“We’re Coming to Get You”
by Echo Nomsa VanderWal
Last week, we had the privilege and honor of attending the birthday celebration of His Majesty King Mswati III. It was an all-day event, about an hour from home. The day was beautiful and windy, and my hair was windswept. It needed to be fixed before the event. I laughed and said to Harry, “We just need a plug!” We wandered for a bit, not knowing where to go for electricity.
Then something stirred in my heart.
A memory. A name. A home.
Recently, the daughter-in-law of Gogo Dlamini called to say they were praying for us—and to thank us for fixing her eye.
Now she could see.
Now she could sew.
Now she could read.
Now she could drive.
Fifteen years ago, when it was just Harry and me with a small team and the four boys, we worked with Gogo Dlamini — strong, joyful, unforgettable. She used to cook for the boys at outreach. Those were their favorite days, because their bellies were always full.
Gogo Dlamini was one of the people who believed in us when all we had was vision, a small car and trailer, and the deep belief that something beautiful was worth building.
So I picked up the phone and called.
“Stay where you are. We’re coming to get you.”
Within ten minutes, they had found us — right there on the side of the road.
They brought us to Gogo’s home.
The kettle was already heating with water so we could freshen up.
We used the electricity.
Harry curled my hair.
They prayed over us.
They cried and laughed with us — just like they did all those years ago when we had nothing but faith and a dream.
And then something happened I’ll never forget.
Gogo looked at me and said, “I come to campus. I always look for you. But I never see you.”
Then she took my face in her hands and kissed me — not once, not twice, but all over my face, like a mother who hadn’t seen her child in years.
Pure love.
And in that house, by that fire, surrounded by genuine love and memory, the noise outside faded.
The world quieted.
And my heart remembered where it belonged.
In the recent noise and chaos, sometimes you forget how many homes your heart has quietly built along the way — and how many people are still looking out for you, still praying for you, still waiting to say: “You’re not alone. You never were.”
There’s a kind of loneliness in fighting for something real that no one warns you about. Not the loneliness of being alone — but the loneliness of being the one willing to say, “This matters too much to give up.”
And then someone opens the door.
No fanfare. No speeches.
Just a warm fire, a plug, a prayer, and many kisses on the face.
And suddenly everything makes sense again.
My heart is so full.
God is so kind.