Category: faith & serving

Hemmed in by Grace.  1

Grace.

It’s been the word I’ve been mulling over for the past few years.  Somehow, a word I’ve always known seems to have new meaning with every morning that my feet hit the floor.

Grace was my Grandma’s name.  She always, always hinted that it was a popular name and that I should definitely name one of my children after her (even William.  haha).  It just didn’t seem to fit until Eliza Grace came along, which seems so perfect in my life right now.  Ah, she was so tickled (because ‘tickled’ is such a grandma word, isn’t it?) when she found out that after 16 great-grandchildren, I had finally used Grace (I’ve always tried to be the favorite and this sealed the deal). She only got to see Eliza a few times before she died, but you should see my Grandpa when my baby walks in the room.  He gets a tear in his eye and asks how “little Gracie” is.  Cracks me up because Eliza gets this confused look on her face since we never actually call her “Gracie”.

Anyway.

I was standing in my pew a few Sundays ago, singing a song I don’t remember now, when the lyrics from “Grace like Rain” came into my head.  And I pictured it.  Grace, falling like rain, down on the heads of all the people standing there, singing with hands raised and eyes closed.  Favor from God, lavished on a people who struggle to get it right.  We are so undeserving.

I slowly opened my eyes and looked around.  I looked at people and saw stories.  That guy over there? He’s picking up the pieces of his life and it’s starting to make sense again.  That family?  They are living  with a fresh diagnosis and it isn’t good.  And yet here they are, praising Jesus.  The one with her hand raised?  Even though her actions don’t always show it, her heart is learning how to obey.  And her?  Heartbreak happens over and over, but she’s surrounding herself with prayer and friends and it’s truly making a difference.  My friend?  With tears streaming down her face she’s realizing the difference Christ can make in her life.

You and I and all of us are part of a story, a bigger story.  I have been reminded of it over and over again.  And this week, as we got out our Jesse Tree and I fingered the pages in our journal from the last few years, I remembered.  From the very beginning, there was a Story.  It started with Adam and Eve.  And it hasn’t ended.

It’s Grace that keeps the story going.  Unmerited favor.  We mess up, we get lazy, we quit caring, but He never does.  He refuses to stop writing the story, or to jump plot lines and pick up something else more exciting.  It’s about You.  It’s about Me.  And it’s about how He won’t quit loving us.

He hems us in with His Grace.  This gentle rain of His favor goes before us and follows after us.  We can’t earn it or win it.  There is no test or deadline.  It’s simply a gift, a kindness, a favor because He loves us.

The Tools You Need  1

Peter and I travelled to Ecuador in August with Compassion International.  You can read all my blog posts here.  


This is a continuation of my last blog post.  Here’s Part 1 (Doesn’t that make me sound all professional?!)

So, back to Jorge.

When we followed him back into the jungle to help him plant his cocoa beans, we had no tools.  

Well, he did have his massive machete.  So I guess that counts for something.  

But we didn’t have knives to cut away the membrane from the seed.  After digging my fingernails into the slippery stuff and failing, at the prompting of one of our Compassion Guides, I actually popped that baby into my mouth and sucked the membrane away. 

At first, I was convinced I would die (if the predators/snakes/drug lords didn’t get me first, that is).  But after I relaxed a little, I realized that the membrane was sweet and tasted  a little mango-ish, only better.  

Then, we had to dig a hole in the ground.  Only there were no shovels.  Jorge didn’t own a shovel.  We had to find sticks that were strong enough to dig into the hard dirt.  

I quickly became obsessed with how we could get Jorge a shovel.

His life would be so easy!

He could get so much more done!

He wouldn’t have to bend down so much!

I have all the answers in the world because I am an American and clearly have all the right answers!

Oh.  Snap.   The thought came before I could help it.  And I was so ashamed.

Listen to me, dear brothers and sisters. Hasn’t God chosen the poor in this world to be rich in faith? Aren’t they the ones who will inherit the Kingdom he promised to those who love him? But you dishonor the poor! James 2:4-6

You see, I had gone into the trip determined to look at people with Jesus’ eyes.   Poor does not equal dumb.  It is not ignorant.  And in the blink of an eye, I dishonored Jorge and his family, even if words did not come out of my mouth.  

