On Flies and Facing Forward (Mental Latergram from Tanzania)

I can't believe a month has come and gone since we came back from Africa, and at the same time, it feels like a dreamy century ago. I have been holding a tab open in my brain for the moments that are seared in my memory from our days in Tanzania. Images, sights, sounds that I do not want to forget. As I sit in the early hours of sabbath rest tonight and think of tomorrow's plans, of getting little men ready for Mass and the timing of lunch in accordance and whether or not I will do laundry, I am reminded of one moment seared in my memory.

It was Sunday morning and we dressed and walked from the rectory where we were staying over to Church for Mass. We were early, yet the Church was filling quickly. We stood looking around trying to decide where we would sit, when the catechist grabbed Greg and I both by elbows and Led us to the front benches where hundreds of children squeezed in close. She sat us right in the middle of them all and then stepped back and smiled proudly. We scrunched in, knees close to chests, and I felt oddly like Buddy the Elf.

Little heads turned shyly in our direction. Then quickly back, not wanting to risk the embarrassment of being spotted by adults who pride themselves on insuring that these little ones know how to behave in church. So we all awkwardly faced forward and pretended not to notice one another.

Admittedly, I was a much worse player at this game than the children. They gathered their composure rather quickly, obediently knelt and fingered the colorful crystal beads of the rosaries we had gifted them the day before, and proudly recited their prayers loudly and clearly. I, on the other hand, had to be vigilant to keep my twitching hand from reaching out and patting their dark heads. When am I forced to control such urges, the twitch tends to transfer itself to my eye and I end up winking maniacally at everyone in sight with an overly wide smile plastered across my face. Poor children, left to keep from making eye contact with the crazy smiling, winking lady with the hand twitch.

 So they sat facing forward and I sat looking at intently down the row, trying to drink them all, their beauty and potential and childish wonder. I imagined their stories, what their houses looked like, which ones were their siblings, their moms, if they had had breakfast that morning. I smiled at how they had been freshly scrubbed and dressed in their best for Sunday morning Mass. Satin dresses and too small church shoes, head covering with sparkles and belts so long they wrapped around twice.

Then my eyes settled on the little head just in front of me. A small version of a future man, tiny and shuffling to find his comfort zone squeezed between so many girl moms who swished their hands as his curious head shifted from side to side.

He was dressed in his best. A white undershirt stained with the red of Tanzanian mud and shorts two sizes two big. They dipped below his knees and pointed to his sandals, also too big, their velcro straps fastened tightly to keep them from flopping off his little feet. And over the top of it all, a square-shouldered navy blue sports coat, the finest item of clothing he had ever owned I am quite sure.

It was so obvious that he had tried so hard that morning. To put his best foot forward and fit in with the church crowd. To polish himself up and make himself presentable. He fought the discomfort of it all so valiantly and wrangled his urges to slump and twist and turn with such tenacity. A valiant little soldier if there ever was one, trying to fit in to the ranks like the rest.

And yet, despite his very best efforts to get it right, I noticed that the all the flies still buzzed around his head. He tried not to swat at them, little brave one. But there they were, flitting in circles over him, flashing the truth to the world. The truth that despite his very best efforts, he had still arrived at church dirty. That even though he was the one who had tried the hardest, he still couldn't cover up what lay underneath his buttoned up propriety.

And my heart sank. As I sat there behind him and watched him try with all he had to get it right. Because all I could think was, "Oh my love, I know. I so know."

Me, in Africa, trying to get it all right. Me, in my life, trying to be worthy of this ministry and the calling the Lord has placed on my life. Me, trying to keep from squirming under the weight of other people's admiration. Me, feeling the sting of the dirt that still lies underneath it all no matter how hard I try to scrub it away and just.face.forward. Eyes on Him. Not on everyone else around me.

Yes, I often feel like the little man in the dirty clothes and the sports coat with the flies' buzz announcing my sin and dirt to the world.

And I wanted to grab him and scoop him up in arms and proclaim to him that Jesus loved him wildly, passionately and personally, more for the flies than for the sports coat. But I did not. Because I realized he was already doing the very best thing he could. Holding his head high, training his eyes forward, and ignoring the flies.

And in that moment, I realized it was he who was preaching to me.

So when if you make your way to church today and you feel a little bit like the flies are swarming over your best dressed self in spite of all your efforts, take a note from my little preacher friend. Stand up straight. Hold your head high. Fix your eyes on Jesus. And know that you are made clean and dressed in righteousness when you receive grace upon grace in the Bread of Life.

Back From Around the World

and my first post is over at CatholicMom.com.

When we pray the “Our Father”, taking the time to meditate upon the meaning of each of its phrases, we often have to remind ourselves what it means for the Lord to “give us this day our daily bread.”

For the large majority of us, it is a metaphor for trusting God to provide for our needs on a daily basis, maybe not with a lot stored up in advance but always what we need when we need it. For some of us, it is a reminder that the desperate car repair bill will somehow get paid. For others, that He will indeed find the perfect house for our growing family when the time is right. Maybe you or your spouse are waiting on a promotion that will provide a much needed income increase. Whatever it is, most of us, even though we sigh at the rising grocery bill, are not worried literally about bread, about whether or not our children will eat tomorrow.

But for my friend Esther, whom I met on my trip to Tanzania last month, this is exactly what praying for her daily bread means....read the rest here.

Donate to our Maize for Africa appeal here.

Day 14 of Giving That Gives Back: Why I Am Not That Sorry I Bailed On You

So, in case you haven't noticed, I kind of bailed on you guys in the last couple of weeks. I wanted to start this post with an apology and an explanation, but when I began to think about the factors that explain my disappearance, the truth is, I really can't be all that sorry.

First of all, there was a practical factor involved. We had a short term mission to lead in one of our most remote outposts and were away from reliable internet. It was a wonderful week. And it made me realize a few things. I needed to unplug a bit and be present here. I was grasping at community in this wide internet world and ignoring very real relationships. I was pushing toward the future so hard, I was missing the joy of the present. I had lost the simple joy of just loving well and walking in mercy right here, right now. And on the inside, I was having a bit a soul melt down that needed immediate triage.

I can't say I know exactly why I found myself frazzled, feeling deeply broken and unfixable and unwilling to lean in to the one Answer I know is all I need. I know the instability and dependence required by this life I live had something to with it. I know some difficult personal griefs I was facing had a lot to do with it. And I know that getting caught up in how I wish things were instead of doing what I can with what I have was a lot of it. But there was also another component, and it has to do with the reason I started this series in the first place. It was to speak in to the injustice of modern day slavery. And I think I have not done that as well as I would have liked.

The reason is because sometimes I get caught up in talking about an ISSUE. I get fired up about INJUSTICE. I want to become an advocate for change for the WORLD AT LARGE. And then something happens to make me realize this is real. It is not metaphorical justice for an ambiguous world that we are advocating.

It is freedom from slavery. For real people. With names. And mothers who don't know what happened to their babies who were stolen. Who are locked away behind walls and can't even remember how long they've been there. Girls who are daily being ravaged mind, body and soul for the sake of another's perversion.

