I heard a comedian do a bit on drinking straws once. He talked about how a straw tries to embarrass you in important moments. When you go to take a sip, sometimes it forces you to chase it with your mouth and refuses to cooperate, making you look foolish. He ended the bit pretending like he was talking to a straw and said, “I don’t need you! You are a luxury item.”
Carpet. It’s a luxury item isn’t it? Don’t get me wrong. I am not trying to make anyone feel bad for having carpet. I had carpet in my apartment that was the ugliest color ever created. It was about 20-30 years old. When it was finally changed, not only did my environment brighten up, but I my attitude did too each morning when I put my feet down. It is soft on my feet and I most definitely enjoy and am thankful for it.
I was recently helping to remodel a dinning room of someone’s house. It struck me, as I watched the carpet be slashed and pulled up, that we must seem very wasteful to those who can’t afford it. Here we were, ripping up carpet and throwing it in the dump. Yes, the carpet was very old and worn. However, I couldn’t help but think of the homes I have seen in Romania, Kenya, and Ethiopia. Some of the people I have met there, would have loved to have what we were throwing it away. No doubt there are people down the street from each of us that would have loved that carpet too.
Carpet- A luxury item. It’s an expensive piece of fibers intricately woven together so we cushion our feet, keep them warm, and will make our rooms look socially acceptable. We work hard to make money and spend a good amount of it on this item of fibers and glue. Carpet is an interesting thing to think about. I am known to analyze things too much, and I realize that. In fact, I analyze that statement too, I suppose. However, I think carpet is one of those things that is definitely a luxury item. I guess it proves that old saying true, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
In the Korogocho slum in Kenya, people ravage through the city dump site, for things..anything. They often hope to find bags. I’m referring to the plastic bags that grocery stores give us for free to carry our food. They find these bags and clean them off in the creek nearby. Then they sell those bags for food for their families. Recently I threw away an empty plastic soap bottle. I thought about how much that would mean to those living in the dump in Kenya. It would be such a rare find, a blessing, a way to buy some food. Something I considered garbage would mean so much to someone who had nothing. One man’s trash….another man’s treasure.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Thinking Back and Being Thankful
The following article was written after my first mission trip experience in Nov of 2005. The pictures above are of children I met on that trip and whose faces haunted me upon my return.
With the Thanksgiving holiday on its way, the question “What are you thankful for?” seems to come up more often than other times during the year. Somehow we tend to all have the same general answers- Family, Friends, Health, Opportunity……….. I’d like to challenge you all to dig a bit deeper.
The other day, I spent some time with my sister and 4 year old, niece, Delainey. Delainey was telling us what she had done that day at her preschool. She said the teacher went around to each child and asked them what they were thankful for. My sister and I were expecting Delainey to have said she was thankful for her Barbie dolls or for her pet. She surprised us when she said, “I told my teacher I am thankful for soup.” “Soup? “ Emily asked. “You don’t like soup. In fact, I can’t get you to even eat 1 spoonful of soup when we have it for dinner. Why did you say you were thankful for soup?” By this point Emily and I were smiling and chuckling at the thought of how strange it was to be thankful for something disliked so much. In a quiet voice Delainey responded, “I don’t like soup Mommy, but I’m still thankful for it.”
Isn’t it amazing how God uses children to teach us? What Delainey said really made me think. I know many of you can relate to this: When I think about those children I met in Romania, I have many emotions. Those feelings run deep. They are the kind that you can actually feel in the pit of your stomach. Love is one, and Hurt is another. It’s a hurting feeling that I get when I think about the orphans. I have often thought about how I disliked the hurt that my heart has felt since I left Romania. It took a four year old little girl to make me realize- You know what? I may not like the hurt, but I am thankful for it. God has put that hurt there so that I won’t forget them. I am truly blessed that God has given us the gift of loving and hurting for those children. What an awesome gift! For that alone, I am thankful. Sometimes the dislikes in our lives are the blessings we should be thankful for.
I personally am thankful for many blessings I have received this past year. Friends, family, health, and opportunity are only a few. I am so thankful for God meeting me in Romania in response to be being faithful to His call to go and serve.
So, I leave you with a challenge. I challenge you to really ponder the question: “What are you thankful for.”
Psalm 107 1:1 Thank the Lord because he is good. His love continues forever.
With the Thanksgiving holiday on its way, the question “What are you thankful for?” seems to come up more often than other times during the year. Somehow we tend to all have the same general answers- Family, Friends, Health, Opportunity……….. I’d like to challenge you all to dig a bit deeper.
