Letter To Self: You Shall Not Perish

Dear You,

 Yeah, you. You with the brave word KNOWN tattooed on your heart for the year. You with the new commitment to sink deep into the Word and speak in tongues not your own. You who thought maybe John 3:16 might be an easy place to start.

I watched you this week. I know you found out it wasn't. You found out that familiar isn't the same thing as easy with the Word of God. I watched Love pierce deep in a dark place. Say a hard thing to you.

Because you, daughter of the King, child of Light, lover of Love, you've had a pretty messy year. A good one in so many ways. You counted more than 1000 gifts. Marked them out in pen. But even still, you were dogged by the darkness of anxiety more than ever before, felt the pain of loss open fresh old wounds, trusted and mistrusted yourself for the trusting then felt the guilt of unfounded mistrust. In the Word this week, you heard it. The hard word from Love itself. You have been living like you are perishing. Instead of living this:

You who lay down your life to help others believe, you have forgotten to believe yourself. Forgotten to live knowing no one is relying on your heroics to save the day, and that the dark villain chasing you has already been defeated by the only Superpower. You forgot that at the beginning of it all He WAS. And at the end, He will be. And right now, He is.

You have spent your days swirled in the dark mist of discontent, the bitter sting of hope dashed. And you have refused to believe in eternal life. Day after day, you lived like you were perishing, like any minute now, it was all going to fall apart.

You lived, dear one, in fear. In that unspoken and lonely fear of failure who is your worst enemy yet long-time companion. You courted her a bit this year, invited her in for coffee one too many times. And she wooed with quiet accusation. Made you believe you not only needed to fear the possibility of failing but that you had already failed, that you were a failure.

That the dishes left in the sink overnight said more about you that a God who put on skin to save you. That lack of routine and continuity and kids who went to bed too late and didn't do as much school as they should have said more about you than the miraculous fact that the God of the Universe trusted you enough to put eternity in your hands in the form of people who are His. That your body's betrayal, its inability to cup life safely in its womb, its bleeding out of hope said more about you than the Blood He shed so that your pain matters for something.

That the to-do list without the check marks and the so many days you made no lists whatsoever because you didn't care any more mattered more than the fact that it is done in eternity. That what people thought about you and their approval of your work made you who you were more than the knitting He did in your mother's womb.

You ran and raced within from the menacing threats, from mortal peril, from perishing, so many days. And more often than not, you still felt you had not run fast enough, that the darkness had caught you. But:

And as you have dug back in over the last month, heard Him say, "I know. Come out of hiding, sweet one. You are known. You are loved. Even with, even if, and even when. You are loved. And there is mercy and there is grace and there is light enough for all your dark battles. I put on skin for just this reason. So you would know. I laid my head in the meanness and cold of your cruel world so you would know. I held out my hands and embraced the tears of the woman who wept at my feet and the one who his at the well and the one who banged pots and pans in the kitchen in frustration so that you would know. I became incarnate in the womb of a woman that you would know. From the inside from forever until never-ending glory shines, I have known you. In the beginning, I WAS. And because I lived, I live in you. And you do not have to perish, only believe."

I hear the question forming before you ask. And I know that you know that you already know. All you have to believe is this one little thing: it doesn't matter if you are enough because He is. It doesn't matter what you know because you are known. It does't matter what you do, because it has already been done. So just live and breathe grateful. Keep counting. Live in the embrace of His Word.

You have chosen well, sweet soul sister. This is your year to remember that you are known. And to believe. And to live like you have eternal life in you. Because you are not in peril. You shall not perish, dear. So live in the light. Let it shine on your darkest places and let them be known. Because you cannot fail at what has already been won. And you cannot perish when you know you will live forever. So live lavishly and love long and let it go. He's got you. 

Come link up with us at the Grove at Velvet Ashes  this week.
You don't want to miss the opportunity to be part of this space.

Posted: Most Clicks of All Time

When I decided to link up with the lovely Sarah's new Posted. series, I wasn't realizing how much I would need to re-read the post she would choose. Sarah asked us to link to our post with the most clicks ever.

I had an inkling and I was right. It was this post about saying goodbye to the little one we lost to miscarriage just before we headed to the mission field. Clearly, the sadness and the hop in that post resonated with people. And today, after experiencing two more miscarriages in the last six months, I needed to hear that voice of hope, surrender, and resignation. 