Last week, one of The Exodus Road's teams raided a "dance bar" in India. They were finally able to successfully execute the raid after a number of tip offs had thwarted their efforts. They raided, made the arrests, and began to process the victims on site. After seven hours of processing victims, they began to hear sounds coming from behind a wall. When they broke through a portion of that wall, they found 22 women and girls trapped there, in a confined space without food, water, or air to breathe. You can read the account for yourself here. And see real video footage of the space where these women were trapped here.

You guys. Not a day has passed that this reality has not stung me at my core. Real women, 18 of them minors, CHILDREN, walled up in a hole by slave traders. Clawing and scratching, desperate for release. Robbed of the very right to breathe the air around them. In utter, desolate darkness. And freedom came. Release came. And I am so, so grateful.

But I am stuck. I cannot figure out how I am supposed to make mashed potatoes for dinner and order sweet gifts for people knowing there are millions more still trapped. MILLIONS. If this is not rocking our humanity like an earthquake, friends, what will?

And then there is this aspect of my life that is breaking me wide open too. It is caring for moms. Real moms. Who have the same hopes and dreams that you and I do as we welcome a baby into the world. They want labor to go well. They want a safe delivery. Even though they will be alone, with no one at their side, they want access to medical care that will keep them and their baby alive in the case of an emergency. They hope they will make enough milk to breastfeed and that the baby is healthy. They hope that baby will grow up and be able to go to school and have opportunities for a good and productive future.

Moms watch their babies die at an alarming rate because of premature births that could be prevented. Because of a FREAKING MOSQUITO BITE. Because of Strep B infections that can be detected by a simple test. You all probably know that I am a mom who has held my child, not breathing, in my arms. Handed him over to paramedics. Placed him in the ground and had to figure out how to walk away. You may not know that I have suffered four subsequent miscarriages, two in the last six months. I cannot compartmentalize the reality that while there may have been nothing I could have done for my own son, there are moms who are holding dying babies in their arms who can be saved by our help. I can't pretend that it is not a really hard thing that God has chosen to redeem my suffering by asking me to love moms and help save their babies while my own have not been saved. I will not pretend that this is easy for me all the time. But I will not back away from the chance to keep one more mama's arms full, one more little one alive and well and with a hope for the future.

And I break sometimes under the weight of needing to figure this out. How do we fix these things? What is our Savior asking of me? of you? of us as the Body of Christ?

And so I find myself a bit quieter these days, because I have got to seek the voice of the only Answer. The only voice that saves. The only one who can heal this brokenness and bring light to the darkness, the one who sets captives free. And me, I am feeling a little bit broken, dark and held captive. And I need an advent. A new beginning. A waiting. A settling into the very real reality of darkness so I can hold fast to the Light when it breaks upon us at Christmas.

I need to read stories to my guys and spend the afternoons with my neighbors. I need to bump along dusty roads and watch a seventeen year old expectant mom change her plastic tarp roof out for a tin one thanks to generous friends. I need to rock baby orphans on my lap and deck the halls of their home and scoop rice and beans into their hungry mouths and love. I need to remember that love conquers all, my friends. And for that, I need to be here. Where I love and am loved.

So, I am going to go ahead and proceed here for what it's worth to those of you following along. But I am not going to force the happy holiday joy of the world. I am going to write the things that are pressing on my heart. And I am going to do so without much fanfare. Without hoping you'll see it as worthy of sharing or applauding or commenting. Just me. Real. In my space. With my heart open and broken and bleeding and waiting for the dawn of something new.

So, I bailed on you guys. But I am not sorry. And I hope you understand why.

A Common Depravity

So I stepped off a plane in the U.S. mid to end of September and then made my way toward Austin, TX. Without really knowing why or plumbing the depths of it, I had felt a magnetic pull to get myself to the States to attend Idea Camp/Human Care the moment I read about it on Jen Hatmaker's blog (which I present to you because if you don't know about it and you like to laugh while you love Jesus and ask hard questions, you should). I had already been trying to get to New Orleans in early October so this opportunity sealed the deal. I jumped on it and what developed was a month long whirl wind tour of the States for which I left my husband and five children behind in our mountain mission post caring for a 37 week pregnant woman and her four year old (a story for another day). I told you, there was not much in-depth forethought here...a blowing of the Spirit, a tongue of fire, and BAM I was off.

It wasn't really until I woke up the morning of the first day of Idea Camp in my friend Nickie's house that I started to question myself. First of all, my most wonderful hostess allowed me to prevail upon her and her family even though we had only reconnected since high school on Facebook. She jumped to open her home to me when I zipped off a message saying. "Um, if I randomly come to Austin in September to go to this thing (insert Idea Camp link), can you provide me food, lodging and transportation for free?" Because she's a good girl and she loves Jesus and a NOLA girl so loves company, she was all, "YES!"

But I woke up on Friday morning to get dressed and await the ride she had arranged for me with a neighborhood friend and had a moment AKA freak out. What the heck was I doing? My family was far away, my husband holding the home front and ministry fort, while I was about to head to some hybrid conference/conversation thing with people I did not know to meet other people I did not know who did really awesome things I did know about. And all I could think was 1. I'm way out of my league and 2. Don't genuflect and make the Sign of the Cross when you get in the pew at that Church because you are totally going to creep these people out.

You see, I was pretty sure that I was going to be the only Catholic girl at this rodeo (That's a Texas reference, get it?) And that freaked me out because...well, I don't really know why. I think it's because I really do not care. I feel comfortable, inspired and hopeful about the future around Jesus-lovers and world-changers of all sorts. But I am never quite sure if that feeling will be reciprocated. I feel like I have to awkwardly work the fact that I am Catholic into the first line of every conversation to allow people the opportunity to walk away from me if they like. So I did. And they didn't. Not one person walked away.

What I found was a space where there was a unique commonality among those gathered. It went way beyond our antiquated "we all love the same Jesus" platitude (which by the way does nothing to cross ecumenical bounds and reach out to our deepest common places and is really just kind of dumb). It took me a while to figure out what it was that was there.

There was a van ride where two women became my instant friends. There was praise and worship that just felt right. There was a room and a conversation where I felt confident that I had something worthwhile to say. There was the lady who slipped into the pew beside me and then it turned out calls Costa Rica her second home. There was excitement about the work we are doing, and ideas and thoughts and offers for collaboration. There was lunch where we broke every health code and walked straight through the kitchen to our table. And where smart women had insightful conversation.

And that was all really, really cool. But it wasn't quite the heart of the matter. There was something deep happening in the hearts of the people I watched and listened to and talked with and prayed with over those two days. Something that bound us together differently than I had found myself bound to a group of people before. I heard in their voices, sensed it in their countenance, watched it glisten in their tears. We were not made brothers and sisters by some vague same Jesus we believed in.

