It’s Saturday morning, and I’m standing in the rain on the edge of the Rondebosch rugby field. The pitch is a mud pit. The Bosch opposition look like they’ve been raised on steroids. A few meters away, the boys in blue are in a huddle with their coach. Clear and bold, his voice carries to those of us standing on the side-line, “BOYS! PRE-paare (stretched out Blighty drawl) your MINDS! Pre-PAARE your minds! It’s going to be messy as kak out there. PREPARE your minds!”

Bravo coach. Life Lesson 101. What you believe matters. Remember what you’re made of. Don’t let the sumo wrestling Afrikaners overwhelm you. You’ve got this.

This morning, I (gleefully) poured water over my teenage son to wake him up. Why? I believed his reaction would make me laugh. It did. Afterwards, I exercised. Why? I believed it’d give me a to- die- for body. Alas. Later, I snapped at a store assistant. (In my defence, I was dehydrated, coupled with subhuman bloodstream caffeine levels) Why do I do the things I do? Because I’m a believer. And what I believe, changes my reality.
Belief: Mop slippers! Genius. Win – win. Slouch around house whilst cleaning floor. Must have.
ACTION: ENTER SHOP. TAIL CLUELESS SHOP ASSISTANT AROUND ENTIRE STORE. HE (ONLY THEN) DECLARES THEY STOCK NO SUCH ITEM.
Belief: It’s this guy’s job to know his store. He’s wasting my time. Time wasters will not be tolerated.
ACTION: DECAPITATE ASSISTANT. EXIT.
Belief: The poor guy tried. I, on the other hand, blew it.
ACTION: RETURN TO SHOP. FIND SHOP ASSISTANT HIDING BEHIND TOWER OF BAKED BEAN TINS. AWKWARDLY APOLOGIZE.

There aren’t any lonely beliefs or actions. I make my beliefs, then my beliefs make me.

Hackney, London, 2007. I’m kneeling on the floor in my office on the first floor of our 3 bed Victorian Terrace. My 1-year old Jesse sleeps in the room next door, my 5-year-old Jaden is at nursery. Outside, snow blankets the roofs and chimneys; last night’s snowmen are starting to droop. The house is still, but not my heart. A recent trip to Russia has left me shaken with memories of the orphans, and how they live. What to do? Go? Stay? I don’t recall how long I knelt there as I searched my heart and faced my fears. A few times I planted my hands on the carpet, ready to push myself up, then… uh uh…no peace… back down I’d go. Finally, I stood. Tiptoed downstairs. Behind me, in the office, I left a wet patch on the carpet where my tears had fallen, and my doubts. In our grueling adoption journey that followed, not once did I hesitate. I just kept going until we got them. Conviction lifted me up off the floor, down the stairs, and 4 years later, into the arms of my children.

I don’t always live like that. Fast forward to 2018. Again, I’m on the floor. This time, in my kitchen in Pinelands. I’m not kneeling but sitting, leaning against the cupboard as a pot of soup bubbles away on the hob above me. I’m an altogether different Fiona; with doubts, darkness and an ache that never leaves me be.

Mark Twain said,”The two most important days in your life are the day you are born, and the day you find out why.”
As I mum, I look at my kids and know the storms are coming in their lives, as they have in mine. And I want to protect them and cheer for them.
But, something more…..
In the ceremony for creating a knight, the King presents the knight-to- be with several items, fitting him for his calling to loyalty, honour, defence and justice. Believing the Knight now equipped for purpose , the king delivers a mighty smack to the subject, along with the words, “Let this be the last blow you receive unanswered”. Lol. Way to go, King.
The movie Madagascar is one of my kids’ favourite. One scene shows the penguins preparing for an octopi attack, with a command from the exhausted Skipper, “Alright, boys, battle stance!” Together they plant their feet firmly – and stand.
I want that for my kids.
Like the knight- having all they need to become all they are.
Like Kowalski and Skipper – unswayed, resolute.
Because I don’t think it’s loss or pain that undoes us – as agonizing as those stampedes on our hearts are.
I think it’s doubt – when I’m no longer sure of who I am and what I’m for.
When I have no conviction, I will fall for anything.
And with conviction, I can endure anything.
.
And when they look at me,what do they see?

Do I live mindfully- trying to understand, and pass my understanding on.

Do l learn humbly – with openness, allowing myself to be enlarged and changed by truths bigger, and others wiser, than I am. Do I seek out those who think differently., asking why.

Do I think reasonably – showing them a world of reason, beyond science.

Do I choose freely – living not out of duty, but conviction and passion. No guilt, or fear.

Does my testing lead to trusting – eventually, do I leap?
I remember so clearly the day I met my daughter. Who wouldn’t? My husband and I were waiting in a large room in the orphanage in St Petersburg, for her carer to bring her to us. On one side of the room was a pile of stacked up unused future. The rest of the room was bare. I was kneeling to retrieve my camera from my bag, when the door opened and there she was. All 5 years of her. They’d dressed her in a black and white checked pinafore, and a pair of too-big, knee-high black boots. Her little face was framed by a thick fringe and her hair tied in a pigtail. Although she’d been told we were to be her new parents we were strangers, and I expected her to be initially tentative.10 meters away across the large room, my daughter locked eyes with me. Her smile lit her whole face. With door barely open, she let go of her carer’s hand and gaze still fixed on me, took off. Her too- big- boots just stayed on as she charged across the room, and launched herself mid- sprint into my arms, knocking me over.
One conviction – “This is my Mama. I’m hers” – and she leapt.

