Megan Daniso's Blog

Another year gone by

megandaniso — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 02:28:42 +0000

I can’t believe it’s officialy been two years since I have been living back in the US and one year ago since I have visited South Africa. And just now, in the last few months do I feel fully adjusted to life in my home country. Almost two years later, I’m just now feeling normal in the land that I grew up in and I cannot believe it took me so long. On the other hand, Thembelani has been back visiting in South Africa since July 16th and that brings up so many more questions once again. I cannot help by question what we are actually doing in the US at times. Within the first week of T being in SA, one of my favorite children, Thabang, ran up to Thembelani yelling “where is Megan, when is she coming back?” And I ask myself that same question…when am I going back? I’m suceeding here, doing well at work, spending time with friends, enjoying life back in the US. But there is a difference in succeeding and thriving at the thing that you were MADE to do. And I cannot help but feel a hole deep inside of me as I ponder what God has for me right now and what the future holds. I wake with dreams of my African children, I remember the ones that passed on too early, and I read Facebook posts of the ones that are now making it and it’s all a giant swirl of emotion; somber, happy, and everything in between…and I wait for another year to go by.

Birthday reflections…

megandaniso — Sat, 11 Jun 2011 00:40:26 +0000

I turned 31 this year, another day, another year gone by. And while I don’t feel old (and it’s a little cliche), I feel forced to reflect on my life and what I’ve done so far, I mean, what I’ve really done. What is my purpose? What was I created to do? Why do I feel so restless, so anxoius at times? I know there is so much more out there for me, but why can’t I seem to get IT? You know, the IT that fills you, that drives you, spurring you on to be a better person. I feel so far from the mark sometimes. I’m longing for God and His deep love. In my life, I’ve seen the face of God. I’ve seen Him appear in depravity and in the face of children – starving, hurting, struggling to stay alive. I’ve seen Him appear in joy and love and children’s happy tears. I’ve felt His love and never ending faithfullness and heard His voice and direction. So why now, is my world this fuzzy shade of gray?

When I first moved back to the US and started working, nothing seemed to stress me out. Nothing in my corporate job compared to the stresses I faced in South Africa, the deep emotional burden of children being molested, beaten, neglected and dying. Nothing compared to the lonliness I felt being away from family and friends and living amongst a culture not my own. But time goes on…. I mold to my surroundings and let the stresses of today build upon me; stresses of money, and work, and everday life. And I’ve lost sight of some very important things; most people in the world don’t live in the extravagance that I do, or eat the quality of food that I can, or even know when their birthday is, let alone have wonderful birthday celebrations thrown for them by their friends (which mine so lovingly did this year). Most people in the world struggle to eat, struggle to survive, while I am so blessed. And even greater than all of this, I am loved by our Creator, God Himself and He has given me a purpose. And I need to be reminded of this daily, or I enter into a tailspin of self-pity and worry and doubt so thick, it’s hard to fight my way free.

So, this is my reminder for today. And tomorrow, it will be a ray of sunshine, a flower, a friendly smile. And I’ll hold on to God and all that He has created me to be and I’ll live in His promises and I’ll keep searching for the truth that He brings. I’ll remember the past and look forward to the future, whatever that might be….

Thabo

megandaniso — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 15:53:54 +0000