If you heard the conversations that took place in that space out of context and without being surrounded by that atmosphere, you would have likely though the lot of us crazy. We cried and we were angry and we were disappointed and we were confused and we felt like we had no answers. Yet we were hopeful and we were brave and we were raw and we were in the fight. And we had been broken. Fallen in love with a real God who did the hardest thing for us, broke Himself wide open. And who had in turn sent us into the world with bleeding hearts that had broken for the least of His people. And we stood there together with the pieces in our hands and wondered what came next. We shared a common depravity.

And in that broken, depraved place where we admitted that we had fewer answers than we ever thought we could and that when we really were honest we knew less now than when we started, there was a new hope born. A hope that in admitting to our common depravity we could find ways to help each other keep being brave, keep asking hard questions, keep walking through the muck and the mud of relationships and Church and Christianity and charity and what the heck does it all mean. That the blind leading the blind often find their way in the dark faster than those who think they see and so need no one.

I left that space a little timid to face the world again. There was something so, so nice about being a mess among messes and knowing it was good. And knowing that even after we had quietly admitted to our common depravity in that space, we would take the pieces of our hearts, go back out into the great wide broken world and dig in again. Do the hard stuff. Ask each other questions. Invite one another into our craziness. It framed the entire rest of my time in the States. It changed me. It gave me new friends. Friends who love my Jesus, but not only that, love Him to that point of broken wide, messy crazy. Friends with whom I share a common depravity.

I have made many friends in the last couple of years with whom I do not share denomination. And yet I am drawn deeply to them in so many ways. This is my final explanation of what it is that draws me. It may not make sense to you. That probably just means you're not crazy. Yet.

Revive, Retreat, Regroup: Or What Happened to January

I have been rolling around in my head for a couple of weeks now how to come back to my space and pick up again, how to explain my January in words. I am rarely at a loss for words, but the events of this month were so, so big. Too big for any words that I have. It was a month of rare grace. And always the grace of God is so much bigger and better than words can express. And the things we experienced were so, so full. A play by play would take me weeks to type out and you days to read. And let's be honest, ain't nobody got time for that. So, I came up with the quick little outline above in the title. That's my month in brief. And here today I tell you the story of my revival:

Blessed indeed are the feet

1. Revive: In the final days of December and first week of January, we welcomed our first ever group of visitors to the mission: a group of young people who had been inspired by Kisses From Katie to seek out a missionary opportunity, a few of their parents and a youth minister, and a group of friars from the Franciscan Brothers Minor.

And my joy shall be in you and your joy shall be complete
A perfect description of these men of God

We had spent a year planning and waiting for their arrival. But to be honest, by the time Christmas rolled around, I was spent. The planning and constant pace life had taken on since the summer had worn me out. I was happy to have company, as I always am, but tending to the details of their stay and keeping life up in the mean time, not to mention trying live Advent and Christmas (I'm sorry to say I don't really feel like I did either of these very well), had me wound up in knots. I kept telling the Lord, "I am so happy to have people visit, really I am, but can't you see that more work is not what I need right now? I'm exhausted. I need revival."

And I will lead you beside still waters. Or raging waters, depending.
Either way, you will be revived. That's how the Lord works with me, anyway.

Well, as it often goes with the Big Guy, He heard my cries. And He brought me just what I needed in a way I never expected. The trip was, in fact, a lot of work and at times totally exhausting. But it also was exactly the thing I needed to revive my missionary zeal, my personal spiritual life, and the sense of community I had been desperately longing for. I hadn't realized how carrying the burden of lack of community had worn me out until I had people around to share my life with.

Thou shalt not pass...I cannot tell you how uplifting it was to laugh with these people,
to experience the joy of walking together with them.

It did me good to see our life in a bigger context. It did wonders for me to see the people we minister to through someone else's eyes. The effect of a long confession with a bit spiritual direction thrown in? In ENGLISH? Like my first warm soul bath in a year.

No words. Just, yeah, this. Brother Faithful is his name.

The witness of the Franciscan friars was, in no exaggerated terms, life-giving and life-changing. But the missionary zeal and perseverance of the young people was the thing that really watered my missionary soul deep down at its roots. They came to do something they dreamed of doing for a long time. They struggled. They got sick. They got tired. They fumbled over language barriers and culture shock. And yet they persevered. Until all that faded away and they were able to reach out a hand, make a connection, and say, "Here is your God. Here is your family. We are here. And we love you. Because He does."

The foot bridge into the indigenous reserve,
where our brothers and sisters still wait for us to come
with the message of love and family and hope and God.

A memory that will stick in my mind forever I hope is us walking up to the door a wooden thatched hut in the indigenous village we were visiting to little meet a little girl. She was in the door way crying. We had waded through mud up to our knees to get there. The rest of us stayed a bit back so as not to frighten her and one young girl from our group, Katie, approached her with a pink rosary in her outstretched hand. She stood in front of that little girl and smiled and waited. And the little girl sniffled and stood and stared. Moments passed and the rest of us looking on began to shuffle in the awkwardness and whisper to Katie to just put the rosary at her feet and leave. Katie didn't budge. And way past the point at which most of would have walked away, her perseverance was rewarded when the little girl stretched out her hand, took the pink rosary and put it over head.

Her. Just her. So worth it.

We began the walk back to the school where we were inviting people to join us for an activity, a shortly after, noticed that this sweet little one was following us at a distance. If we turned to look, she hid. So we walked and let her follow. And then we watched her slowly let her tears turn to a smile. She blew bubbles with us and nibbled cookies and held our hands. And before the day was out, I watched one of the you people hold the cross at the end of that rosary up to her and introduce that little girl to her best friend, Jesus.

Oh how He loves us. 

I learned a lot that day. A lot about standing still in the moment, letting the awkwardness be what it is and waiting, hand outstretched. Waiting patiently for the tears and the fear and the shyness to ebb and the door to friendship to open. It is not easy to build relationships in a culture so different from our own, with a people who are shy and timid and who speak a language totally unfamiliar to me. I firmly believe that all evangelization has to be about relationship, and relationships are always based on trust. And building trust sometimes means that we stand in the doorway and smile longer than we might otherwise do, even when it feels really uncomfortable, until a hand reaches out and touches our own.

Here. This is where I lay down my life and hold out my hand
and wait for the door to open.

That is the revival I experienced over and over again viewing my mission life through the eyes of young people. They knew they only had a short while here. They knew their task held an sense of urgency. They were not going to let an opportunity pass them by. They charged up hills and crossed bridges and stood in doorways. They kicked soccer balls and trudged through mud. They held hands and shared cookies and loved and laughed and shone with the radiance of the life if Christ.

Missionary lunch -- picnic on the banks of the river

And I walked away knowing the supreme privilege it is to be given the chance to live that call every single day, and with a fervent desire to live it with the kind of perseverance and urgency these young people showed me. I got my revival. In the middle of the exhaustion, some new energy was born in me, the Spirit's flames were rekindled, the fire of His love began to glow bright again. And I am so, so grateful that my Heavenly Father knows just what I need and sends it in the most unexpected of ways.

Brothers Felix, Lorenzo and Fidelus play Baltazar, Caspar and Melchior
Epiphany - Yes, that's a good word to sum it all up.
An epiphany of joy.