So, I’ve been thinking about my own life.  

A girl is sitting on my couch, crying.  She has questions.  Do I have answers?  Far from it.  I feel totally inadequate, desperately searching the files in my brain to come up with something, anything to give her answers.

The kids are fighting (again.).  Kate tells William that if she had been a boy, maybe he would love her.  He rolls his eyes.  My stomach hurts, it makes me so mad.  I want to scream at them, instead I cry.  I thought the hard part of parenting would be the newborns– the feeding and the schedules and the pooping (or lack thereof).  But this?!  

My friend, she had another miscarriage.  I should have the right words, shouldn’t I?  I’ve experienced death, so doesn’t that make me an expert of sorts?  But I keep my mouth shut, because I’m terrified that I’ll say something that doesn’t help at all, or worse, something that actually makes her feel terrible.  

If only I had the right tools, I think.  Truly, Jorge could do so much with a shovel.  And if only I had some answers, some empathetic words, some extra spiritual wisdom, I could be so much more for God.

Hannah prayed in 1 Samuel 2:7-8:

The Lord makes some poor and others rich;

                                                        he brings some down and lifts others up.

He lifts the poor from the dust

                                                       and the needy from the garbage dump.

He sets them among princes, placing them in seats of honor.
For all the earth is the Lord’s, and he has set the world in order.
It occurs to me that the poor may not always mean those who have no money.  Tools may be a relative term.  
It also occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, God can do more with me if I don’t have the tools I need to do what He has asked me to do.  When I don’t have the words, when I am desperate for answers, I seek Christ.  I lean into Him.  Isn’t that right where He wants me to be?
He leads me, one seed at a time.  I suck on the sweet membrane of His Words and they sustain me.  I dig into the warm dirt and as I ask for wisdom, I can rest in the assurance that He has set the world in order.  That includes those who sit on my couch, who eat the food I prepare, who sleep under the blankets I have washed and piled on their beds.  Also?  It includes those who plant cocoa beans and pray for a harvest, who don’t know where there next meal comes from, and who drink water that makes them sick.  
Kate lays beside me, she brushes away my tears, holds my hand and asks if I’m okay.  In the blink of an eye I see Jorge’s family and how they  have nothing, nothing.  I feel so needy as I confess to God my complete lack of knowledge and my false sense of wisdom.  
It’s grace that we need, depending on Him to provide the tools to walk through our days.
And maybe?  Maybe someday Jorge will get that shovel.  

Along the River  2

** Peter and I went on a Sponsor Tour to Ecuador with Compassion International at the end of August.  You can catch up on all my posts here.

It was in August, in Ecuador, that I found myself learning how to plant cocoa beans.

We were near the equator, in the region of Esmeraldas.  We had driven for two hours in a bus where the driver alternated the brakes and accelerator with impressive rhythm that had most of us swallowing hard with every curve.  It was when our faces couldn’t turn much greener that we pulled up to line of children, waiting for us with their homemade flags and bigger smiles.

The task of the day was to visit some homes, to better understand the children that Compassion International supports.  Our group headed out to a family to help them plant cocoa beans.

Did I mention that this region has no roads?  Homes were only accessible by boat.

When I saw the long canoes, loaded down with plastic chairs coming up the river, I had one of those moments.  You know, the ones where you feel like you’re watching yourself on a movie?

I took a deep breath and off we went.  Periodically we would meet another boat coming toward us, causing our driver to slow down.  As the water rushed over our feet I looked back to see him scooping up the water and bailing it out of the boat while he steered.  I wasn’t scared, necessarily, but I may have been a little concerned.

After about 20 minutes, the engine slowed and we pulled up to a small pier, climbed the ladder and were met by a quiet family.  My heart leapt to my throat and I tried my hardest not to let my eyes water while I took in the scene before me.

The Mama, she was braiding her daughter’s hair, stopping to pick out the lice.  “How many children do you have?”  I asked in an effort to make small talk.  Her eyes met mine with a questioning look.   Finally she said she was having a hard time remembering.

 . . . .. . . . . . .
I’ve been home now for a few months.  The season has changed from hot and balmy to cold and rainy. And yet, in my heart, I am still processing what I saw for that one short week.

