I’m still learning how to find my home in the Lord and not my zip code.

I’m still learning how to get my kids to stay put in bed after I put them down.

I’m still learning how to make more than three dishes with chicken.

Ok, your turn.

This is Peter.

He is my husband of 11 years and 2 baby boys.

It started at 4:30 am with a taxi ride to the airport, followed by several sausage biscuits, cini-minis and a super size coca-cola.

Disgusting? Yes. Delicious? Absolutely.

I rediscovered that Peter is the funniest person I know. He is also the most fun. Like, “being-up-at-4:30am-when-you-only-went-to-bed-at-1am-is-still-fun-cause-it’s-our-date-without-the-kids-trip” FUN. Like, “even-though-this-is-a-work-trip-the-fact-that-we’re-together-makes-it-awesome” fun.

Yea, just like that.

Thing is, I also rediscovered some other things. Well, this one thing in particular.

Like, the husband is not the kids.

This may seem obvious at first glance, but I assure you, it is not. If you are a mom then you are programmed to organize, instruct, double-check, quiz, check up on, question, instruct, boss, and supervise your kids.

Unfortunately, these habits can spill over onto the husband. And, dang if the husband don’t like it!

Thing is, when he pointed out to me what I was doing, it was kind of a relief to stop doing it. When I dialed down the mommy-switch things got a lot quieter. I could hear myself think again. And suddenly all the running lists I am used to hearing in my head took a back seat to Peter.

Which is a really good thing. Because, as I said before, Peter is really fun. And I wouldn’t have wanted to miss a minute of it.

I think it’s something to do with the soothing warm water and the fact that washing dishes is a focused task. Compared to, say, cleaning up the living room, which has me rabbit trailing between toys and books and the old carpet stain I keep meaning to re-treat and the nagging reminder from an overstuffed basket that I need to sort through the mail.

At the kitchen sink there are only dishes and soap suds and my thoughts.

Late at night while the household sleeps I straggle into the kitchen between cleaning up and bedtime to find peace in a sink full of waiting dishes. And before I know it I am turning over more than cups; I am sharing what I find in the back of my mind with the God who meets me in my unconventional kitchen.

So it is that as I rinse my bright red frying pan I find myself praying desperate dreams for the future

I pray for what I want, but rarely for what I have.

Until I was recently reminded of this verse:

“Ask rain from the LORD in the season of the spring rain, from the LORD who makes the storm clouds, and he will give them showers of rain . . . .” Zechariah 10:1 (ESV).

In the season of rain, pray for rain.

And suddenly it’s New Year’s Eve 1999, and I’m back on a dry game farm in Zimbabwe surrounded by farmers who haven’t seen decent rain in months.

***To keep reading, please click here. I am sharing this story over with the (In) Courage community today. I’d love if you would meet me there.***

And then the babysitter said, “I KNEW they were being too quiet while I was putting away dishes. Jack let Micah into the bathroom and they’d turned the tub into a luge.”

And then the babysitter said, “Geez, they’re sneaky! Needless to say…Early bathtime.”

And then the babysitter said, “Let’s just say there was a moment where I felt like General Custer.”

And then the babysitter said, “Btw, do your boys often pee on one another in the bath?”

*Sigh* OK, tell me I’m not alone; your turn…

A Jacaranda tree.

They turn my hometown of Pretoria, South Africa lush purple every October.

I miss that piece.

It’s been two years since I buried it under a tree and boarded a plane for the States. Two years since we were last home.

I have strong roots here in America, that’s true.

But the ones that pull me back to Africa have a lifetime’s head start. They have burrowed deep into the hard, cracked soil of the country that the rest of my family still calls home. And when the wind blows me about I feel the tug of those roots and the ache of that stubborn bit of my heart.

It wants me to come home, “Now!” (to paraphrase my two-year-old).

I expect that this week the ache will be worse than usual.

Because this week Compassion International is providing a walking, talking window into Africa. A team of bloggers is in Kenya this week to share a firsthand look at the work that Compassion does there.

I dare you not to tune in. Because, once you do, you won’t be able to change the channel.

Follow the team on twitter; they’re using the hashtag #cbkenya (Compassion Bloggers Kenya) and there twitter group is here.

Let your own heart ache and break a little bit.

Read their stories here.

Leave encouragement in their comments. They are gonna need it. Because their hearts are about to undergo some major knocks.

Tell them I sent you. Tell them I told you a tiny bit about Africa and you wanted the first-hand version.

Tell them I said, “When you think of Africa you think of:

hot, sweat-running-down-between-your-shoulder-blades-sun, red dirt, dust roads, and open pick ups with folks crammed in back. You think veld fires and the smell of cooking in the open. You think of sunsets that burn up the sky like no where else and faces that could light up the night they are so full of hope and good humor when they have every reason not to be.

You think of purple Jacaranda trees and mealie meal and chickens.

You think of mangos and watermelon and giraffes carved out of wood.

You think of the very middle of the heart of God when you think of Africa.”

Tell them you want to know if that’s true.

And, like you, I can’t wait to hear their answer.