The story of how retreating and regrouping followed my coming tomorrow. And then February begins to write its own story! I can't wait to see what the Lord has in mind.

I'm Full

I'm not going to be joining my big, beautiful family around the Thanksgiving table this year. I won't take in the endless games of football and glasses of wine and snarky comebacks and too-loud laughter and the rich abundance of culinary grace that I have come to call Thanksgiving. I won't end this day so full of food and drink and family that I want to curl up in a corner and sleep for days and dream it all over again.

And I could be really, really sad about that, because truly, Thanksgiving-- the reality, the history, the whole notion of it-- is one of my most favorite things ever. But I'm not. Because you know what? I won't have any of those festive Thanksgiving moments today, but I am still full. Full. Full. Full. Chock full and over stuffed with blessings and grace and beauty and joy in this life that I live and this life that I love.

I type to the cadence of a familiar piano tune. The tune that plays in the lovely online home of my friend Ann. The tune I open up when I need to remember grace, need to remember slow, need to remember thanks, need to say long and loud and live it on repeat, eucharisteo. 

The thanksgiving word, the word that says it all at once, speaks of what it really means to give thanks, to be thankful, to live full. To break bread, to be broken so that you may be shared, to recognize Him in the broken bread and to sit in continuous awe of His presence.

This is the life I get to live every. single. day. Hand in hand with my beloved, surrounded by the exuberant noise of the blessed band of brothers, I go out, Christ in my heart, Christ in our hands. And we kneel in His presence with our brothers and sisters whom we may never have met this side of heaven without this call. And we worship. And we are broken and beautiful and we are full. So, so full. Of His tender mercy and of the life of common grace at the ends of the earth.

And I watch as families living a faraway life in a faraway native culture descend from the mountains, babies strapped tightly to their backs, machetes at their sides, coffee baskets in hand. Their poverty and their timidity and their pride and their tight family core all evident in one glance. And the fullness of it spills over and we call the spilling zeal because it makes me want to run with it, this dripping, leaking grace called eucharisteo. And I want to run out into the dirt roads and grab their hands and shout with joy to them that hope is theirs and love is theirs and mercy is theirs and that there is a forever life that looks so very different from this hard life they live and that even in the emptiest, ugliest moments of sickness and wetness and coldness and hunger, there is a bread that fills, a living water that quenches and that they too can feel always full. Full.

Yesterday I walked in my husband's rubber boots up the sloping mountain road to church and met a group of women there who had come to study English with me. Their shy smiles turned to wide laughing before our time together was through. We entered unsure what to say and left holding hands and patting heads and wishing we didn't have to go just yet. Among them was my sweet old friend, Dona Lilian, a life nearly used up, happily confused about reality and in love with everyone she meets. Broken and beautiful. She interrupted us more times than I can count to tell us that she will bring cookies next time. The bread of the broken. Offered in worn hands. And I am full.

Dona Lilian, she brought me some shoes. Just like she had promised when she called me at 6:15 that morning. Some shoes given to her by someone wanting to bless, to give thanks, to live eucharisteo. They don't fit her, so she passed them to me, just like she passed to me the book from Mount Vernon she had in her home since some time in the 1960s I think and the missal from church from 2007. Long-lived and broken in thought, but whole in love that Dona Lilian is. The shoes, they're, well, old lady shoes. Old old lady shoes. That fit me.

And I will walk to church in them tonight. And this will be my Thanksgiving. Walking in her shoes to break bread with her at the altar of our God. Partaking in the only meal that really fills. Living in the blessed and the broken and the giving and the receiving, in the slow cadence of a beautiful song that sings, "Give thanks and all things rejoice, because He has made you glad, sweet one." And I am full. So, so full the grace leaks straight from eyes in a river of joy and gratitude.

This life is a life of giving up. But it is not a life of want. It is a life of need filled by abundant grace and fed by Love Himself. The banquet has been served for me, and me, I shall have my full.

Happy thanksgiving, friends. Happy, happy, broken and full eucharisteo.

Sharing the Good News

This topic I've been tackling and reading about and working for passionately, this atrocity of human slavery and sexual exploitation can be so dark and disheartening and hard to swallow at times. Sometimes it makes you wonder about humanity and how we're supposed to live in light and hope. But, I keep clinging to the inspiration of the Spirit and trying to remember that this is His work. And sometimes, He mercifully reminds me of that.

So in this post I told you all about my letter writing campaign and offering to help to do what I can to combat human trafficking. I also told you about my timidity when it came to writing directly to the hotel owner whom we had befriended in San Juan del Sur to inquire about him checking in on my beautiful little friend.

Well, I think the Holy Spirit might be telling me that it's time I recognize I am not all on my own in my concern for people and that there are plenty of really good people in this seemingly dark world.

Because within minutes after swallowing my pride and taking the leap to e-mailing the hotel owner (at his info address no less, because, of course, in my procrastination I had lost the personal address he gave me), I got this response back:

I haven't thought about San Juan being a danger point for trafficking in children and minors but share your concerns.  There are educational programs extant in San Juan which alert children and adults to dangers and problems.  They have had several seminars on this subject in town and the subject is often discussed in the schools.

 

In fact, it sometimes seems my neighbors are paranoid when it comes to their children going to school because even though the school is three blocks away, only the teenagers walk with out adult supervision.  The law in Nicaragua is particularly concerned with trafficking in children and the first lady Rosario Murrillo has seen to it that the word is out with several large signs and the law has been beefed up to punish transgressor harshly.

 

I don't know if the child you identify has a minder but I will find out.  There is a net work of vendors who look out for each other and this particular child goes to Gato Negro  often and several locals buy her wares to be sure she has sales.  There are two people in particular who will be interested in her welfare and I will bring your concerns to their attention.

 

Let me know when you are coming this way again and when I have more info I'll get back to you.

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So there you have it. That's what God can do. I could never have imagined when I met that little girl on that beach that God was going to break my heart wide open for her. And then for a millions of faces I'll never see. But He did. And since then, I have tried to honor Him with the action His Spirit is prompting me to take. Even though sometimes it makes me feel a little silly and all alone in the world.

And then, He reminds me that I am not. Never, ever when I work for Him do I work alone. And when I work with Him, He always sends the right people at the right time to enliven and encourage and fulfill His plans. 

The little girl who broke my heart has someone making sure she is safe and has adequate sales to return home to safety. She is going to go to the beach to sell her sea shell creatures and go home and someone is going to make sure of that. I am going to try to figure out if there is more I can do to ensure her a safe future. 

But in the mean time, I think it only appropriate that the first real fruit I get to see from my efforts goes straight back to the heart and the start of the passion and makes a small difference for just that one beautiful little face of that beautiful little girl on the beach in Nicaragua.