The other day, I spent some time with my sister and 4 year old, niece, Delainey. Delainey was telling us what she had done that day at her preschool. She said the teacher went around to each child and asked them what they were thankful for. My sister and I were expecting Delainey to have said she was thankful for her Barbie dolls or for her pet. She surprised us when she said, “I told my teacher I am thankful for soup.” “Soup? “ Emily asked. “You don’t like soup. In fact, I can’t get you to even eat 1 spoonful of soup when we have it for dinner. Why did you say you were thankful for soup?” By this point Emily and I were smiling and chuckling at the thought of how strange it was to be thankful for something disliked so much. In a quiet voice Delainey responded, “I don’t like soup Mommy, but I’m still thankful for it.”
Isn’t it amazing how God uses children to teach us? What Delainey said really made me think. I know many of you can relate to this: When I think about those children I met in Romania, I have many emotions. Those feelings run deep. They are the kind that you can actually feel in the pit of your stomach. Love is one, and Hurt is another. It’s a hurting feeling that I get when I think about the orphans. I have often thought about how I disliked the hurt that my heart has felt since I left Romania. It took a four year old little girl to make me realize- You know what? I may not like the hurt, but I am thankful for it. God has put that hurt there so that I won’t forget them. I am truly blessed that God has given us the gift of loving and hurting for those children. What an awesome gift! For that alone, I am thankful. Sometimes the dislikes in our lives are the blessings we should be thankful for.
I personally am thankful for many blessings I have received this past year. Friends, family, health, and opportunity are only a few. I am so thankful for God meeting me in Romania in response to be being faithful to His call to go and serve.
So, I leave you with a challenge. I challenge you to really ponder the question: “What are you thankful for.”
Psalm 107 1:1 Thank the Lord because he is good. His love continues forever.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Sunday Night Suffering
Somewhere between the phone ringing and that distinct hospital smell, my feet moved one in front of the other and I travelled on adrenaline and instinct. Last night, as I answered the phone, I heard “Beth, can you come over? I fell” from my very injured Grandmother. Yes, my dear Grandmother had fallen and was in need of help and medical attention.
As I sat with her in a FULL hospital emergency room, I looked around. “Everyone here has a story,” I thought to myself. I had spent the morning speaking at a church, on the plight of orphans and telling stories of pain and suffering around the world. Now, I sat and was face to face with suffering of those in my own backyard. Suffering of children, elderly, and everyone in between.
A child sat in the corner vomiting. In between his episodes of misery, he would sit on his loving mother’s lap, playing with her hair as he breathed right in her face. Nearby a man sat in a wheelchair with ice on his leg. He didn’t look so bad, but of course I imagined what happened to him to be in the ER there with me that night. Yes, everyone here had a story.
A fragile looking immigrant family came in with a panicked way about them. Their little girl was hallucinating, vomiting, not making sense, and had a racing heart beat. In the most blatant display of unprofessionalism I have seen in some time, the male nurse came out to the room and very aggressively questioned them in front of everyone. He asked them what happened. The father spoke and said they had given their daughter medicine but they didn’t know what it was. They had gotten it in Mexico but it wasn’t medicine prescribed to this specific little girl. He said his daughter had worms and someone gave him this medicine to give to her. He kept saying they thought it was “Vitamins or something” but really had no idea what exactly the pink substance in the bottle was. After the nurse embarrassed this family in front of the crowd, he walked them back to a room as he rudely called for a translator to help him communicate with the family. The little girl looked lost, scared, and so vulnerable.
In between adjustments of the icepack on my grandmother’s head wound, more people walked in to the ER. A large drunk man came in. He had a deep laceration above his eye. I assumed he had been in a fight, but I really don’t know. I wondered if he would be in another fight before he left the waiting room. After what seemed like an eternity of his obnoxious outbursts, wandering around, yelling, and his displays of profanity, many in that waiting room were probably more than willing to take a swing at him to just get him quiet. About that time, I overhead nurses discussing a quickly approaching ambulance.
A young man came in alone with what looked like an obvious broken hand. As he made his way to an empty seat, he winced in pain. He took his seat amongst others who would frequently make their way to the bathroom from their illness. One woman waited so long with her young child, she just gave up and walked out. So much suffering and pain.