I’ve scrolled through the blogs and the websites, and I’ve seen the pictures just like the ones I’m posting.  But experiencing just one short afternoon with these people– smelling the smells and taking everything in with my own eyes has done something to my heart that could never happen if I were reading someone else’s words or looking at someone else’s pictures.

When Poverty has a name, a face, and you look into her eyes, it twists your heart right up.  Suddenly it’s not simply something that you give money to.  The ache becomes bigger than your heart as you realize that this THIS is what Christ as talking about when He said,

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves;  ensure justice for those being crushed.  
Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless, and see that they get justice.”
Proverbs 31:8-9

 . . . . . . .

After a tour of their home, we set out to work.  Jorge took us through the jungle and we came to a small clearing where he was planting the cocoa beans.  He took his (huge) machete and sliced open the fruit, revealing rows of seeds.  Our job was to take the slimy membrane off the seed, dig a small hole, and plop the seed in the ground.

Maybe our real job that day was to provide a laugh to Jorge?  We fumbled all over ourselves, while he effortlessly did his work.   It really was comical.

All of a sudden, I heard something crashing just beyond the trees . . . I instantly thought of any number of predators/drug lords/snakes that could be coming to capture me.  Instead, a wild horse ran through the clearing and Jorge barely looked up.  I couldn’t decide if I was relieved or disappointed.

After a few hours, we had put a good dent in the planting and we heard our boat coming in the distance.  I prayed for balance as I gingerly stepped around the plastic chairs and was a bit more aware of the water already pooling around my feet.  We took off, only to slow down a few minutes later.  I saw some kids waving from the shore.  They were part of the Compassion Project and needed a ride to the church for our celebration.

What did we do?  We picked them up, of course.

It happened again.

And again.

Ten or so kids later and our driver was really bailing that boat out.

We got back to the town, the Americans carefully stepping out of the boat while the locals hopped out without a thought.  We spent the rest of the afternoon serving the children a meal, singing and dancing together and just having a huge party.

But the day has replayed in my mind many, many times since then.  I’ll have to tell you why later, though.  This post is long and my baby is calling me from her bed.  The big kids are due home soon and when they walk in the door, there is usually much emotion and loudness.  A friend is coming over who has some big stuff going on in life and I pray I’ll have the right words to say.

 And maybe the reason that day near the equator is so poignant to me has something to do with the ones that will walk through my door in these next hours .  . .

Sharing the Hard.  4

Sometimes I take pictures of food and think that maybe I’ll post a recipe.

Or I’ll see something in my house that I like, so I pretend I’m going to be a blogger that posts about how I decorate.

Or the kids.  Yeah.  My kids are cute.  And funny . . .

And then when I sit down to write, words flow out of me that scare me a little.  I wonder if it’s right to put words out there that are so personal.

Eliza gets into the markers and I don’t even notice because I’m not paying attention.  I just keep writing.

When I was in third grade, my teacher told me that I was a good writer.  Maybe I was.  Or maybe I wasn’t.  It doesn’t really matter.  What matters was that I believed her and since then, I’ve worked hard to use my words, to craft them to convey what my heart feels.

There are other days when I sit down to write and nothing happens.  Sometimes I just don’t want to.  Or I have nothing in my head coherent enough to string together.

I’ll fold the laundry and think about something amazing . . . but it’s just too hard to put into words, so I end up not trying at all.  Because haven’t we all had something that we thought was going to be the best, only to be embarrassed at how it really turned out?

And then?  Then there are times when I write something that I’m afraid isn’t even true in my life.  Am I trying to be someone that I’m not?  Am I painting a picture of the person that I wish to be, when really my life is lying in shambles around me and I don’t even know how to begin to pick up the pieces?

Don’t you see why I just want to post a DIY and call it a day?!  A picture of a few ingredients, a jar of modge podge . . . that I can do.  Couldn’t I?

So much in our lives take courage.  Courage to live, courage to be a friend.  Courage to fail, courage to grieve the failures.

When we feel our courage hanging on by a thread, we finally realize that we’re where He wants us to be.  At the end of ourselves, ready to let Him lead.

John 9:2-3 talks about the man who was born blind.