The Little Girl That Broke My Heart

This weekend we took one of our famous visa renewal excursions to the southern Pacific coast of Nicaragua. As far as traveling goes, it was relatively unremarkable. We took our own car across the border guided by a cute little man named Jorge who knew his stuff and made the crossing paper work a snap. (When you get to the Nicaraguan border, whether you are walking or driving, you literally begin to be hunted by the “official” border guides who will carry your luggage/ watch your car/ bring you the papers you need/take you to the right windows etc. for a “tip” of your choosing. Which one you give in to eventually is a matter of fate. This time, we got Jorge, who was a literal God-send.) It was so easy that while my poor husband stood in line one last time, I went shopping for hand-crafted leather sandals at the curb side market. (Look, they’re $5, provide for some man’s family and fit perfectly in the new style I’m developing: missionary boho chic. I couldn’t resist.)

After the hugely successful crossing, we headed to , a beach town San Juan del Sur on the Southern tip of Nicaragua. As is the case with most beach towns around the world, San Juan del Sur is a mix of locals living at or below the poverty level appropriate to the country, the hippie ex pats who sell jewelry on the streets and live who knows where, the investors who own the hotels and are all also building condos and selling home sites in two other towns, and the Europeans who apparently prove they have “made it” by buying elaborately constructed condos at ridiculously over-inflated prices in the most obscure locations they can find. I’m telling you, fly to any country in Latin or South America, Asia or Oceania, drive to the nearest coast, find the beach and this is what you will find.

We tend to stand out a bit among this crowd if you haven’t already guessed. We traipse our poor children from one end of town to the other looking for a place to stay that: 1. has room for all of us 2. is willing to subject itself to our brand of chaos, 3. costs just a little more than free. Then we find somewhere to eat.

On the afternoon we arrived, we sat down at a large beach front restaurant and took in the lapping waters of the Pacific, the long stretch of sand, the huge statue to the Divine Mercy perched atop a mountain overlooking the whole area, and the incredibly reasonable seafood prices. At least 25 people made their way to our table from the beach to sell us things – sunglasses, phone cases, hand-crafted pottery, jewelry. This is the case everywhere you go in Nicaragua. It’s one of the reasons I have fallen in love with the place. (It’s a weird missionary thing.)

Our missionary spending mindset goes something like this…cheap hotels, cheap food with the occasional splurge, cheap or free clothes and shoes…poor locals selling things you don’t need and which are likely to break before dessert…buy them. We had already bought two pairs of sunglasses and an iPhone car charger when the most precious little girl approached our table with a basket full of little creatures made out of sea shells. We gave each other the collective bleeding heart look that said we knew we were not sending this sweet one away empty-handed. We bought a turtle. We encouraged forced my father-in-law to buy a turtle. I asked her who made them, she said her mother. I asked her how old she was, she said nine. And then my son gave her the sunglasses we had just bought him because “they were kind of pink anyway”. They were burgundy. Welcome to the family of bleeding hearts, son.

Later, as Greg and I were talking about the place and the atmosphere and how much we loved Nicaragua, I mentioned the little girl to him. He is by now used to the fact that everywhere we go I become fixated on some girl child and talk about her endlessly as if I had known her all her life. We agreed she was the most precious little thing and mentioned with some concern that we hoped someone was nearby watching her as she worked on that crowded beach.

That evening I sat in the hotel lobby with the plan to take advantage of working Wi-Fi and glut myself on free7Kindle books. I connected and found to my happy surprise Jen Hatmaker's book 7 at the top of my list. I had forgotten that Elizabeth had gifted it to me a couple of months ago to read along with her but I had never been anywhere with Wi Fi to download it. I started reading, and I did that book thing that bookish types do. I immediately become so immersed that I treated everyone around me as if they were interrupting an important conversation every time they distracted me.

I took it with me to the beach the next morning and read for four hours while my boys splashed and played and built sand forts and collected rocks and sand dollars. I will admit that I was so immersed that all of us are now walking around hissing loudly “DON”T TOUCH MY BACK” whenever anyone comes near us. If you are not familiar, Jen Hatmaker is a Christian author and speaker who, along with her husband, took up God’s challenge to simplify their own lives and become advocates and friends to the poor. In 7, she spends 7 months wheedling down some area of her life to 7 essential things and reflecting on its effect. For one month, she ate only 7 foods, another, wore only 7 clothing items. It is everything I love in a book – challenging, inspiring, spiritual, funny (Y'all the girl is funny). And she made me think about lots of big things there on that beach.

Of which the loudest was “what the heck am I doing here on this beach when there are poor just around the corner? Why am I not serving?” Eventually I remembered I was sitting on that beach because I live a life in service to the poor. I resisted the temptation to load up my little missionaries and their flip flops and tell them we had to leave immediately to buy rice and beans to deliver to yet unknown needy families in the area. I waved happily to them as I watched them jump waves with a couple of local boys they had befriended, carefully guarded their prized rocks (okay, I might have left them when I ran  screaming from the incoming tide, Kindle high in the air and towels in hand), and read on.

And then she was back. The sweet little brown face gently pushing a seashell rooster toward me, the shy smile melting my heart. I knew I couldn’t justify buying another sea shell creature but I didn’t want to send her away. I wanted to buy her a Coke and something sweet and sticky to eat and tell her to sit down next to me and forget about working for the afternoon. I knew that probably wasn’t going to get high approval marks from whoever had sent her out here in the first place. So I told her I couldn’t buy anything today and to be careful.

And my heart has not stopped aching ever since. In its early aching, I wondered with a tinge of anger  about who sent her out to the beach alone all weekend to work. I questioned why they didn’t realize it was dangerous. My mind started to question what the human trafficking statistics were in Nicaragua and if her mother knew about them. I was mad at whoever was putting this child in this danger so regularly.

And then I began to think about why she was there. And my heart hurt even more. It’s been hurting ever since. I cannot get this little girl out of my mind. She’s on that beach working every weekend because of us, because of me. Because my heart will bleed more readily looking into the beautiful face of that little girl and be inclined to buy her little shell animals than it will be looking into the face of her tired mother  trying to support her children. Because I am not moved to action by her poverty or her efforts to avoid it, she sends her little girl to me – vulnerable, sweet and a good sell. I am sick about this.

I have begged the Lord to help me see how to remedy this in myself. I have begged him to break my heart wide open for the mothers trying to survive, feed their children, keep them healthy and happy and whole against all odds. And to give those mothers my full attention and support when I find them in front of me. To tell them that I value what they are doing, that they are valiant and noble and beautiful and that it makes me thankful to have the chance to look into their beautiful faces and be blessed by their presence and their work. I beg to be the person who loves and encourages and supports instead of looking away or acting bothered. I beg that I will never again contribute to the culture that encourages a mom to send her child out to work because it will bring them more food than if she went herself.

But my heart still breaks. That little girl follows me to my dreams at night and on my morning walks. I think of things I wish I would have told her. That she was very, very beautiful and had a sweet smile. That she was doing a really good job and her mom would be proud. That she would never ever be alone because there was a God who loved her and valued her above all things. That she could walk in joy and hope because she had been redeemed by the love of a merciful Savior. I wish I could have found way to explain to her without frightening to her how careful she needs to be. I wish I could run back there right now and have a re-do. But I can’t.