Soon a young woman walked in that broke my heart. Her face was so very broken and swollen. Her eyes looked empty. Her neck had marks around it and a knot, that no doubt pulsated as it bulged from her swollen body, told a story in itself. She looked like she had clothes on that were not her own, but just thrown on. She was in pain and was humiliated. Her mother or friend followed behind with a small infant that seemed to be this broken spirit’s child. Soon the sheriff came and (once again…no privacy) I overheard enough details to know this was a domestic violence case. I thought about her all night. She looked broken in so many ways. I wanted to cry for her as I sat in that room. As this was all going through my head, my sister leaned towards my ear and whispered, “I just want to cry for her…she is humiliated.” If you think of that woman and her child, please pray for them. For whatever reason, our paths crossed in an ER waiting room, maybe it is so you can pray for her today. She looked crushed both physically and emotionally.
After a few hours of tests, stitches, and moans of pain later, Grandma was released. My sister and I left when we heard she was given the okay to leave and my mom was taking her home. I stopped for gas on the way home. It was about 10:00 PM or so and it was probably 30 degrees outside. Cold and windy. I pumped the gas and looked at a nearby McDonalds restaurant across the street. My heart once again sank.
A young homeless woman, carrying a sleeping bag and backpack with a light jacket on, was scoping out the area trying to see if anyone was watching her. She didn’t see us looking at her across the street. When she thought it was safe, she made her way into the dumpster.
That night, I couldn’t help but give thanks for the many blessings I received that day. I had a lot to be thankful for. I had a lot to lift up as well. I had seen so many in pain. So many suffering. So many lost. I thought about how Jesus cares for and loves each one just as much as the other, just as much as you and me. I wondered how many didn’t even know about this love. I thought about how a part of me, while in that waiting room, wanted to put my coat over my head to escape the noise, the smell, the germs, and the sights that seemed to threaten me in a way at the same time they depressed me. I thought about how this was just a sliver of what the Lord sees everyday.
I have no idea why He allowed the circumstances that led me to the hospital that day. I do know there is an underlying purpose in it though. The lost, the hurting, the cold, and the lonely are all out there, and they need our prayers today. I tell you their stories because I believe somehow that is crucial to His purpose in it all. If you are open to it, maybe their stories will encourage you to take action, say a prayer, or speak to you in some way.
As I sat with her in a FULL hospital emergency room, I looked around. “Everyone here has a story,” I thought to myself. I had spent the morning speaking at a church, on the plight of orphans and telling stories of pain and suffering around the world. Now, I sat and was face to face with suffering of those in my own backyard. Suffering of children, elderly, and everyone in between.
A child sat in the corner vomiting. In between his episodes of misery, he would sit on his loving mother’s lap, playing with her hair as he breathed right in her face. Nearby a man sat in a wheelchair with ice on his leg. He didn’t look so bad, but of course I imagined what happened to him to be in the ER there with me that night. Yes, everyone here had a story.
A fragile looking immigrant family came in with a panicked way about them. Their little girl was hallucinating, vomiting, not making sense, and had a racing heart beat. In the most blatant display of unprofessionalism I have seen in some time, the male nurse came out to the room and very aggressively questioned them in front of everyone. He asked them what happened. The father spoke and said they had given their daughter medicine but they didn’t know what it was. They had gotten it in Mexico but it wasn’t medicine prescribed to this specific little girl. He said his daughter had worms and someone gave him this medicine to give to her. He kept saying they thought it was “Vitamins or something” but really had no idea what exactly the pink substance in the bottle was. After the nurse embarrassed this family in front of the crowd, he walked them back to a room as he rudely called for a translator to help him communicate with the family. The little girl looked lost, scared, and so vulnerable.
In between adjustments of the icepack on my grandmother’s head wound, more people walked in to the ER. A large drunk man came in. He had a deep laceration above his eye. I assumed he had been in a fight, but I really don’t know. I wondered if he would be in another fight before he left the waiting room. After what seemed like an eternity of his obnoxious outbursts, wandering around, yelling, and his displays of profanity, many in that waiting room were probably more than willing to take a swing at him to just get him quiet. About that time, I overhead nurses discussing a quickly approaching ambulance.
A young man came in alone with what looked like an obvious broken hand. As he made his way to an empty seat, he winced in pain. He took his seat amongst others who would frequently make their way to the bathroom from their illness. One woman waited so long with her young child, she just gave up and walked out. So much suffering and pain.
Soon a young woman walked in that broke my heart. Her face was so very broken and swollen. Her eyes looked empty. Her neck had marks around it and a knot, that no doubt pulsated as it bulged from her swollen body, told a story in itself. She looked like she had clothes on that were not her own, but just thrown on. She was in pain and was humiliated. Her mother or friend followed behind with a small infant that seemed to be this broken spirit’s child. Soon the sheriff came and (once again…no privacy) I overheard enough details to know this was a domestic violence case. I thought about her all night. She looked broken in so many ways. I wanted to cry for her as I sat in that room. As this was all going through my head, my sister leaned towards my ear and whispered, “I just want to cry for her…she is humiliated.” If you think of that woman and her child, please pray for them. For whatever reason, our paths crossed in an ER waiting room, maybe it is so you can pray for her today. She looked crushed both physically and emotionally.
