Anyway they were;

1. If you were to describe you experience of church as a smell what would it be?
2. What Church was a flavour what should it taste like?
3. If you think of church in terms of a biscuit, what biscuit describes you experience of church? What biscuit do you think church should remind you of?
4. Describe what you want from church in terms of a colour
5. What sound would best describe your expectation of the presence of God?

Feel free to comment.

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So we said our goodbye’s. Those goodbye’s you don’t really think are real because you can’t imagine not continuing to be  in constant contact with those you’ve gotten to know so well. However, as we took our seats on the plane, our South African  reality quickly started to fading into fuzzy memories. By the time the cold air of the UK whipped across our faces, it all started to feel like it had been a dream, and after a few weeks of settling in, we realized, we truly had passed through the wardrobe, out of our alternative reality, and back into our home.

This last weekend I was watching Avatar with my husband. A few minutes into the amazing cinematic experience and I thought of Phumeza and Noluthando. They once told me they had never actually been to the cinema. All at once I wanted them to be there with me. I wanted them to experience this beautiful movie. Not that getting to go to the cinema is really what’s going to make the difference in their lives, but i would have loved for them to have that experience.

The other morning I cut up a mango for my breakfast. I remember Sisanda hovering around me in the kitchen whenever I was cooking. I remember her taking the peelings from the mango and eating the scraps out of them. She would eat anything I made….no matter what it was. It was more food than she had ever seen before. We have her picture on our fridge, and I never look at it without feeling a little bittersweet. Especially when it came time for 3rd birthday and she suddenly started talking about Sisanda again and wanting her to be at her party. I wanted her there as well.

I spent most of this last year pregnant with my son Judah. I found out i was pregnant just a few days before leaving South Africa. My next door neighbour Annie was the first person I told, and the night before we left, she and Nicole stayed up making me a special toy for a baby they would never know…at least not in his “baby” stage.  So many times this year I wanted to run next door to thier houses, drink tea, and share this new life with those precious neighbours. I remember Phumeza telling me over a feast of KFC, that it was most definitly going to be a boy and I remember speaking to her in a rare phone conversation after my 20 week scan, and being able to tell her that it definitly was.

When you only spend 12 months somewhere, you barely scratch the surface. I talk about the wonderful friends I made but the reality was that although we had shared some pretty intesne experiences together, I had only started to experience the potential of those relationships. People ask me if I keep in touch. I’d love to say that we write to each other weekly pouring out the details of each others lives and remaining as close as ever. In truth, it’s more like the odd text message here and there, a few emails through third parties, and one phone call that I got out of the blue one day from Phumeza as I was pulling out of my in-laws estate. I pulled over to take the call and ended up getting in trouble with a very irritated driver who told me i was parked “most awkwardly” little did he know I was on the phone with a 22 year old HIV mother in South Africa.

I managed to write Noluthando’s story in full and I am hoping for an appropriate place to share it someday. It was a great encouragement to hear how she has moved on and really made a success of her life. I was worried for her when we left, afraid she would sink back into the darkness of township life…fufilling negative steriotypes…what little faith I have at times. She is doing brilliantly now looking after children who’s mothers have to work, mainly picking rubbish in the local tip. She has even managed to get the backing of an overseas charity and is now overseen and supported by them. A miracle really. I miss her. I want to visit her house…the first house in Walmer township I was invited into. I want to listen to her tell me all the local gossip and laugh.

But here I am…a year later. So very far away. Iona’s blonde highlights have darkened and In some ways the events of that year almost seem a bit sureal now. When I tell their stories in passing I feel like I must be exaderating, but…I’m actually not. That year did happen…..and I hope to keep it alive in my thoughts and writings so that it does not just fade to fuzzy memories. There are stories I still need to tell and there are lives that I intend to keep up with and give updates on.

We feel a little sad as the media turns to South Africa to showcase the world cup. We wish we were there….not to see the matches, but to take part in moaning with the neighbours about the rediculous things the government is implementing in order to prepare itself.

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I also hope that this site will allow us to say some very complementary things about some very good people, and tell some stories that really need telling.

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