Lastly – when felled, do I get back up?
Eventually, I did get up off my Pinelands kitchen floor. I had to- the soup was boiling over.
Since then, I’ve thought of others who’ve overcome, like the little girl who changed my heart forever…..
…. Cape Town, 1996. It’s pouring outside as I push open the doors to Ward C2 –the Red Cross Children’s Hospital Burns Unit. It’s 7h30 and the ward is buzzing. The floors are gleaming, the smell of antiseptic strong. Kitchen staff are moving between beds collecting trays, as children finish their breakfasts. A few are lying down not eating, heavily bandaged. I glance into each ward section as I head towards the Sister’s office. My heart sinks. Lots of new patients. The week end had been cold and stormy, which meant shack fires. I’ve half an hour to clerk the latest admissions before ward round starts.
The head of the Ward, Sister Peterson is doing handover with the Night Sister who’s going off duty.
“Morning Sister Peterson” I say with a smile as I knock gently on her office door.
“Morning my girl,” she says warmly. Sister Peterson is a saint, a true calm in the chaos of C2. As I cross to the computer to print out my patient list, she looks up. “Fiona, there’s a little girl who was admitted yesterday – full thickness burns to half her body. Shack fire. They’re taking her into surgery this morning and Prof will need you. She’s in the dressing room now if you want to take a look”
The dressing room is the best place to see the extent of a child’s burns. Every morning each child’s burns are cleaned, treated and re-bandaged there. Those admitted to the ward usually have deep burns which cover a large surface area of their body. All the children dread the dressing room. I wash my hands and pull on a surgical mask. Any infection can ravage a new skin graft, putting a child back months in their recovery.
As I approach, I hear crying from inside and the sound of water running. I push open the swing doors, and there she is. Liesl Kalaka. She can’t be more than 1 year old, if that. She’s sitting naked on the rinsing surface, propped up by one of the dressing room nurses while the other, Mackie, rinses her burns with the hand shower. She’s trembling all over, and – God help her – her body is ravaged. Full thickness burns (third degree) cover the whole left half of her body, top to toe. It’s as if someone drew a line down the middle of her. I discover later, on ward round, that her mother was drunk, knocking over a lantern while little Liesl slept. Smoke inhalation rendered her unconscious as the fire spread up onto the bed, burning its way across half her body before she was rescued from the blaze. The door swings shut behind me. At the sound, she lifts her little face and looks at me. Her beautiful brown eyes are brimming over, a river of tears running down her cheeks – one so badly burnt I can see it will need grafting. The water runs red down the drain, thick with her blood. My eyes travel down her burnt limb to her hand and my heart stops. It’s to the bone.
In the years I’d worked at Red Cross, I’d seen some awful injuries. The hospital was acknowledged worldwide as a leader in the treatment of burn injuries in children. The sheer volume, let along the nature of burn injuries seen, was unheard of in most first world countries. Faced with so many traumatized children, day in, day out I’d become desensitized. Partly, it was necessary to do the job which entailed a lot painful therapy for the children
“Arms up please Mackie,” I whisper. I need to check Liesl’s joints to see what splints she may need. But, as I lean in, close up to her little body, I discover I can no longer see. With her watered-down blood swishing around my shoes, my tears join Liesl’s, running down my cheeks, soaking my surgical mask.

Liesl stayed with us for more than a year as the Burns team fought to bring her back from the brink. I think 95% of Liesl’s day, every day, she was in pain. She endured countless surgeries and months of painful therapy. Adored by all, we showered her with lollipops and hugs, both of which she loved in equal measure. She had a little wooden trolley she loved to push up and down the ward, clinging tightly to it with her right hand, her left stump resting on the cross bar.
One day, still wreathed in bandages after a recent surgery, she was off on her daily waddle pushing her trolley, when accidentally, she let go. Her trolley trundled ahead of her, just out of reach. I’d been walking beside her and turned to see her tottering forwards as she found herself trolley-less, arms akimbo. She glanced up at me, for a moment unsure. Then, out came her bottom lip. I knew that look. By this time, I was kneeling in front of her, within arm’s reach. “Liesl, ufuna ukuba ndikuncede?” (Do you want me to help you?). Half shake of her head. Still swaying, she swung her right leg forwards, placing it carefully down just in front of her. Then her left leg, heavily bandaged, came out. And down. She looked up at me, planted herself firmly, and ever so slowly took a third step.By this time some of the nurses were peering round the doorways. And another. She walked a few more steps before I caught her. Those watching, erupted in cheers. Her little face, with the skin on her left side drawn tight and sore from skin grafts, smiled the smile of all smiles and this time my tears were made of joy.

When I think of Liesl I think of Someone else, whose body was also broken, who staggered and fell, and, because of His conviction, got back up.
The One, with face like flint, who came, that I might become.

The only measure of my life is this -will I search for truth with all of me , and when found, allow it to make me.

Get up Liesl. Get up Jaden. Get up Jesse. Get up Alina. Get up Joseph.
Get up Me.
Get up beautiful You.
Know who you are, and what you are for.
And then, with all your heart, mind and soul, leap.