After a few hours of tests, stitches, and moans of pain later, Grandma was released. My sister and I left when we heard she was given the okay to leave and my mom was taking her home. I stopped for gas on the way home. It was about 10:00 PM or so and it was probably 30 degrees outside. Cold and windy. I pumped the gas and looked at a nearby McDonalds restaurant across the street. My heart once again sank.
A young homeless woman, carrying a sleeping bag and backpack with a light jacket on, was scoping out the area trying to see if anyone was watching her. She didn’t see us looking at her across the street. When she thought it was safe, she made her way into the dumpster.
That night, I couldn’t help but give thanks for the many blessings I received that day. I had a lot to be thankful for. I had a lot to lift up as well. I had seen so many in pain. So many suffering. So many lost. I thought about how Jesus cares for and loves each one just as much as the other, just as much as you and me. I wondered how many didn’t even know about this love. I thought about how a part of me, while in that waiting room, wanted to put my coat over my head to escape the noise, the smell, the germs, and the sights that seemed to threaten me in a way at the same time they depressed me. I thought about how this was just a sliver of what the Lord sees everyday.
I have no idea why He allowed the circumstances that led me to the hospital that day. I do know there is an underlying purpose in it though. The lost, the hurting, the cold, and the lonely are all out there, and they need our prayers today. I tell you their stories because I believe somehow that is crucial to His purpose in it all. If you are open to it, maybe their stories will encourage you to take action, say a prayer, or speak to you in some way.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Winnie
It was an ordinary day, on a Shoes for Orphan Souls trip in Kenya. That is what I thought anyway. What happened that day would change my vision, my heart, and my life. A place simply known as, “Busia” wouldn’t seem so simple after that day. That was the day I met her. Her name was Winnie.
The memory of that day seems so surreal. We stepped off the bus and were surrounded by children looking for a hand to hold, a face that would lend a smile, and someone to show them love. The feeling of stepping off the bus at a new location is always so similar to the feeling you get as a child right before you open your Christmas presents on Christmas morning. In fact, I think the feeling of meeting orphan children for the first time is better than that of being a child on Christmas morning. Well, that Christmas like morning in Busia is where I met a motherless child.
I found myself singing the “Welcome to Kenya” song with a small group of children. They were teaching me how to sing the song in Swahili. That was when I suddenly noticed the flies in our group were swarming and almost driving me crazy. I was shooing them away, as the children seem oblivious to the presence of flies at all. It was then that I noticed why the flies were with us.
I looked down and saw a young girl in a blue, torn, dirty sundress. I had met her a couple minutes earlier. Her name was Winnie. She had an open wound on her knee. The size of the wound concerned me to some degree. However, my concern was more consumed by the fact so many flies were feeding off that wound on her body. The flies were deep into the wound of her leg, and she didn’t even notice they were there. Either that, or she didn’t care. It was a privilege to shoo the flies away from her that day. That probably sounds strange or grotesque to most. However, the Lord blessed me with the honor of caring for her and swatting the bugs away from her body. For that blessing, I am so thankful.
We continued to sing songs, and I could tell Winnie wanted to say something to me. She had that look of a child trying to muster up the courage to say something really important but was very scared to do so. I smiled at her and raised my eyebrows as if to say, “What is, it, Winnie?” She slowly took a deep breath and moved in close to my ear. “I want to go home with you,” she pleaded. She sat back and gave a coy smile. She was looking deep into my eyes and heart, and waiting for my response. I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. I had no breath. I prayed God would give me the words to loving explain why I couldn’t take her home.
“I want to go home with you.” Those words, her voice, and her big dark eyes, haunted me for weeks after I returned from Kenya. “I want to go home with you.” I couldn’t stop thinking about her. What kind of life does she lead? How bad does it have to be to beg a complete stranger to take you home, for her to be willing to give up everything that she called home, the friends she had, the family (if any) she had left? Did she see a kind stranger that was willing to smile and hold her hand, and she thought, “I would be willing to give up all that I know and have if this woman would be my mother. Maybe if I ask, she will take me home and love me?” My heart ached so badly for her.