As I seek to spend the year letting myself be KNOWN by God, these last few days I have realized how I have hidden the deep sadness and pain of those losses from Him. Of course He sees and knows all, but in my time with Him, I have not let myself go there, feel the hard feelings, say the sad things, wonder about His will. And I need to. Because on the other side of that lies reconnecting in intimacy with my Father, and that is the road to hope, the road to heaven.

The hope that will let me repeat these words again today:

For I realize, that even when my body is well past the age of bearing babies, even if I should live until I am 100, always, I will be an expectant mother, until the day I hold my babies for eternity. And the hope of that day makes the suffering and struggle and strength to do His will in the hard times all worth it.  For with every drawing near to His cross, we draw near to the glory of the Resurrection as well, and with every bowing low to His sovereignty, we come closer to bowing before His Holy Throne.

So I am thankful this little link-up let me re-visit a part of me I needed to be blessed by today. I hope it blesses you as well.

More of What We Do and Why We Do It

As I mentioned in my previous post, I wanted to take the time this week to highlight some of what we do in the mission field here in Costa Rica and why we do it. My last post talked about the material help we provide for poorer communities in the form of our chapel building projects.

Our main day to day work here in the field is the work of evangelization. The Catechism of the Catholic Church defines evangelization as “the proclamation of Christ and His Gospel by word and the testimony of life, in fulfillment of Christ’s command.” Evangelization is also part of the fulfillment of the Great Commission in Matthew's gospel: "Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”

Movie Night in Grano de Oro

Notice that the commission Jesus left us does not only ask us to baptize the nations, but to make disciples of them and to teach them to obey everything He commanded. For this reason, we undertake a two-fold evangelization in our area. One aspect is to continue to effort of firmly planting the Gospel among the Cabecar indigenous people so that they will be baptized and made disciples. The second is the formation and discipleship of the faithful in rural Costa Rican communities of our parish. 

One aspect of the life of the Church in poor countries that can always use support is adult faith formation. Whereas the devotion and deep commitment of many adult Catholics is heroic, often their understanding, appreciation and ability to articulate the basic tenets of their faith is lacking. The priests who serve them are heroic too in their efforts to preach, prepare and form their flocks, but as anyone can tell you, it is not a task they can complete on their own, especially in rural areas where they are often responsible for a huge amount of souls spread out over a wide geographical territory. And without continued formation and discipleship, the Catholic faithful at the ends of the earth are at risk. First, there is a risk that they will not find the understanding, motivation and sense of belonging they need to live in obedience to the Catholic Church's teachings. Secondly, there is the grave danger that a faith based simply on cultural devotion, while it is a testament to the last-lasting traditions of our faith planted so many years ago by the earliest missionaries, will not stand the questions, doubts and cynicism of the next generations who are increasingly enticed and influenced by secular culture. For this reason, we are consistently seeing a need to enliven and strengthen the faith of the faithful in traditionally Catholic cultures as well as to re-evangelize the younger generation to give them a deeper understanding of their faith and the teachings of the Church. This need is prevalent all over the world, in the wealthiest, most well-organized parishes as well as the poorest third world missions. But the poor Church lacks man power and the sheer challenge of geography makes the work even more difficult to accomplish.

San Martin Chapel

For this reason, we have made the ministry the teaching, formation and discipleship of adults in our widespread parish a large part of our ministry. In word and by the testimony of our lives and friendship, we hope to give our brothers and sisters new eyes with which to see their faith and to allow them to "be transformed by the renewing of their minds" so that they will "not be conformed to the patterns of this world" (Romans 12:2).

The main way we are taking on this task is by circulating through our communities using our projection equipment to show quality Catholic movies like For Greater Glory (which is pertinent to our communities since the central church of parish houses a relic of the finger bone of Blessed Jose Luis Sanchez del Rio below the altar) and facilitate a short discussion or teaching on it. These raise interest and bring something new to the catechism efforts previously undertaken in our area. It also offers us a way eliminate the language barrier issue and go far deeper thematically than we could on our own. We follow the "movie night"event in each community by introducing them to the Catholicism Series by Fr. Barron. We then return to the communities to show the series and facility the discussion over the course of a couple of months.  While these types of outreaches are effective in many places and parishes, imagine the effectiveness of this type of outreach in places where the nearest movie theater is two and half hours away and many of the people have never even been to the cinema before. It is fun and exciting for them in addition to being educational. Thanks to modern technology, we can follow Pope Francis'exhortation, "Dear young friends, Christ has confidence in you and he entrusts his own mission to you: Go and make disciples!". by going out to the poor in remote places and bringing them more fully into the fold of the universal Church.

