Last week I went to a birthday lunch hosted by one of my neighbors, Madupe (Ma du' pay). Madupe is a pharmacologist from Nigeria and a Christian; she invited a couple of people from her department at the University, someone from her church, and a couple of neighbors. The birthday party was really for her 9 year old daughter but the children’s parents and a few others came together to sit, eat and visit while the children played. (This picture is of one of the theological post doc students dressed up like a mysterious sultan providing clues for a treasure hunt at the birthday party.)

One of the women who sat by me at the luncheon was South African. She shared about her family history, how her Dutch grandfather, as a child, was put in the concentration camps set up by the British during the Boer wars. Several of her grandfather’s siblings died in the camp. Today there is still animosity between the British and Afrikaans, I’m told, though an outsider can hardly see it. The larger distinctions are between whites, blacks and coloureds and Indians. The Chinese migrated to South Africa centuries ago but there doesn’t seem to be a category for them. There’s room for a lot of healing.

Yesterday I went to get a cup of coffee with a woman who exercises at the gym. We had a typical breakfast at the coffee shop: a muffin with grated cheese, shredded biltong, butter, jam, and whipped cream. (The muffin is cut in half and all that stuff goes on top!) While we were eating she said, “the first time I saw you, you looked as if you were wrapped in soft white cotton like a cloud in which the Lord keeps you protected and secure from harm.” Funny, that’s what it feels like from the inside. The Lord has been gracious providing directly or through others, but always surprisingly. We’ve chosen a great, and very personal, God. Like the song in Fiddler on the Roof, “if I were a rich man,” I cherish this chance to study Him and His ways all day long.