I struggled for some time after returning home. I finally just asked God, “Why?” “Why did you send me to this child?” “What did I do to help her?” “She desperately wanted to come home, and I failed her. I failed You. I didn’t bring her home and give her what she wanted, what she needed.” God very clearly spoke to me in that moment. He spoke these words, “Yes, you did. You DID bring her home. You brought her home in your heart.” I realized I hadn’t brought her home to my house like Winnie and I both wanted, but I DID bring her home in my heart, and home in my prayers. Her picture sits in my living room, on my computer, stamped on my heart, and in my eyes. Maybe my ache for her was God’s purpose in me bringing her home in that way. One day I hope and pray to physically bring home a child just like Winnie. However, Winnie will always be my long distance God appointed daughter in the heart.
We can’t bring each child we meet, home with us. However we can bring them home in other ways. We can bring them home in our hearts and prayers. We can bring their voice home and share it in our world. God’s love for her brought her into my life and home with me forever. I will never forget Winnie. She changed my life, and I hope my prayers and love for her, will change her life too.
Winnie and so many others are hurting, searching, crying, and even screaming out for help. The world isn’t hearing or seeing them. Where is their voice here in the Untied States? It is you, and it is me. We are their voice, and with the Lord’s help we can make those cries heard. We can make them be seen. We can go, serve, and give them what they have been searching for, Him. It is Him, Jesus Christ. He is the answer to it all, and He is calling us all to “Do Something.”
The memory of that day seems so surreal. We stepped off the bus and were surrounded by children looking for a hand to hold, a face that would lend a smile, and someone to show them love. The feeling of stepping off the bus at a new location is always so similar to the feeling you get as a child right before you open your Christmas presents on Christmas morning. In fact, I think the feeling of meeting orphan children for the first time is better than that of being a child on Christmas morning. Well, that Christmas like morning in Busia is where I met a motherless child.
I found myself singing the “Welcome to Kenya” song with a small group of children. They were teaching me how to sing the song in Swahili. That was when I suddenly noticed the flies in our group were swarming and almost driving me crazy. I was shooing them away, as the children seem oblivious to the presence of flies at all. It was then that I noticed why the flies were with us.
I looked down and saw a young girl in a blue, torn, dirty sundress. I had met her a couple minutes earlier. Her name was Winnie. She had an open wound on her knee. The size of the wound concerned me to some degree. However, my concern was more consumed by the fact so many flies were feeding off that wound on her body. The flies were deep into the wound of her leg, and she didn’t even notice they were there. Either that, or she didn’t care. It was a privilege to shoo the flies away from her that day. That probably sounds strange or grotesque to most. However, the Lord blessed me with the honor of caring for her and swatting the bugs away from her body. For that blessing, I am so thankful.
We continued to sing songs, and I could tell Winnie wanted to say something to me. She had that look of a child trying to muster up the courage to say something really important but was very scared to do so. I smiled at her and raised my eyebrows as if to say, “What is, it, Winnie?” She slowly took a deep breath and moved in close to my ear. “I want to go home with you,” she pleaded. She sat back and gave a coy smile. She was looking deep into my eyes and heart, and waiting for my response. I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. I had no breath. I prayed God would give me the words to loving explain why I couldn’t take her home.
“I want to go home with you.” Those words, her voice, and her big dark eyes, haunted me for weeks after I returned from Kenya. “I want to go home with you.” I couldn’t stop thinking about her. What kind of life does she lead? How bad does it have to be to beg a complete stranger to take you home, for her to be willing to give up everything that she called home, the friends she had, the family (if any) she had left? Did she see a kind stranger that was willing to smile and hold her hand, and she thought, “I would be willing to give up all that I know and have if this woman would be my mother. Maybe if I ask, she will take me home and love me?” My heart ached so badly for her.
I struggled for some time after returning home. I finally just asked God, “Why?” “Why did you send me to this child?” “What did I do to help her?” “She desperately wanted to come home, and I failed her. I failed You. I didn’t bring her home and give her what she wanted, what she needed.” God very clearly spoke to me in that moment. He spoke these words, “Yes, you did. You DID bring her home. You brought her home in your heart.” I realized I hadn’t brought her home to my house like Winnie and I both wanted, but I DID bring her home in my heart, and home in my prayers. Her picture sits in my living room, on my computer, stamped on my heart, and in my eyes. Maybe my ache for her was God’s purpose in me bringing her home in that way. One day I hope and pray to physically bring home a child just like Winnie. However, Winnie will always be my long distance God appointed daughter in the heart.
We can’t bring each child we meet, home with us. However we can bring them home in other ways. We can bring them home in our hearts and prayers. We can bring their voice home and share it in our world. God’s love for her brought her into my life and home with me forever. I will never forget Winnie. She changed my life, and I hope my prayers and love for her, will change her life too.