And I’m living with that reality and asking God what He wants me to do with it. Asking the Holy Spirit to prompt me to see the ways I am called to be part of the solution. Yesterday, I took a long look at the Trafficking in Persons Report. This reality is profoundly appalling and the statistics so overwhelming, that sometimes I find it mind-numbing. I shut down because if I really think it all through, I might break in half from the tragedy of it all. But yesterday, I was happily surprised to find that Nicaragua is not on the watch list, that their government has really stepped up efforts to protect their people and complied fully with all the international recommendations. But my heart sank when I read further and found out that the very beach where we were, San Juan del Sur, is highlighted as one of the highest danger zones for human trafficking in Nicaragua. Also, to my surprise, I found out that Costa Rica is still on the Tier 2 watch list. The country has increased its efforts in the area of human trafficking and moved up from the abysmal Tier 1 status it first received, but still lacks in awareness campaign efforts and has yet to prosecute a single suspected offender.

My recent reading has inspired to think beyond the “well I’m here, being a missionary, aren’t I” mindset and think of ways the Spirit might be calling me to action. And I think there are ways that, with a little help, we can make an effort on the awareness front here and in San Juan del Sur. I might need a bit of a hand on the technical side of what I’m thinking about. I’ll be back tomorrow to tell you more about it. Drop me a line or a comment if you might like to help be a part of the effort.

In our daily holy hours, part of the prayer we pray is “that I may never sit with arms folded but always seek to do more and better”. I know Jesus is breaking my heart for this little girl and her mother on a beach somewhere in Nicaragua for a reason. I’m sure if I pushed it out of my mind for a few days, it would be replaced by other things. But I don’t want it to. I’m begging the Savior to break my heart for His people the way His breaks for them. I’m begging to be an apostle of mercy. I will take that little girl to my prayers every day and speak over her the words I wish I had thought to say there on that beach. I will try to find someone in the area who might seek her out and find an adult who would keep watch over her on the weekends when she is working. I will pray that God sends me back to her, to her priest who is struggling to minister to more than 20 communities without proper chapels. I will pray to see her in the eyes and faces of every mother and child I meet here where I am and that I always find the courage to say those things to them that I wish I had said to her, to the little girl who I hope has forever changed me, opened my eyes anew to the plight of God’s children, made it real and painful and too awful to ignore.

Will you join me this week in praying every day for this sweet child? For all children in danger? For the mothers who are struggling to provide for them and feel forced to endanger them? For God’s people to seek them out, find them, love them in His name, do what they can to relieve the suffering of the poor? For all our hearts to break into action? And then, maybe, you will be able to join me in the little effort I am brewing up in my mind? Please will you come back and read more on that tomorrow? If you are praying with me, will you leave a note in the comments, so we can see the bouquet of prayers we are arranging together? Thank you for listening to the cry of my heart.

Joy Abounds

I have not been able to find the time to blog for a while now. I wish there was a way to make my Facebook status updates show up as blog posts. I find it so much easier to update regularly there than here. When I post here, it's like I need to have something worthwhile to say. More than what I bought off  the fruit truck that day or the fact that I realized I haven't driven a car in six months. But these little tid bits really are the fabric of our missionary lives here. And it occurred to me that the last couple of things I posted here may have made it seem like I walk around with the weight of the world on my shoulders all the time here. Nothing could be farther from the truth.
The truth is, joy abounds in our life here. Much of our time is spent just the same way it was before, living our family life to the fullest, playing games, reading books, cooking meals, making beds, learning algebra and division and subtraction with regrouping. And of course, joy abounds in those things. Greg and I both earnestly enjoy the challenge of cooking here. Figuring out how to use the things we can get regularly to create interesting nutritious food to share with our family and, quite often, our friends.  Today, my boys water colored sky backgrounds and made city sky scrapers out of paint swatch strips while I hung the laundry on the line to dry. It was a moment to savor. Tranquility, peace, joy filling every corner of our home.Creativity drawing out the best in my boys.
Then there is the life outside my front door. The life of the place we live. Yes, there are people here, friends, who struggle to make life work on a daily basis. Yes, there are times when the pain and injustice of poverty slap me in the face and it hurts. Yes, there is a longing in my heart for the people I see in the street every day to know Jesus and the great gift of mercy and salvation we have in our all-loving God. But most of the time, walking around this town, what I feel is joy.
I pass the homes of friends and we call greetings back and forth. Usually, someone comes to the gate to talk a bit more or beckons me in for a visit. Older ladies pat my hand and take my arm and walk with me for a bit. One of my favorite parts of any walk through town is running into my friend Don Luis.
Don Luis is a stroke victim and has lost most of his speech abilities as well as the use of his right hand and leg.  He walks with a cane and significant limp. But walk he does. All day.  We have a little game we play each time he sees me. He offers me his good hand for a hand shake but quickly pulls it back before I can reach for it. I then proceed to try to catch his "mano magica" as I have come to call it. He has his own rule. I can only play with one hand since he only has one hand. When the game ends with me catching him, I dance and cheer in my victory. He laughs. Other times, I cheat a little and steal the cap he's wearing and kiss him on the forehead instead. Or poke him in the belly and run. Whatever way it ends, it always ends with him laughing. And me too. Because despite our brokenness, despite our weakness, for the both of us, joy abounds. Yesterday, Don Luis was standing on the bridge listening to the music wafting from a festival they were having at the school. As I walked home from that very festival and headed toward him on the bridge, I heard the other men calling to him asking him why he was not dancing. So I took his hand and danced with him. There, in the middle of the bridge, dancing freely for all to see with Don Luis, who just that morning had been so frustrated when he couldn't get the words out to make me understand what he was trying to tell me, I was overcome with joy.
One night as we were leaving the priests house to head home, we crossed the gate at the same moment that an indigenous family was entering to spend the night in the hostel that the church provides for them when they are traveling to and from town. The woman who passed me was dressed in a t-shirt, brightly colored skirt and black rubber boots, as the indigenous women usually are. There was a baby strapped to her back, tied with a piece of old cloth, also very common. The baby had fallen asleep as she walked and his head hung backwards, bobbing with each step. As she crossed me, I said to her, "oh pobrecito el que sueno tiene", meaning "oh poor baby, how tired he is". She smiled brightly, flipped her back toward me so I could see the baby better, then held up her hands which held a live hen by the feet  and a machete. She giggled and answered, "which one?" We laughed wildly there in the dark at the gate to church. The baby stirred. My kids noticed that the t-shirt she was wearing was from the Christian Youth Theater organization, which has been a huge part of our lives and a major blessing for us. We smiled the whole way home marveling at how close that made us feel to our old lives. And how sweet and funny that moment was.  Because even after walking for hours in the dark, when your baby sleeps gently on your back and dinner wriggles in your hand, and you have arrived finally at warm shelter for the night, well, joy abounds.
The other night, we were at the rectory going over chapel plans with the priests. Greg handed me a machete that he was going to borrow from them. I stood there for a minute feeling awkward with the machete hanging at my side, then announced to Fr. Johnny, "Look, I'm becoming just like an indigenous woman. I just need a skirt with pretty flowers and a pair of rubber boots." He smiled as he added, "and a baby on your back." A few minutes later, I found myself on the porch, arms full of a beautiful indigenous baby boy as I lent his mother my telephone so she could call her mother and let her know she and the children had arrived safely in town. We chatted and the baby cooed in my arms. My heart swelled there on the porch. Because when your husband chats with the priest in your mission and the topic of the conversation in the construction of a chapel which your imperfect "Yes" to God inspired in another beautiful family AND your fluency in the language affords you the opportunity to make jokes AND someone entrusts you with her beautiful baby and gifts you with conversation while you wait, well, joy abounds.
I keep wishing there was a way to capture it all in images to share with you, this joy, the beauty I experience every day. But the truth is, this is my life. Every day. I can't frame it in perfect pictures. I can't carry a camera around just in case Don Luis' smile is extra bright that day or I happen to end up on the porch with a beautiful baby in my arms or the canopy of clouds and banana trees above the clothes line is especially peaceful one morning. What I have are words. And I hope in this humble offering you can see that joy abounds in this life I live. That amidst poverty and brokenness and real, gritty every day life, God descends to be with His people. And when we walk in that grace, joy is what we find.
I will, however, include here this month's video news about our mission as I think it does portray a bit of the life with live with great joy. I hope you smile watching it.

