,” I said. “You can’t tell me that anyone who speaks as many languages as you isn’t smart enough!” But they always walked away, remaining unconvinced of the power of a mind that is multilingual.

They got used to my arguments to the point where they could say it before I could. “You are sitting in the sun because you want to be black like us,” they would say.

Now, two years later, I finally heard it. I finally heard about brains and beauty again.

The child was sitting in the sun, so I sat next to her.
“You are sitting in the sun because you want to be black,” she said.
“Well, actually, this time I’m sitting in the sun because you are, for some reason,” I responded.
Ignoring my response, she continued. “Yes, you are sitting in the sun because it is nice to be black. Black is beautiful.”

Did she really just say that? Then she continued.

“Do you know why else it is nice to be black?”
“No, I don’t. Why is it nice?”
“Because you can speak so many languages when you are black. So you see, it’s very nice to be black.”
I smiled. “That’s right,” I said. “It’s always nice to be exactly who God made you to be.“

Mission: Accomplished.

It started when our youngest in the orphanage made a demand that she makes anytime I am standing and have a spare arm: “Leslie, nkuke!“

I tease her by exaggerating her tone in a baby voice, “Nkuuuuke!”  as I pick her up. Next to me is Lerato, looking over the situation. I draw her in to the conversation as she watches me hold our little girl by saying, “Ke ngwana wa ka.” She’s my child.

Later, while showing me how to polish school shoes, Lerato asked me the question that has been brought up several times over the years I have been here. “Leslie, where is your ngwana? She is in America?” Every now and then one of them asks me where my child is. You know, the one I gave birth to.

“I don’t have a ngwana,” I said.
“Aowa, Leslie wena, you do!” she retorted.
“I do? And how old is she?”
“She’s six!”
“Six! My goodness; she is as old as you!”
“No, she’s seven!”
“Seven! Now she’s older than you.”
“Eight! Nine! Ten!” Lerato kept guessing.
“I’m pretty sure I do not have a child who is that old,” I say, counting the years backward.
“Aowa, Leslie, you have the ngwana.”

I was not going to win this argument, not only because it’s impossible to prove that something doesn’t exist, but also because she finished polishing her shoes, ending the conversation.

For two years I have wondered why they continue to “accuse” me of having a child back in the States. I think, who does this child live with? Where did she come from? And why on earth would I take off to South Africa without her? To me it is a slight insult that the children think I would leave a child in America to, ironically, work with other left-behind children.
But I no longer wonder at this point. If it is normal to a child that parents and children live separately for the entire duration of childhood, then it makes sense that I would leave my child behind in the States in the arms of whoever is available to take care of them. Maybe my child is in an American orphanage, wishing she wasn’t left behind every holiday while all of the others go home. One of these days, if it ever becomes convenient for me, I’ll come and pick up my child.

The children use pieces of brick as people, like they would with dolls. What kinds of relationships are they acting out?

Children can’t help but to think in the terms of the little world that they know. In the world of the children at the orphanage, I am an adult; therefore, I have a child. It makes no difference if the child is absent from my life, because it is normal for an adult to have a child but leave them behind somewhere. Why would Leslie be any different? Is there even reason to believe that there could be something different?

This is where we have a tremendous opportunity to break into lifestyles and lifecycles that are harmful and abnormal but exist because it has become normal. Whether it is children or any other dysfunction in life, we have a calling to lead by demonstration. Sometimes I wonder if anything I have done has warped their little world view enough to realize there is a different standard of normal, but it’s not up to me to make the change- they must open up to it.

Therefore, I keep trying to show them that I am a different adult than what they are used to. Maybe they’ll get it. Maybe they won’t. But at least I didn’t keep silent.

That is how I found myself in Mozambique, South Africa’s neighboring country to the east. I came with a heart to serve, but also with eager anticipation to be challenged to think of missions in a different way.

We came with nothing- no supplies, no money, no project. Our trip was solely focused on the prayer, encouragement, and Good News that we could bring. We took to heart that we would not come with persuasive words but only with the Spirit’s power to move in the lives of people so they could see the true source of hope (1 Corinthians 2:4). Our schedule wasn’t just about visiting people and praying with them- it was packed well into the night with evening church services.From the morning until night we were focused on missions.

I loved this approach but I wrestled with it. Isn’t it difficult, or discouraging, to not have “results”? We had no pictures to take of a house or a garden that we had finished during the week. We had prayer, but would we ever see the answers to the prayers?

I had to bring this up to my team: I know that what we are doing is good, but isn’t it difficult to walk away without having a clearly defined result after giving a week to missions?

Eleanor shares a word with a woman who was blind but had surgery in one eye to see again.

“We give what we have in abundance,” Eleanor, Pastor Titus’ wife, answered. “America has been blessed with financial and material abundance, so you give out of that. But we do not have these things, so we give what we have- spiritual food.”

She said that the goal is to one day have resources to give- but it will never replace the missions that takes place. The resources will be used only to further the missions and serve as a reminder to people what God has done for them. There will still be morning prayer, there will still be ministering to people we are serving, and there will still be nightly church services to call people to Christ. That is, after all, the entire point of missions: Therefore go and make disciples of all nations (Matthew 28:19).

So I thought, “Why don’t we do that in missions in the States? Where is the prayer for healing or to cast out poverty in the lives we see?” Are we too goal- and results- oriented? What happens when we pray for someone and they aren’t healed- where does that fit into out target numbers and results? Are we afraid the answer to prayer will be “no” and we won’t have a cool story to share when we get home?

God is not looking for results, but for obedience. He said to Ezekiel, “It doesn’t matter if the people listen to you or not- what matters is they will not be able to deny that they have encountered a prophet.” (Ezekiel 2:5) God sent Ezekiel to the exiled Jews; He wanted His message delivered- whether there were results or not.

What matters is that we ministered, not that we completed a project. What matters is that we went. And after two years in South Africa, it’s not a matter of how many projects I’ve completed- it’s that I listened when God said, “GO- what really matters is that everyone will know Who sent you.”