Winnie and so many others are hurting, searching, crying, and even screaming out for help. The world isn’t hearing or seeing them. Where is their voice here in the Untied States? It is you, and it is me. We are their voice, and with the Lord’s help we can make those cries heard. We can make them be seen. We can go, serve, and give them what they have been searching for, Him. It is Him, Jesus Christ. He is the answer to it all, and He is calling us all to “Do Something.”
Saturday, November 8, 2008
The Teacher
As I walked down the hall, I heard the most startling sound possible in an infant home…silence. I was told “They don’t cry anymore…they have learned..if they cry, no one comes to them. Now, they just don’t cry.” In this infant home in Romania, there was one caregiver per 20+ children, and the sound of silence was killing me.
I was led to a room with 3 small children in cribs. One foot in front of the other, I made my way to the child in the blue onesie in the crib. This child, whom I would later name as “my teacher,” would change my life and teach me more about servanthood in just a few minutes, than I had learned in twenty some years before.
As I approached him, the stench of his soiled diaper ascended from the crib. I looked down at him. What a fragile little body, marked with vomit, dirt, and blood coming from his nose. My heart broke. After figuring out how to lower the ancient metal style crib gate, I reached in and picked him up. I was determined to achieve what we all do while holding a baby..a smile.
I sang, I made goofy faces, I danced, you name it. Nothing. No smile. No giggle. Nothing. This child seemed emotionless. I looked around the room. I was overwhelmed. This day marked one of the first days of my very first mission trip. What was I doing? I wasn’t the right person for this job. I couldn’t even make this child smile. My heart sank at this defeat, I had that feeling I was in way over my head.
You know how when you walk into a small room, you automatically feel big? It just happens. When you are in a small room, you just feel bigger. The strange thing about this small room in the infant home was that the longer I was in it, the smaller and smaller I felt. I looked around the room. What I saw confirmed my feelings of inadequacy. I saw a bath tub that was filthy. This is where they bathed. I saw a child in a crib that was way too old to be caged like an animal. He was drinking from a bottle that had been propped up to his mouth. He looked like he should be in third or fourth grade. I felt myself getting smaller and smaller.
I wondered if this was a fraction of how David felt standing before Goliath. Feeling so small and like he were up against the impossible. Without a clue of what to do next, I sat on the edge of a bed in that room. I had the child still in my arms, and bowed my head to pray. How can I make a difference here, Lord? What am I supposed to do? I can’t even do something as simple as make this child smile. I have no idea where to start, and I feel so small. Tell me what to do.
After my heart spoke those words, I opened my eyes. As I looked down in my arms to that small precious child, I saw something that spoke a message that was if it were written on the wall. My new emotionless friend was smiling from ear to ear. In that moment the Lord spoke to me. “You start right here. You start by loving these children.” You know, that smile in itself was worth every penny I had raised for my first mission trip. It was worth every mile traveled and every sleepless night afterwards. I would do everything all over again, just to see that smile for two more seconds.
It’s pretty simple really. You start by loving the children. It doesn’t take a Billy Graham type evangelist. It doesn’t take a person who even has a clue on what to do on a mission trip. You start by loving the children. That is how you start making a difference in their lives. Can you hold a child’s hand? Can you sit them on your lap and squeeze them tight? Can you pray for them? That’s all it takes…people like you and people like me…loving them. It’s pretty easy really.
I call that child, my teacher. He taught me so much. He taught me that it starts by praying for and loving the children. And that, will change their lives AND your life in more blessed ways than you could ever imagine.
I was led to a room with 3 small children in cribs. One foot in front of the other, I made my way to the child in the blue onesie in the crib. This child, whom I would later name as “my teacher,” would change my life and teach me more about servanthood in just a few minutes, than I had learned in twenty some years before.
As I approached him, the stench of his soiled diaper ascended from the crib. I looked down at him. What a fragile little body, marked with vomit, dirt, and blood coming from his nose. My heart broke. After figuring out how to lower the ancient metal style crib gate, I reached in and picked him up. I was determined to achieve what we all do while holding a baby..a smile.
I sang, I made goofy faces, I danced, you name it. Nothing. No smile. No giggle. Nothing. This child seemed emotionless. I looked around the room. I was overwhelmed. This day marked one of the first days of my very first mission trip. What was I doing? I wasn’t the right person for this job. I couldn’t even make this child smile. My heart sank at this defeat, I had that feeling I was in way over my head.