More Than Enough

Recently, in the days that the whole "Are You Mom Enough?" debate broke out, I confess that I regarded the whole thing with a bit of indifference.  My mind was already abuzz with its own justified indignation about motherhood and the media. And it was not about the infamous Time cover. It was about this article and the link I followed from Facebook to the Huffington post summation.

The condensed article focuses on the thirty best countries in which to be a mother, with only a passing mention of Niger, which is last on the list in terms of suitability for mothering.  The discussion that followed the article was all about how it seems implausible that the U.S. should rank 25^th in the statistics and what we should do to fix that.

I immediately wanted to know more about this survey and the other 116 countries that fell behind these top 30 in the rankings. Turns out the survey was actually conducted by Save the Children and its intent was not to turn another cog in the Mommy Wars wheel over whether Norwegian mothers with two years maternity leave are enjoying a better brand of motherhood than American mothers with minivans and soccer schedules.  Its purpose was to highlight the other 116 countries in less developed nations and the plight of mothers therein. But, it seemed to me anyway, no one was paying attention.

Then there was that blazing headline plastered everywhere, “Are You Mom Enough?”  I confess that I hardly glanced at the picture through my tiny cell phone internet screen and barely related the Dr. Sears headline I had seen mentioned online to that article until I began to see the responses of a few friends.

These two items and the life I am living tumbled around in my mind for a few days and I struggled to piece it all together. They tumbled and jumbled with my thoughts about the fact that when we left for this mission, I had a ticket home dated this week. A ticket home to welcome the third trimester of a much awaited pregnancy that ended abruptly four days before we left. They tumbled around with my growing anxiety about the impending date of my Bryce’s would-be third birthday. They mixed their way in with images of orphans and sick, hot babies strapped to their mommies’ backs while they walk for hours to secure provisions for their families.

And suddenly, I found myself very angry.  Angry at the very notion of “Are You Mom Enough?” whether it was pointing its ugly finger at attachment parenting or any other aspect of mothering.

The very idea that motherhood could be made into a competition is infuriating. But the bigger picture, the picture no one seemed to be seeing is that the very idea of parenting philosophies, of choices in motherhood that involve anything more than sheer survival are a luxury, a blessing afforded by relative affluence to mothers in developed cultures.

Tag that question onto these images of motherhood and feel its shallowness, feel the punch in your gut:

I have been pregnant three times in the last four years and I have no baby in my arms. No baby to choose to nurse and for how long. Am I mom enough?

The chance of becoming the mother of a dead baby in Niger, Africa is 1 in 1. Meaning that every woman who risks motherhood will eventually be the mother of at least one dead baby. Are they mom enough?

Last week, I invited an indigenous mother in out of the rain with her sweet baby girl. She was sick. She was wet. And she had been carried on her mother’s back for eight hours to town to receive money from a government fund that it turns out wasn’t available. That mother sat on my porch and nursed her wet, tired baby without reserve. Because she’s mom enough? Or because she needs to survive?

I rode the bus the other day with a mom whose baby had such bad cold and conjunctivitis that her upper eye lids were almost swollen shut. She struggled to nurse her in a hot, crowded bus with men standing over the top of her and her baby sweating profusely in her arms. She wanted to buy tamales from a man on the bus and was humiliated when she misunderstood how much they cost and did not have enough money to pay for them, so had to return them while her hungry toddler was reduced to tears at her side. Is she mom enough?

My friend who helps me in my house two days week asked me the other day if she could take three pencils from my children’s school supply box for her son. He has been in school for four months without a pencil to write with. She can’t read the notes that come home from school so doesn’t know if he needs anything else and she could not afford to buy it anyway. Is she mom enough?

I spent five days at an orphanage in Nicaragua with kids who are not really orphans at all but who have been turned over to this place by families who could not afford to feed them, care for them, educate them. I watched a mom come early one morning for her two teenaged daughters who have lived at the home all of their lives. She turned them over when her husband abandoned her and the children and she was unable to find work or a place for them to live. But every Saturday morning she gets up at 5 am and walks four hours to see them and, if there is enough food, to bring them home with her for the weekend. Because she’s mom enough?

And what about the “tias” who daily provide care for little girls who know no other way of life than living like this, in this home with other children who are not their brothers and sisters, cared for by people who are not their family. They rise at 6am to get little heads brushed and bodies dressed for school. They lead those babies to God’s Word as they feed them breakfast. They study with them and teach them life skills in the afternoons. They feed them and bathe them and sleep by their sides at night. And they love them. They love them so well. They fill these little lives with confidence and trust and openness. Are they mom enough?

The truth is, they are not. Sometimes, all that love is enough to replace what’s missing, what’s broken in these little lives and it results in the three children now studying together in a university in Managua. But sometimes it is not. Sometimes the brokenness is just too much to overcome.

Mothers will do their best all over the world to be mom enough tonight. And some of them will still hold a lifeless baby in their arms in morning. They will nurse a baby with each little whimper all night long and tuck that little one up next to them to sleep. And they will still wake to dirt floors and not enough food and babies whose intestines are filled with worms and parasites.  A mother will look into the eyes of her hungry baby and make the choice to hand it over to someone who may be able care for that little one better than her.  And she may never know if it was enough. 

The truth I think we would all do well to admit is that none of us is enough. No mothering style or parenting philosophy is enough to overcome the sin, the brokenness and the death that plagues humanity. Mothers have a special role in lessening that burden for the children they are gifted, but alone, they are not enough. As much as we love our babies, none of us, rich or poor, well or sick, capable or incapable, are enough to take the weight of our children’s brokenness on our shoulders, the weight of the children of the world, and be pierced through by their needs, nailed to the wood of a cross to save them from death. None of us can open to them the gates of the only place that will ever be enough, the only place they will ever know perfect love.