Shortly after returning from our last trip to SA, I received a message (on facebook) that Thabo Mnisi had died. Nothing more posted on my facebook wall, just “Thabo Mnisi passed on Friday.” Gut wrenching emotion and full of questions, my world was once again shaken. All of the boys that I worked with have a special place in my heart, but of course, I was closer with some. The thing is, I grew to feel very maternal with some of the children. And, of course, at 27, I was much too young to actually be their mothers, but I felt protective, I loved them, prayed for them, grieved for them, longed for them to succeed. Thabo was part of my entire journey in South Africa, I grew to know him well, knew his story, knew his family, heard his sobbing confessions, felt his pain, fought with him to always to do the right thing. I met him very early on, living on the streets of Sunnyside, parking cars for a few Rand (money) a day. He was extremely polite and respectful and, in the early days, would refer to me as sister. I remember him running towards me from down the street, me being easy to spot since not many white women walked those streets, him wearing blue coveralls, dirty as can be, and simply stuttering “sister - how are you?” He had a best friend on the streets named Prince, and the two of them were adamant about never staying in a shelter, street life was right for them. But, our friendship grew and eventually they were ready to leave the streets, and came to live in Crossroad Shelter. I got to know Thabo even better during those months of him living in the shelter. He was flourishing in school and growing in God. We would visit his family in a local township called Mamelodi. I developed a friendship with his sister, Bridget, and her children. His mother was not as friendly, but we would visit her as well. We planted a garden for the family and Thabo’s dreams of taking care of his family blossomed. And then we had some struggles along the way, taking him to rehab after being caught in a drug deal where one of his friends was stabbed by a screwdriver. Thabo running away from the rehab center and not talking to me for a few weeks. But I pushed forward and let him know that I loved him no matter what he did and our friendship grew again. I saw him get a job and fail… yet again, resuming his life on the streets. And then word came to me that Thabo was beaten and I needed to search the hospitals for him. We found him at a government hospital, bloody, bruised, patches of hair missing, being stitched up by a nurse. His neck was cut so close to the artery that the nurse said he was lucky to be alive. A fight with another street kid over 20 Rand ($2USD) almost cost him his life. And as he lay there, in the same room that a year earlier I had stood with another child who was presumed dead, I knew that he wouldn’t make it much longer. I knew that his life was going to be short. I saw him get out of bed, still bloody, no shoes on, and walk out of the hospital with his group of friends. Revenge was in his eyes and words and he was ready to kill the person that had done this to him. This sensitive boy who I’d once seen sob over the way his mother treated him as a child, was now ready to attack. It seemed like there was no turning back. And this is one of the last memories that I have of him. I looked for him when I was in SA on my last trip, but didn’t get to see him. Word travelled the streets when I was there, however, and he heard I was on town and tracked me down, got my phone number and called me. It was good to hear his voice – his little stutter - he said that he was doing well. I knew though, that he wasn’t. How could he be? He was still living on the streets, with little future left. And two weeks after his phone call, he was dead.

I’ve known death, been around it more than a lot of people my age, but the news of Thabo shook me. I cried and wrestled with the usual questions brought on by grief. But, Thabo’s death also forced me to push my memories of South Africa aside. I didn’t want to write, didn’t want to think about the boys from the shelter, didn’t want to dream about the future work that I believe God has for me there. His death made me feel numb. And this is not how I usually deal with things. I believe you need to hit things head-on, go right through them, feel the pain and feel the joy, work through the emotion and come out stronger on the other side. So, I’m ready now, not over the difficulty of yet another loss, but ready to deal with the pain and look forward to the dreams. Ready to cherish the time that I had with Thabo, release the question of why he didn’t succeed, and use his pain to teach me more about the children that I long to work with. He taught me so much, and I’m comforted as I read through the only tangible thing I have left of this child, a simple, hand-written letter in which he calls me his mother and signs it “your son, Thabo.”

Living a Dichotomy

megandaniso — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 04:05:47 +0000

I come from two different worlds. The one I currently live in – filled with wants, the one I just came back from – filled with needs. Living on different continents has opened my eyes to the way I think, feel, and see. In the US, I’m surrounded by “things” – the latest iPhone, the Kindle, the UGG boots and Seven jeans. In South Africa, I’m surrounded by pain, poverty, and disease. Just a few weeks ago, I sat in a little home as an unwelcome guest, Thembelani’s second cousin on my lap, resting her head on my chest, holding my hand. At three years of age, her mother has been dead nearly a year, she’s immersed in poverty and hungry all the time. Bruises trail down her back from harsh treatment. Her clothes – soiled, but I’m told she looks cleaner than she usually does. And inside the tiny shack, I’m told that 20 people live. And they cough, not a normal cough, but hacking over and over again, and I pray that I won’t get TB since it’s so prevalent here. And a lady sitting next to Thembelani is skin and bones with open sores on her face, coughing and frail, they tell me she’s HIV positive. And there’s talk of witches in that shack, that they use “muti” and conjure up the spirits. And they aren’t happy we’re there, but we just want to see the little girl, the cousin we don’t know well, but love with all our hearts. And I want to throw up, because I know that soon I’m going home to my nice cozy apartment and good job. I know that I’m going back and will want some winter clothes for the new season. I’m going back to look at the latest fads on how to lose weight, but the woman dying of HIV is desperate for ways to keep it on, desperate for drugs to keep her alive. And the little girl needs food. And nobody here cares if their skirt matches their sweater because they wear what they have or what they’re given. And I don’t always know how to deal with these two worlds – both such a big part of my life…..