You know how when you walk into a small room, you automatically feel big? It just happens. When you are in a small room, you just feel bigger. The strange thing about this small room in the infant home was that the longer I was in it, the smaller and smaller I felt. I looked around the room. What I saw confirmed my feelings of inadequacy. I saw a bath tub that was filthy. This is where they bathed. I saw a child in a crib that was way too old to be caged like an animal. He was drinking from a bottle that had been propped up to his mouth. He looked like he should be in third or fourth grade. I felt myself getting smaller and smaller.
I wondered if this was a fraction of how David felt standing before Goliath. Feeling so small and like he were up against the impossible. Without a clue of what to do next, I sat on the edge of a bed in that room. I had the child still in my arms, and bowed my head to pray. How can I make a difference here, Lord? What am I supposed to do? I can’t even do something as simple as make this child smile. I have no idea where to start, and I feel so small. Tell me what to do.
After my heart spoke those words, I opened my eyes. As I looked down in my arms to that small precious child, I saw something that spoke a message that was if it were written on the wall. My new emotionless friend was smiling from ear to ear. In that moment the Lord spoke to me. “You start right here. You start by loving these children.” You know, that smile in itself was worth every penny I had raised for my first mission trip. It was worth every mile traveled and every sleepless night afterwards. I would do everything all over again, just to see that smile for two more seconds.
It’s pretty simple really. You start by loving the children. It doesn’t take a Billy Graham type evangelist. It doesn’t take a person who even has a clue on what to do on a mission trip. You start by loving the children. That is how you start making a difference in their lives. Can you hold a child’s hand? Can you sit them on your lap and squeeze them tight? Can you pray for them? That’s all it takes…people like you and people like me…loving them. It’s pretty easy really.
I call that child, my teacher. He taught me so much. He taught me that it starts by praying for and loving the children. And that, will change their lives AND your life in more blessed ways than you could ever imagine.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Post Election Day
November 4th, 2008, what a day. A new president was elected, history was made, and as John McCain so eloquently put it, “The American people have spoken, and they have spoken clearly.” Whether you voted for Barack Obama or not, he is going to be president. “Change” is on its way whether you wanted it or not.
Wow. What a day. No matter what political party you identify yourself with or support, realize we were all a part of a special day in history. Never before has an African-American been elected as President of the United States of America. Never before have I ever seen a crowd so large cheer for a president or president-elect, with that look in their eyes. That look…it somehow touched my heart at the very same time as my heart sank in a spooky way.
I saw some with a sparkle in their eye that spoke volumes. It was a look of a tearful realization that not only did an African American make it to the top of the highest position in our government, but that the majority of the American people actually voted him in and wanted him there. I could tell they were thinking back to the days of slavery and the days when those whose names hang above them on the family tree, were not seen as worthy to even vote. They were thinking about the numerous generations on that tree that have endured abuse, discrimination, and humiliation because of the color of their skin. Now, this man that represents such hope to them, sits in one of the most powerful seats in the world. I will probably never know exactly what that feels like, but will always appreciate their pure joy in it.
What concerned me about some looks was that of people who appeared to be idolizing Obama. It was as if they worshiped him, as if they were placing all their faith in this man, as if (as one person said this morning to me) they looked at him as their savior. He’s not their Savior. There is only one Savior, and that is Jesus Christ. I wondered how many of those in the crowd who were missing that important point. That truly saddened me.
Again, whether you like him or not, you must admit, Obama has a lot on his shoulders. He has a huge need for prayer. This man, our newly elected president, has a young family and no doubt countless enemies that would love nothing more than to destroy it and him. He is in fact, going to be the leader of our country. I personally, don’t agree with everything he has stood for in the past or present. However, I recognize that for such as time as this he has been placed in office and could greatly impact our world. The opportunity is tremendous, as for any president in the past and future. I pray that God will give him the wisdom, the guidance, the compassion, strength, humbleness, and the heart that will lead our country well and into the will of the Lord. I pray the Lord will reveal Himself in ways to our newly elected president, that will be so clear and evident that He longs to grow closer and closer to the One that has our best interest in mind.
Am I proud to be an American? Of course. I had the awesome opportunity to stand up, vote, and to exercise my right to be heard yesterday. The privilege, that so many in the world are not blessed with, is something I do not take lightly. I pray that I never hear the National Anthem and forget to be thankful for all those who lost their lives for my freedom and for how the Lord has blessed us in so many ways. I pray that I spend more time lifting up our government in prayer than I do complaining about it. May this transition in leadership and talk of “change” encourage us all to look within. May we be faithful to what the Lord is calling us to change in our own lives and how to work together as the Body towards His will. God Bless America.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Speak And Be Heard
It was a cool day in November. He woke up early, and kissed his wife goodbye before heading off for his grueling day ahead. She gently took his dark and scarred hand in hers and squeezed it, knowing this day would not be easy for him. It was a big day. The buzz was everywhere. Their future would be impacted greatly by this day. Anxiousness set in. What would the outcome be? Would this be a turning point in his children’s future? The God-given feeling of hope pulsated in his heart. As he went to work, he watched as his boss and others smiled proudly. They had been a part of it. They had made a difference. They had a voice and say in what would change the world. That hope in his heart, although still there, slowly began to dissipate. He suddenly felt embarrassed, and worthless. He wasn’t seen as good enough to take part. His opinion didn’t matter. Oh, how he longed to be seen as important enough to speak, and to be heard.