“Rabbi,” his disciples asked him, “why was this man born blind? 
Was it because of his own sins or his parents’ sins?”
“It was not because of his sins or his parents’ sins,” Jesus answered. 
“This happened so the power of God could be seen in him.”
I know that the hard things– the very things that I don’t want to write about– are the things I’ve been called to share so that the power of God can be seen in me.  And it humbles me.  

So I write the hard words . . . and I put that new recipe post firmly out of my head.  Maybe someday.  But not today.

What is He stirring in you?  Don’t shy away from it.  Skip the courage and bow your head.  The Hard Thing just may be your next right move.

On Virgins and Words.  5

So there’s this statue of a Virgin in the middle of Quito.

(Side note:  How exactly do you explain the term “Virgin” to young children?  It’s a bit tricky, you know?)

Anyway, the legend goes that she faces the North, so Northern Quito is blessed.  Her back is to the South, and you can probably guess the conclusion is to that.

I’ve been thinking about that on and off for the past week or so.

William, the black-and-white son that he is, was swimming with his sister the other week.  She jumped in the pool and when she got out, she had a wedgie.  So he told her that her buns were showing.  She translated that to mean that her swimming suit was immodest.  And now?  Well, she won’t even touch the thing.  Never mind that it came from Land’s End– the epitome of modesty.

Kate is our passionate, emotional, beautiful girl.  Often she can be quite feisty, to put it mildly.  She’ll sit on her bed and scream things that wring my heart out.  And I pray and pray and pray.  Because it gets really hard sometimes not to get angry at her.  I project out 10 years and I think about the battles we’ll be facing.  
And then I stop.  
Because?  Because I’m going to believe more for her.  I’m going to claim the truth that Christ holds her in the palm of His hand.  That He created her for a purpose.  That we are fighting for her soul and we refuse to let the words she is saying be true in her life.  Not just because it’s good for her self-esteem, but because it is TRUE.  I’m believing that in 10 years we won’t be fighting those battles at all, rather we’ll be watching her fall in love with Jesus more and more.
We started playing a game in our house this week called “Truth or Trash” (It’s an app, apparently, but I don’t have an iphone so I don’t know much about it).  We make statements and then we proclaim if it’s a Truth or Trash.  When I listen to the kids playing, I realize that it’s not just a game– it’s setting a foundation for their lives.

Words.  True or not, they shape who were are.  They ring in our ears until we convince ourselves that they are truth.

When I was 16 and in Driver’s Ed, I had a teacher who wasn’t very encouraging and slowly his words of criticism leaked into my thoughts about the kind of driver I was.  Still, to this day, I hate driving.  I have a hard time believing that I am a good driver, in spite of the fact that I’ve never had a warning, a ticket, or a wreck.  A few years ago when Peter looked at me and told me I was a good driver, I was shocked.  The thought truly had never occurred to me.  Isn’t it ridiculous that I believed someone who only spoke criticism into my life for a few weeks?

All it takes is for me to hear one criticism, one misspoken word, and the voices in my head start going.  Before I know it, I’m in an all-out battle for the truth.  Suddenly I realize that Kate and I fight the same battle.  The only difference is that she speaks her Trash out loud and I keep mine on the inside where no one can hear.

If I can only seize her words and teach her to change them into Truths before she figures out how to internalize her words, well, we’ll have overcome a humongous hurdle in her life.  Same goes for me, huh?

The day the bus took us to the tippy top of Quito, Ecuador to see the massive Virgin, I stopped and I stared at it.  You know, it’s nice.  But it’s just a statue.  To think that a superstitious belief about who would be blessed and who would not be has actually played out to be true . . . doesn’t that seem preposterous?  Today there are people pouring their hearts and soul into restoring the City, determined to win the battle in overcoming the words spoken about it.

What would happen if we actually stopped believing the lies and the trash that we have been told by ourselves, by others, by Satan?  What if we slowly allowed the Truth to leak into those cracks in our hardened hearts?

I love the Lord because he hears my voice
    and my prayer for mercy. 
Because he bends down to listen,
    I will pray as long as I have breath!
Psalm 116:1-2

A Birthday for Jefferson  3

Peter and I just returned from Ecuador with Compassion International.  Catch all my blog posts here.