Muti - traditional medicine used by Southern Africa’s witch doctors (otherwise known as a sangoma)

To be back in South Africa

megandaniso — Sun, 29 Aug 2010 15:09:52 +0000

I have been back in South Africa for a week now, and while it feels really great to be here, I finally have true peace about where I’m at in life. The first night that we went to visit Crossroad Shelter, it was so exciting to see the boys that Thembelani and I had worked with. I was also blessed to see that the garden I has started was flourishing. That was the first sign that I feel God gave me to show me that the seeds I have planted are blossoming and He truly is in control and taking care of his children. I have had the privilege of meeting up with several friends, having tea time, eating milk tart (a South African favorite of mine), playing soccer with the boys, catching up with the people from the church that I used to attend. Thembelani has been enjoying eating South African food! I also had a great day meeting up with some of the children that are still on the street. I was happy to see that they remember me and were awaiting my visit. Tomorrow, we are heading to the Eastern Cape to be with Thembelani’s family and we are very excited to be with them. This time in Pretoria has been good, but we are both very tired!

Me and Thabang (street child, age 13)

Returning

megandaniso — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 00:41:04 +0000

Last night I went to the hot tub at our apartment. I went to relax and rest my body after a hard week of work and working out. There were very few people there, but swimming in the pool and speaking a language other than English, were two black teenage boys. As I watched them splashing around and jumping in and out of the pool, I was reminded of the hot summer days in South Africa where we would spend the afternoon at the community swimming pool with 35 ex-street children. Our boys would play hard, check out the teenage girls, and leave their worries behind and just be “normal” children. The boys later joined me in the hot tub and I learned they were here from Somalia, relocated because of the war. They spoke good English as we talked about Africa and the new life they have found in the US. My heart was happy speaking of the continent that I love and looking forward to my return in a little over a week. I cannot wait to see friends and family, children that I love, and the beautiful terrain of South Africa. And as my memories of years past flood my mind, I remind myself not to remain in the past, but to remain in the present and look forward to the future. Future trips to Africa, future plans and dreams, not knowing how things will turn out, but loving every moment of my time there this year.

The One Who Stole My Heart

megandaniso — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 01:49:25 +0000

I did fall in love with my husband in South Africa, but there was a child who stole my heart as well. Thabang. 10 years old but looking like 6. I found him huddled with Ephraim (whom I wrote about in an earlier post titled Ephraim I Have Hated) and a few other street children in a makeshift house amongst the rubble. It’s hard to believe that a child that small and innocent looking could sleep on the ground, in the freezing cold, beg at the traffic lights (called robots in South Africa), and endure the types of abuse that he has suffered. We bonded instantly as we walked down the street together, hand in hand and headed off towards the shelter, leaving the streets behind…or so I thought. Over the next few years, there was a consistent pattern that would occur with Thabang coming to the shelter and staying for a few weeks, then taking off back to the streets. He always came knocking on my door, wanting to spend time. He would ask for me each night that food was served from our soup kitchen and we spent a lot of time playing cards and drawing together. Whether he was in the shelter, or on the streets, our bond was strong and my heart ached for him. I will never forget the night he drew me a picture and wrote “I love you Magan,” spelling my name wrong, but I cherished it. Or the time he told our friend that he wanted to live with me. He would sit on my lap, fall asleep in my arms, cry on my shoulder. And the night would end and I would watch him pick up a blanket and head across the street to sleep, outside, in a crime ridden flea market, cuddled up to old men who he thought would keep him safe, but only used him. I loved all the boys that I worked with, but I loved him a lot. And he was the only one I ever wanted to take home, to keep safe, to watch grow into a healthy child and adult. And I pray that I get to see him when I go visit next month, and I pray that God will keep him safe and change his heart so he’s willing to leave the streets for good. And I pray that I never forget him or the way he touched my life.

“So justice is driven back, and righteousness stands at a distance; truth has stumbled in the streets, honesty cannot enter. Truth is nowhere to be found, and whoever shuns evil becomes prey.” Isaiah 59:14-15