With that knowledge, we, the mothers, become clinging, needy little ones, grasping tight to the breast of our Savior and begging for His sustenance. We are not enough. But He is. And He knows the hearts of all these mothers all over the world struggling to be what these little ones need.  And He feeds them and loves them and binds up their wounds when we cannot.

There are moms all over the world who will never be enough. Never enough to fill their babies bellies, never enough to heal them from their illnesses, never enough to build them a warm house or buy them the books they need to learn. And yet they mother as best they can. And they need someone to tell them about the loving Savior who fills in where they cannot and makes all things new.  And the ones most well-equipped to do that are not the moms who are “mom enough”. They are the ones who know all too well that they are not enough, who know the sting of want and need and loss. 

I am not mom enough. Love as I might, I could not breathe life into these last three little ones my heart so longs to hold. As painful as it may be, I am grateful for that knowledge. Because every time I look into the eyes of a mother feeling the terrible weight of not being enough, I pray that they see in my brokenness the One who is enough.  Because He is waiting to rush in and be all that we, His little ones, needs.  He who more than enough, He who is everything. 

The Center of the Universe

So yesterday I had been bouncing along in a crowded bus for about an hour and half when I realized something. An hour and half after leaving Grano do Oro, we still hadn't reached the paved road, still hadn't passed any of the bigger-than-tiny towns that are harbingers of the city to come, still hadn't seen much more than breathtaking mountain views and the communities dotted there in. And it suddenly occurred to me that I live in the middle of nowhere.

The Middle of Nowhere

Now this is funny because that was all I could think as we made the drive to Grano de Oro the night we arrived here.  Greg was the only one of us who had been to Grano.  And he had only been twice before. He had a vague idea of how to get here and about how far it was from town. A vaguely optimistic idea that is. So after we passed through Turrialba, the closest large city to where we were headed, he began to pepper us with encouragement that we were almost there. "About 15 more minutes," he would say optimistically as the van climbed and descended narrow mountain roads. "Oh, now we're really close," he encouraged as the paved road gave way to dust and rocks and wooden suspension bridges. And on we went, further and further without arriving at our destination. And all I could think was, "This man is taking me to the middle of nowhere."

The Middle of the Middle of Nowhere

But I haven't felt that way again since that night. From the first day I lifted my head from my pillow on my bead in my house in this town, lifted my head to rising sun and the cool mountain air and the chirping of hundred of birds, I have felt like this was the center of the universe.  Now four months in, when I walk the dusty roads of this place and respond to the greetings of friendly faces, I smile as I realize that in almost every home I pass, I know at least one face, at least a part of their story. And I want to know more. My mind races as I plan visits, invites, think of ways to build more into these relationships, to love deeper. How to know these hearts and histories so that the love of Christ can spill into every corner of these hearts, these lives this town. I pass our Church and dream of the day when it is too full, when there is adequate space to teach throngs of children who come to learn about Jesus, to understand that He is fully present there in that Church, and to receive Him with open hearts. I dream of young people assured and confident in themselves and their faith spreading out from here to sing of His greatness.

The Center of the Universe

I watch Cabecar families make their way into town. Women with babies strapped to their backs, whatever piece of cloth they could find securely fastened just above their chest. Men leading horses laden with items to sell or to bring back to their homes in the mountains. I wonder about where they live and how long they walked to get here. I wonder if they will accept the invitation if I invite them to come home with me. I wonder if their children would hide in a corner, shy and unsure if I speak to them. I want to know if they are hungry at night, if they are sick or cold or lonely. I want to know if their babies might have worms or bacteria causing their bellies to bulge. And I want to fix it, to feed them, to make their babies healthy and whole. I want to win their trust so they don't hide, to figure out how to get to where they live and speak to them in their own language.

Because I want to tell them about this God, this amazing, loving creative God who crafted this end of the earth especially for them.  Who loves them with a love that is deep enough to make their lives last forever. To tell them that although their bodily needs are great and the earth that feeds them something to be cherished, they are so, so much more. That they are souls created, like these mountains, to take people's breath away with their beauty, to love and be loved, and to live forever.  Because of a man named Jesus, who lived in a little small corner of the world, poor and simple just like them, and yet, saved all of humanity.

Friends at the Center of Our Universe

As the bus continued toward the city, finally, reaching the paved road and lurching forward at a slightly quicker pace, my thoughts turned to the missionaries I know and the little places just like this one where they live and serve. I think of how they too have allowed Him to take them to the middle of nowhere somewhere, to mountain villages and tiny islands, to little slums in big cities, to big jungles in small countries. and made them the center of their universe for the Lord's sake.

And then my thoughts raced to all the millions of places like this one on the earth, all the middle-of-nowhere centers of the universe for somebody in Africa, Asia, Russia, in the middle of the oceans and at the tops of mountains. All the places hours from the nearest city that teem with the lives and the stories and the culture of my brothers and sisters in Christ. And my hurt began to burn with the desire to know those places and the people in them, with the longing to pat round Asian cheeks and rub weathered Indian hands, to laugh long and long with wide African smiles and sit in the still cold of long forgotten churches of Eastern Europe breathing new life.  And I was pained to know that I couldn't. That even if I give every day of my earthly in service to Him I will likely never get to do all those things.  For Him. In love.

Us, Our Neighbor, and the Bishop of the Middle of Nowhere Center of the Universe

(Bishop Rojas, Bishop of Cartago)

And that made me think about Him. This God who created all those middles of nowhere in this great big world and populated them with people painted in different shades whose mouths sing in tune to different melodies but who were all meant to know, love and serve Him, to sing of His greatness.  And I know a little of His longing as I think how many do not yet know His love, how many more do not really understand His mercy, and how many have forgotten what their grandparents once knew deeply.  It is a sharp pain and an aching desire all at once to realize how many people do not hope for heaven, how many mothers place babies in the ground and think it is the end of the story, how many of my brothers and sisters are hungry, lonely and sick from things that could have been prevented if someone had only acted on their behalf. And I know just a portion of His thirst, the thirst that held my sweet Jesus to the cross, the thirst that is not quenched with water but with the love of souls.

The Fruits of This End of the Earth

And so today, I rose with the morning sun, aware that I am here. Only here. And for today, this is not the middle of the nowhere, but the center of my universe. For today, I quench His thirst by pouring out His love here. And I am comforted to know that it is enough for Him. He has not called me to everything. He has called me to do something, and I am doing it the best I can. And He, He becomes the center, the knot that tethers all those ends of the earth together in one singular purpose, one eternity. And if I do my part, one day  I will walk not dusty roads but streets of gold where no one is hungry or lonely or sick. And everyone shines with His light. And I can only hope that I will find the faces I have loved there to pat the seats next to them and smile wide as they realize that I too am traveling with them.

Planting My Feet and Loving in His Name 

in the Middle of Nowhere

Center of the Universe 

that is the place.