I knew that Jefferson had a birthday– his 18th, nonetheless– coming up in September.  So while I was getting a backpack of gifts ready for him, I tossed in some napkins and candles for him to have a celebration.
The day before we were able to meet him, a few people on our team asked if we would be able to make a pit stop at the grocery store to buy a few staples for our families.  “Peter!”  I said, “Let’s get Jefferson a cake mix for his birthday!”
So as we were wandering the store, tossing rice and tuna and black beans into our cart, we looked for a cake mix.  But then we wondered if he had a stove.  Or a pan.  Or eggs to add.
That’s when one of our amazing translators suggested that we just buy a cake and have a party with him.  Awesome.  We bought a cake in the bakery and added some plates and party decorations from his favorite soccer team (Barcelona).
And the next day we celebrated his 18th birthday.

It was so fun.  So, so fun.
We laughed as he tried to blow out the candles and he blamed his lack of air on the altitude of Quito (well, it is 10,000 ft).  We gave him his gifts and had a pretty frank talk about the responsibility of turning 18 and what he wants to do with his life (he wants to go to college and study computers).
We asked him about his life at home.
You know how dire the circumstances are when your 20 year old translator starts crying.
Juan told us that Jefferson’s father has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s at age 53.  Because he cannot work, they have very little money coming in.  In fact, their only income right now comes from collecting plastic bottles and redeeming them for a few pennies each.  
There is a lot of gang activity in Jefferson’s town.  Often he sees people lying on the side of the road, dead from a gun shot.  He faces huge pressure to throw away his life and join the gangs. 
We talked to Angel, his youth pastor, about the hard work they are doing in his town and the challenges they face to reach the young people.  We prayed together and I couldn’t help but feel so very helpless.
In spite of that (and maybe because of it), we later enjoyed (of course) a soccer game.  We so wanted our day together to be full of joy for Jefferson and his mom– a day they would always remember.
 I have a few observations on the following photo:  (1)  There are no children bouncing in the bounce house.  They are merely using it as a chair to watch the game– does this tell you how important soccer is!? (2) There were three characters on the bounce house:  Spongebob, Spiderman, and Woody Woodpecker (random, yes?) and (3) Look at how close we were to the clouds!  The altitude of Quito is mucho high (oh!  Did you notice how I snuck that Spanish in?  Pretty impressive, I know).  

I had so much fun watching all these people from all over Ecuador and the United States play and laugh together.  I sat with Jefferson’s Mom on the sidelines and we had a great time enjoying the game.

That’s Juan, our translator for the day, in the picture below.  He rocked.  Taught himself English when his dad bought him a Playstation and he wanted to figure out what they were saying.  He’s now in University studying Computer Animation.

Peter got schooled by this little kid (and that kid was pretty happy about it! ha!) . . .

 And we got a kick out of how cold these people were, even in the beautiful 70* weather.  This man played the whole game with his huge winter coat on.  He wasn’t half bad either . . .

My favorite part of the day?  A few of our leaders worked really, really hard to make it possible for us to video chat with our kids.  It only lasted a few minutes and I have no pictures, but it was amazing.  I cannot tell you how important it was for William and Kate to see and talk to Jefferson.  As I hugged Jefferson good-bye at the end of the day, he said to me, “Say hello to my fan club.”  He nailed it.  They love him so much and still haven’t stopped talking about those brief minutes.

At the end of the day, Jefferson told us that he still has every single one of the letters and pictures we have sent him over the years.  He remembered the date of Annie’s death and they told us they pray for us each year.  His favorite picture, though, was one that we had sent him when we were all making goofy faces.  So what choice did we have?

I am in awe that God gave us this amazing opportunity.   Seeing their faces and hearing their words made me sad and helpless. It’s so easy to downplay the poverty and violence in our world.  And it’s equally hard to know what to do when the reality is placed in your lap.

What do you do when poverty is no longer a mere topic of conversation, but instead has a real face . . . a name . . . a soul?

Gaining Traction.  1

 “Let the dew of My Presence refresh your mind and heart.  So many, many things vie for your attention in this complex world of instant communication.  
The world has changed enormously since I first gave the command to be still and know that I am God.  However, this timeless truth is essential for the well-being of your soul.  As dew refreshes grass and flowers during the stillness of the night, so My Presence revitalizes you as you sit quietly with Me.