Being Content

megandaniso — Sun, 18 Jul 2010 03:33:24 +0000

I miss my life in South Africa. I think that was one of the most precious times in my life. It wasn’t always pretty and at times, it was flat-out awful. But, at the same time, I’m finding that it’s hard to adjust back to the life I lived before I went over there, before I was exposed to so many things. And while I think back on that time, I’m forced to remind myself that it’s important to be content in whatever situation I’m in. I have fond memories of the flat that I lived in for almost 2 years and I smile when I think of walking the city streets. I can’t wait to see my friends and the street children when I return for a visit in a few weeks. On the other hand, I rarely think of the thousands of cockroaches that infested my kitchen. I remember the exact meal I was cooking when this picture was taken, and I repeatedly had to swat the roaches away to keep them from cooking into my meal. I rarely think of the burglar bars on every window to keep us safe and the stories of men walking into unlocked apartments to steal cell phones and kill the owners. I rarely think of the carjackings, the robberies, the need to clutch my purse extra tight no matter where I was going. When I miss my home and life in SA, it’s all roses and butterflies, but of course, there’s a downside to everything. So, I’m reminded of the freedom that I have living back here in the US. My husband and I talked about this as we walked freely through our beautiful neighborhood the other night. It’s amazing to both of us that we can walk without any fear, we can drive at night without worrying about stopping at a traffic light for fear that someone might carjack us, we can leave our apartment doors unlocked. I’ve never had to deal with a cockroach when cooking in my beautiful apartment and we don’t live above a witch doctor like I did in SA. There’s no need to live in a gated community, security guards are not a commodity, and I haven’t seen one burglar bar. I can breathe a little easier and trust a little more. And, while I still miss the life that I lived in South Africa, these truths have made me realize that I am blessed and I need to strive for contentment during this season of my life.

My Children

megandaniso — Thu, 08 Jul 2010 03:15:13 +0000

I was recently asked if I thought that my time in South Africa was as a success. That’s always been a hard question for me to answer. I wrestle with it myself. I hesitated and then went on to rattle off statistics of how we increased the number of boys attending and passing school, the retention rate in the shelter, and on and on. But later, I was forced to reflect on this further and I was sad that I was only looking at success in such a practical way.

Over the years, I received a lot of cards, drawings, and letters from the boys I worked with. I thought it would be a good idea to go through them as a reminder of the children. One of them read “I say thank you because you helped me and Collen and Brendon very much and I would like to say you are a very special mother to me not because of what you do but because of who you are and thanks for the advice that you have given to me. Thank you, you are the best mother Megan.” Another was signed “your son, Thabo.” And another “you really take care of me, your child.” This is when it hit me, my success wasn’t necessarily in which schools I placed the children in, how long they stayed in the shelter, or if they quit smoking glue, though these are all very good things. My success resounds in the hearts of these children, children who rarely experience love. These are children whose mothers have died, or children who hate the mothers who neglect them or beat them. Yet, they let me into their lives. I cried with them, laughed with them, grieved with them, and rejoiced with them. When they were in trouble, they knew where to find me. When they got into trouble, they knew that I would discipline them. They called me friend and sister and mother. And at the end of the day, whether they find themselves in jail or back on the streets or studying in the best university, they know that I love them, because, after all, they are my children.

Thoughts on Grief

megandaniso — Sun, 27 Jun 2010 21:51:45 +0000

This week, I received devastating news than an acquaintance in South Africa was murdered. Ian was young and previously homeless, but doing so well when I last saw him a little less than year ago. His smile was infectious, his accent was endearing, and his laugh was warm. I really felt like he was going to make it. Apparently, he was in the wrong part of town at night and suffered a fatal head wound. The rest of the story may never be told; I’m sure we will never know why this happened. This news hit me hard and I’m still wrestling with the news and the thoughts of death and grief that come upon me whenever someone close to me dies.

I’ve been around death. Probably a bit more than a lot of people my age. I lost my brother when I was 22, my grandparents have all passed away, I lost a cousin a little over a year ago. I buried boys in South Africa; I even drove a dead child to the hospital because an ambulance never arrived. No matter what, I don’t think it ever gets easier. Loss is felt deep inside the soul. It hurts to breath; it hurts to live. In the days and weeks and months that followed losing my brother, I cried everyday leaving work. The moment I got home, I would lie on the floor, sobbing so hard I could hardly gasp for breath. I felt numb for months, but eventually, I came out of it and then I had a choice. I could honor the life of my brother, or I could give up. I chose to feel my grief fully, to let it embrace me, so that I could come out of it stronger than I was before. I chose to live – fully, freely. I now feel emotion in a different way due to the grief I felt in the past. My emotion is raw and honest, coming from deep inside my being. I’m more compassionate, less judgemental. I can sit with someone who has experienced loss and let them be silent, or listen to what they need to say. I don’t feel awkward or not know what to say, because I know that it’s nice to hear any words of comfort. And today, I do feel stronger for making it through the dark side of loss and into the light of life. So, this week, grief has come back into my life as it does when I’m hit with the news of losing a friend, a cousin, an acquaintance. This week, I cried for Ian’s death, I felt the loss of a young soul, and then, I thanked God for his life.