Across town, a woman cooked breakfast for her husband. She too kissed him goodbye and scooted the children out the door for school. The house was empty. A long day of work ahead of her. Her tired legs moved her about, doing every job imaginable that needed to be done. She thought of her husband. Although they didn’t see eye to eye on all things, she loved him with her whole heart. His voice is what mattered today not hers. He would take part, and she would remain silent. She would silently wait. Maybe she would hear something on the radio. As she listened to the reports, she was consumed with happiness for her husband’s opportunity. However, there was a part of her that longed for it as well…longed to be seen as important enough to speak and to be heard.
On the same day, a man an ocean away sat with his family at the table for dinner. Today was not a special day, nor will it be tomorrow. Each day seems like the one before. He has no idea what it is like to stand up and share what he desires for the future. He never will and neither will his children. He can hardly get beyond hoping there will be enough food for each of the mouths that appear around the table before him. Deep within him, he feels that same longing though…to be seen as important enough to speak and to be heard.
It wasn’t until 1870 that the man who watched his boss come back from the voting booth, would be given the right to vote in an election himself. That was the year African Americans were allowed to speak and to be heard in the blessing of casting a vote in America.
It wasn’t until 1920 that women would be allowed to step into an election booth to exercise the opportunity that many of us take for granted today. 1920. It wasn’t that long ago.
For the man that sat with his family, with only the dream that there is a life out there for his children where they aren’t dictated to and have no rights, life never changed. Life in their country is different than ours. There is not a care or value placed on what the citizens think. Decisions are made for them. They are not to be heard from. Life for his family remains the same today as it did back then. They have no right to vote, to speak, or to be heard.
No matter what political party you support, no matter what your opinions are about the hot topics or the candidates, take time to be thankful for the right to vote and exercise it. We live in a country that gives us that opportunity and blessing. We live in a country that has recognized that we all equally have the right to speak, to be heard, and to matter. Don’t take that for granted. Get out, vote, and be thankful. Speak and be heard.
Across town, a woman cooked breakfast for her husband. She too kissed him goodbye and scooted the children out the door for school. The house was empty. A long day of work ahead of her. Her tired legs moved her about, doing every job imaginable that needed to be done. She thought of her husband. Although they didn’t see eye to eye on all things, she loved him with her whole heart. His voice is what mattered today not hers. He would take part, and she would remain silent. She would silently wait. Maybe she would hear something on the radio. As she listened to the reports, she was consumed with happiness for her husband’s opportunity. However, there was a part of her that longed for it as well…longed to be seen as important enough to speak and to be heard.
On the same day, a man an ocean away sat with his family at the table for dinner. Today was not a special day, nor will it be tomorrow. Each day seems like the one before. He has no idea what it is like to stand up and share what he desires for the future. He never will and neither will his children. He can hardly get beyond hoping there will be enough food for each of the mouths that appear around the table before him. Deep within him, he feels that same longing though…to be seen as important enough to speak and to be heard.
It wasn’t until 1870 that the man who watched his boss come back from the voting booth, would be given the right to vote in an election himself. That was the year African Americans were allowed to speak and to be heard in the blessing of casting a vote in America.
It wasn’t until 1920 that women would be allowed to step into an election booth to exercise the opportunity that many of us take for granted today. 1920. It wasn’t that long ago.
For the man that sat with his family, with only the dream that there is a life out there for his children where they aren’t dictated to and have no rights, life never changed. Life in their country is different than ours. There is not a care or value placed on what the citizens think. Decisions are made for them. They are not to be heard from. Life for his family remains the same today as it did back then. They have no right to vote, to speak, or to be heard.
No matter what political party you support, no matter what your opinions are about the hot topics or the candidates, take time to be thankful for the right to vote and exercise it. We live in a country that gives us that opportunity and blessing. We live in a country that has recognized that we all equally have the right to speak, to be heard, and to matter. Don’t take that for granted. Get out, vote, and be thankful. Speak and be heard.
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