A refreshed, revitalized mind is able to sort out what is important and what is not.  

In its natural condition, your mind easily gets stuck on trivial matters.  Like the spinning wheels of a car trapped in mud, the cogs of your brain spin impotently when you focus on a trivial thing.  As soon as you start communicating with Me about the matter, your thoughts gain traction and you can move on to more important things.  
Communicate with Me continually, and I will put My thoughts into your mind.”
— Jesus Calling by Sarah Young (September 3rd)

P.S.  I keep looking at these pictures and thinking about these words today.  And I’m putting off the grocery store because I’m just not sure how I’m going to face the overabundance.  I’m still sorting out the important and unimportant, and figuring out how to live life in the in-between of it all (also?  I think I love the in-between, even if it isn’t very easy).

Meeting Jefferson  8

Around the time Peter and I got married, we started sponsoring a boy named Jefferson through Compassion International.

Back then, he was just a bitty thing.

Somehow in those early years as poor newlyweds, we were always able to spare enough to pay his monthly support.  We would write him letters and we got letters back from him.

We had kids (lots of kids) and we wrote to him about each one, even sharing our sad news with him.

Much like teenagers in the United States, Compassion has a hard time getting kids to stick with their program after they hit 13 years old.  Sounds familiar, huh?  In fact, only 37% of Compassion kids actually graduate.  They are working hard on developing soccer, drama, and art programs to engage these kids to keep them off the streets.

But Jefferson has beat the odds.  We are so proud of him.

We were able to spend a day and a half with Jefferson.  He travelled, along with his Mom and youth pastor, eight hours in a bus to see us.

On the night we met him, we were so nervous.  We didn’t know if he would like us, and we weren’t sure if he would feel out of place (he was the oldest sponsored child– most other children were much younger).  Each child stood at the door of the room and they called our names one by one.

The sweetest memory I have is seeing him in that doorway.  All of a sudden, he raised his hand to wave to us.  Later he told us (through the translator): “You looked just like your pictures!  I knew it was you!”

We ran to him.  There are no words to describe how amazing it was to put my arms around that boy.

Compassion did a great job putting us all at ease that night.  They threw a huge party with singing and congo lines and balloons and confetti.  It was so fun and the initial awkwardness slowly disappeared as we got more comfortable speaking through the translator.  Jefferson was so very nervous that he could barely make eye contact with us.

At one point in the night, I found myself alone at the table with Marta, Jefferson’s mom.  All of a sudden, tears were in her eyes and she started talking to me rapidly in Spanish.  She put her head in her hands, crying uncontrollably.  I was speechless.  I went over to her and put my arms around her.  Later when our translator returned, I told her, “I could not understand your words, but I am a Mom, too, so I know exactly what you said.”   We cried together.  It was then that I realized the difference we had made in this one boy’s life.

The sacrifice we made for Jefferson was minimal.  A little money.  A few letters and pictures.  Prayers and encouragement.  I had no idea the impact we made in him and his family.

Even more so, I wasn’t expecting how deeply I would love him and his family, how sacred our time with him would be, how quickly God would weave our lives together.

The next day was a whole other adventure . . . .

P.S.  Jefferson and his Mom were happy and we laughed tons . . . until we got out the camera.  Then they would go all straight-faced on us.

A Boy Named Allan.  3

Have I told you about our little savings account?
When we lost Annie, so many kind people (maybe it was you!?) gave us money.  It overwhelmed us beyond belief.  Peter and I decided that the money in this precious savings account would be used to help others in their grief and also to help others know Christ.  We’ve been able to do some amazing things for some amazing people with that money.

When we received this opportunity to travel to Ecuador, we felt God prompting us to use a bit of the money from this savings.

I think of Annie all of the time.  But during this trip, I saw her face in so many of the little children.  I was acutely aware of my grief.

We traveled to the Esmeraldas region of Ecuador to visit a group of mamas and their babies.  Compassion’s Child Survival Program ministers to the poorest of the poor.

