Finding grace

Large parts of South Africa consist of semi-arid areas. In some of these areas children can be five or six years old before they see rain for the first time. Farming is adjusted to suit drought, but sometimes even the most hardy crops or animals fail to survive. The people who live there are often intimately acquainted with suffering and hardship.

My mother’s folks come from the Kalahari desert. They are, without exception, good people – generous and kind. I have a cousin a few years younger than me who farmed in the area until a few years ago. Due to a continued drought, he decided to sell the farm and find another life for him and his family. I’ll always remember what he said to me after he found a new home for his family, far away from his birthplace: “I’ve had to make peace with the fact that my prayers for rain on a small spot somewhere in the Kalahari desert, might not coincide with God’s plan in the greater scheme of things. Maybe the weather patterns that eventually contribute to the well-being of large nations exclude the possibility of rain on my small farm. And so I’ve decided to take a leap in faith knowing that God will provide for me either way.” I call that trust and last time I’ve heard from them, trust has paid off.

And then, this weekend, I read a book that Dirk received as a gift a while ago, Laataand biegstories by Jan Nel. It consists of short stories about my people – the Afrikaners. I’ve never heard of the writer, although apparently he’s a columnist whose material is/was read on a popular radio program. I must confess that I’ve largely lost touch with Afrikaans literature since I’ve had kids. There’s just no time any more.

There are stories in this book that describe my people so well. Two stories in particular, made a huge impression on me. One deals with how a young boy with Down’s Syndrome, changes his father from the black sheep of the family to a worthy heir to a dignified inheritance. The other deals with prejudice against a brain-damaged child and the value of life. Something makes me think that this author understands what he’s talking about….
But it is from one of the other stories in the book that I would like to quote. One that deals, strangely enough, with the subject of a drought. I would like to use the writer’s own words, but regret that things may have gotten lost in translation. Here is my attempt, though:

“ And once again, I was rebellious. Every time the clouds gathered and nothing came of the wonderful promises contained in those clouds. But I’ve learned a few lessons.

I’ve learned that God will flatten you to the ground and don’t you ever doubt that He can. Eventually you won’t get up any more. The wind will blow over you and sun will burn you and it won’t worry you any more, because the rebellion in you will disappear.

I’ve learned that humankind is not the strongest. Not even strong enough for the drought. I’ve learned that you can pray only thing in all truth and with childlike trust. You can ask
for the acceptance of new and unknown things and fresh threats. And you can ask that you won’t lose every ounce of self-respect and dignity in the process. You can ask not to moan and cry and complain in front of the whole world when you don’t get what you want and that you will ask without fail that you would understand that the things you want may not be as important to all the other people on this earth as to you. Strength to accept – just that.

And now? How about the distance and the quiet and the loneliness of the nights with their stars? How about the luxury of space around us and the relief in the cool of the night when the burning sun went to sleep and the heat disappeared slowly from the blackened stones? I believe that the Decider about these things could perhaps be found by day in the cool places and next to the new church organ or on the soft benches in the church, but late at night you will find Him here if you know how to search, even now when it is so dry. And I’m wondering: Do you understand about grace?

Praying for acceptance is, of course, directly in opposition to what I have decided to do with Loren, because I believed that that would be paramount to “giving up”. I fought, because I knew that without fighting Loren would not stand a chance.

But the way he died robbed me of the opportunity for putting up a fight. I could not bargain, I could not plead. And it might have been in vain anyway.

And now? How about the unexpected beauty of the sunrise I’m looking at right now. How about the memories of a soft warm body I could hold for a while. Clear blue eyes looking into mine with trust and love. I know that the Decider must be around. Not in the lofty churches or contained into theological volumes, but right here. Because if He wasn’t, I would never have survived this.

Maybe I’m finally learning all about grace.