It's been a regular week with regular highs and lows. I sat in traffic, made sandwiches, and went to parks. On Tuesday, an uninvited measure of dread crept into my spirit. I didn't want to face the normal, still-privileged problems that would present themselves that afternoon. I don't always remember to call my heart to worship during the monotonous moments. I don't often walk to the park with purpose and power.

A legislative bill aggressively moving forward mandates teachers to help students 12 years and older get abortions without telling their parents. Failure to assist a child's secret abortion results in jail time for the educator.

Moses was born into a death sentence. Through extraordinary circumstances, he was adopted into the same royal family that tried to kill him. Years later, that miracle baby became a murder and refugee. He fled from his identity. He was not a Hebrew slave nor deliverer. He was not Egyptian royalty. He became a foreign shepherd that didn't even have his own sheep. Still, God Almighty entrusted this miraculous, messy, murderous man of the fields to fulfill a 400 year prophecy.

We've received many heavy messages this week of loss, sickness, brokenness, financial need, loneliness and more. I want to shake my fists when seven-year olds are hospitalized, family members are gone too soon, businesses are closing, and fear is on the rise.

Today's Call to Worship is a call to action.

I boarded a South Africa-bound plane exactly 14 years ago today. I promised I'd be back in six months, although I hadn't purchased a return ticket. One year later, I returned briefly to raise missions support for a life I hadn't expected.

I have found myself in the beginning of my Bible at the beginning of a new year. The fall of man is the first account after creation, just three chapters in. Every page after is filled with God's pursuit of unbroken relationship with us, no matter the cost.

The anticipation of Christmas has been replaced by new year resolutions or choosing a word for the year. I am itching to sit down with a fresh journal to pray, think and hear God for 2024. My good intentions are superseded by my present conviction, however.

During this long school holiday, packed with celebration and summer heat, the best place for me to be is present with my children. The oldest turns 16 today and doesn't have many school holidays left. Our 4-year old's special needs require extreme availability, energy and pro-activity when therapies aren't available.

Yesterday was American Thanksgiving - my favorite holiday! Here's an excerpt I wrote on Thanksgiving 2014 while serving in rural South Africa.

--------

"She called me to tell me she was hungry. Like a child who comes home from school and cries, "Mom, we don't have anything to eat!" This child hasn't had a mom to cry to since she was 12, when she found herself alone in a shack with her 8-year old brother.

Celebrations are the punctuation of life.

Mornings, evenings, weekends, months, and years whiz by like a dizzying run-on sentence. They can feel like they drag on and on. Then suddenly it's over, and you've missed the point.

For me, gathering around meals, birthday cakes, Christmas trees and midnight countdowns create causeways of remembrance. We create intentional spaces to look at each other, look back, give thanks, look ahead, and look around. I'll always do the extra dishes, spend the extra time, and go the extra mile to punctuate a life that sees, remembers, attunes and gives thanks.

I have a birthmark on my left ankle that looks like an oversized freckle. My mom taught me the special mark made me "me". When I was a little girl, a store employee tried to help me when I wandered away from my mom in a Texas-sized Walmart. I knew I wasn't supposed to talk to strangers and my birthmark showed who I was. So I sealed my lips tightly together and fervently pointed to the dark brown spot on my ankle. Believe it or not, the employee couldn't help me. I was still lost, struggling to prove who I was. I was found when my mom came and said I belonged to her.

Sometimes I worry about our "YES" to remain in South Africa.

Chris and I wholeheartedly know God has authored every step of our story, and we are right where we are supposed to be. It is our joy to love and lead Southpoint Church.

I worry about the repercussions of my kids growing up without their grandparents, cousins, and extended family members. I wonder what it's like for foreign soil to be your only familiar soil.

Our church is learning what it means to be rescued, redeemed, restored and to rejoice in Christ. On Sunday, my husband said, "I want you to come face to face with what it means to be rescued by Jesus." He shared about "ugly-crying" at the gym recently when he heard musician, Zach Williams' rescue story.

Old Testament Bible stories are filled with content little boys dream of - giants, bad guys and lots of weapons. My 4-year old insists on "solider stories" and knows, "God's team is the good team".

Chronicles 20 tells the story of King Jehoshaphat's response when huge enemy armies marched against him. The king was terrified, sought the Lord for guidance, and ordered his entire kingdom to fast. The king prayed a humble prayer that resounded with truth. His kingdom belonged to God, and God had worked out bigger problems than this before.

Cape Town is a bucket list city, flaunting breathtaking mountains, beaches, and even a few famous roads. One roadway you can't miss is an unfinished bridge that rises above the heart of the city and abruptly stops mid-air. Construction began in the 1970's, and there are no plans to finish it.

I took this picture of Wyatt for the boys in the background.

We've been in an extra-challenging season, learning to new sides of Benjamin's PDA profile of autism. I've been posting brotherly bonds and family adventures as a banner over us. We're still doing the things that matter. We choose these moments to mark us.

Christian music was new to me in 2006 when Casting Crowns released "Praise You in This Storm". The band recently re-released their song with a fresh take, and it hit different this time. Not because of the different style, but because I'm in a different storm.

According to the "Teacher" in Ecclesiastes, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens." ( 3:1) He begins with, "a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot.." (Eccl 3:2) And carries on until the reader and the Teacher himself are whirling with the question, "What's the point?"

We work. We hope. We try. We toil. We laugh. We weep.

Blessing Offor is a Nigerian-born singer, songwriter and musician. He was born blind in one eye and with compromised vision in the other. Blessing's parents made a gut-wrenching decision for him to move across the world from them at the tender age of six. Their sacrifice was to save his vision through first-world medical care.

We are "church people". My husband's favorite part of the week is preaching, and I was called the SiSwati word for "Sunday" in the community I served previously because of my passion for church.

Last Sunday, I was in the kiddies class with our 17-month old. I noticed our 4-year old wasn't dancing front and center as usual. I found him heaped on the floor with a despondent look. I knew he desired to participate, but autism was shutting him down instead.

I was up late recently, rattled by the twists and turns of parenting a child with special needs. A teething baby demanded comfort just as I started to settle. One hour of sleep later, it was time for a new day to start!

There was a redeeming moment in that nauseatingly caffeinated day…