When we arrived at the Project, we were greeted by a line of sweet women with their babies.  We were told to hug the Mamas and kiss their babies.  Most of these Moms were very, very young and often babies are seen as a burden, so for us to love on them meant a lot.  The memory still brings tears to my eyes.  Walking through that line of babies, many the age that Annie was when we lost her, was so hard.   I just cried and cried.  I don’t even really know why.

Later I found out that many of these babies would die without this Compassion project.  They are just too poor.  This particular project, run in partnership with a Salvation Army church, has 44 Moms and babies.

Once a month these moms get together to learn a craft.  Not a fun little pinterest craft . . . a craft that will help them learn some sort of trade that will enable them to earn money.  Three times a month, a tutor will go to each of the Mother’s houses.  She will teach a basic skill to the child and do a devotion with the Mom.   She’ll spend about an hour in the house loving on these families.

We were able to go with a tutor to experience a home visit.

We met Carina, who has three small children and a husband who travels to work and is gone for weeks at a time.  We watched the tutor teach her daughter a basic lesson on colors, and we all smiled as the little girl grabbed the yellow crayon and colored the banana!  So simple . . . but it makes an amazing impact on these families.

While the tutor was doing the lesson, I found myself surrounded by children and I began to hand out stickers.  One little boy began to smile and laugh with us.  Our translator said, “Did you hear that?  He just called you ‘Aunt’ and ‘Uncle'”.

Before we left, we prayed for Carina and her family.  That’s when we found out that the little boy who called us Aunt and Uncle, Allan, had been experiencing a health problem that really worried his Mama.  She had been trying to sell extra food each day in order to take him to the doctor.

I looked into her eyes and saw the look that I had worn on my face during the month I knew Annie was sick but couldn’t find the right answers.  And I realized that a Mama’s love and concern for her child crosses all language barriers.  I knew that desperateness and the growing pit in her stomach.

I could only cry because I remembered.  The difference?  We didn’t have to scrape together money before we could figure out what was wrong.  We were able to get the best help for Annie, without even thinking about the finances.

Obviously, even the best couldn’t save our girl.  Allan, though, could be different.

It rocked me.

Peter and I talked to the Compassion staff about Allan.  He captured our hearts and we wanted to support him.  He is ‘ours’ now.  For the next years, when we write to him, we will be able to picture his face, his family, his home.  He will get medical help through Compassion’s Complimentary Interventions Program and hopefully he will get better.

This is one of the gifts that God has given us.  When I see him, I see Annie.  Our loss enables us to reach out to others, to care for others in ways that we didn’t know existed before we lived this grief-life.  You know, one of the things I prayed when we lost Annie was that our pain would not be wasted.  I continue to long for my hurt to have a good purpose.  Often throughout my days God shows me the little ways that He allows me to use what He has handed us.

But this?  This was huge.  God showed me the extent of His power to bring something deeply good out of something deeply painful.  When we trust God enough to allow Him to turn our eyes off of our own pain and instead look into the eyes of someone else who is hurting, we find the soothing hand of the One who heals.

All praise to the God and Father of our Master, Jesus the Messiah! Father of all mercy! God of all healing counsel! He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us. We have plenty of hard times that come from following the Messiah, but no more so than the good times of his healing comfort—we get a full measure of that, too.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (The Message)

P.S.  This video explains it all so well– much better than my botched words . . . watch it!

Snapshot  3

You know those  blurry allergy commercials that become crystal clear to illustrate how different life can be once you take their magic pills?

I’m feeling a bit like I need the magic.

I’ve been pondering just how I’m going to share about our trip to Ecuador last week.  I had planned on blogging while we were there, but the spotty internet was a bit of relief when I realized that the pep talks I had given myself on poverty just weren’t cutting it.

Today, as I sit on my couch and listen to my washing machine, as I listen to the kids putting together forts in the basement and breathe in the fresh air, I realize that these days of blurriness will fade.  Because right now the world-of-last-week and the world-of-this-week lie in stark contrast.  Both are fresh in my mind today.  Truthfully, it’s hard to merge the two worlds.  It hurts a bit, this freshness.

There are a lot of questions in this in-between blurriness.  

P.S. Over the next few weeks, I have plenty of snapshots to share with you.  Fingers crossed, it won’t take you back to the “What I Did On My Vacation” slideshows.