One community we recently visited with both For Greater Glory  and the first episode of the Catholicism Series was the small pueblo of El Progreso. El Progreso is home to our friend Don Oscar (not this Don Oscar, more on him later). Don Oscar is a faithful Catholic man with a radiant smile and a love and zeal for his faith that bubbles over into warm hugs and contagious enthusiasm for every single Mass, Holy Hour, or activity that ever occurs in the chapel just across the dirt footpath from his home. Don Oscar is battling colon cancer and weakening by the day. Each time we go, we arrive early enough to go to his house and visit, thinking surely he will be too weak to come down to the chapel for the presentation. And each time he surprises us by telling us he is going to get ready to come.

Movie Night in El Progreso

                                     

The last time we visited El Progreso, Don Oscar's son-in-law carried him to the chapel on his back like a child. He sat gingerly in his wheel chair and looked pain. But still he smiled his radiant smile. And we talked about cancer and praying for healing and death being the ultimate victory is eternal life is our goal. We hugged. We cried. His faith community lifted him up and encouraged him as we sat in that chapel together waiting to begin the first episode of Catholicism. Then the lights went dim and for a brief hour, Don Oscar got to travel to Rome and the Holy Land and see the birth places of his wife. He got to see the faces of his brothers and sisters from far way places. And he learned about what we mean when we call Jesus Messiah and how He is the fulfillment of thousands of years worth of Biblical promises. And, I hope, in that brief time, that three things happened: one, that he was happy for a while, resting from the mental, spiritual and emotional battle with his own mortality and the physical battle with pain, and second, that his hope in heaven, his real faith that this will be his ultimate cure and greatest victory when the moment comes was enlivened, that his thirst for Christ whetted and his knowledge that he is loved and supported by a cloud of witnesses felt deeply. 

This is what it means to evangelize, to make disciples. At the end of the day, it is an exercise in love. An opportunity to go out, meet our brothers and sisters where they are, an offer them the three things that abide: faith, hope and love. To Don Oscar and so many of our brothers and sisters like him, who need someone's strength to see the struggle in hear and now through the lens of eternity.

Pray for Oscar? That's him there in the white shirt.

                                      

You can help us in this outreach by making a monthly subscription to cover the fuel expenses of getting out to these remote communities regularly. You can set up your paypal subscription on the Saint Bryce Foundation web page. Also, donations of quality Catholic media presentations and movies that are available in Spanish are welcome. Contact us at stbrycemissions AT gmail DOT com if you have an item you would like to donate.

If I Got to Pick

The life I live here in missions is a life that places me, for the most part, totally dependent on the Lord, His provision, His timing and His holy will for our lives. It is good. It is the way I really, truly desire to live.

However, it is totally contrary to my personality. I am a girl who likes to have a plan. I wake up in the morning and within the first two sips of coffee could easily tell you how I would prefer the day to play itself out in 15 minute increments. I can plan a vacation in my head complete with packing list at the mere mention of it over a dinner. I am the kind of girl who makes lists for fun, who would willingly pack for someone else simply because I enjoy the opportunity to organize. I once spent the night at a friend's house after a recent move. Our husbands were both out of town for work. There were boxes everywhere and she was totally overwhelmed. By the time she woke up in the morning, I had moved all the boxes to the correct room, labeled her closets and unpacked her kitchen and bathrooms. She had to call me for months afterwards to ask me where things were. It was some of the best fun I have ever had.

So you see, this life I lead can be hard for me at times. The trust it takes to leave timing and planning in God's hands is a huge leap of faith from my natural temperament. So is having five sons, but that's a story for another day. At the time that we left to take up our mission here in Costa Rica as the St. Bryce Foundation, one of the greatest challenges for me personally meant that it left leaving my oldest brother and his wife and his children and the rest of my family as we united with him in his fight against ALS. It was a sticking point for me with God.

My big brothers and I on our first night back in the States
February 2013

But my brother had always one of the most faithful servants of God I have ever met, and I knew he, more than anyone else, would want me to do what God was calling me to do. He assured me of this himself. Shortly after we arrived in the field, he entered into a medical emergency that threatened to end his life. I was horrified that it would happen that way, that God would take Him home just as I had left. That all my family would be there at his side and I would not. He did not go home then. He fought back, chose life and kept battling.

So many days it hurt that I did not get to pick the timing of things. That I didn't get to be there when I would've chosen. But I did get there. Last July, we spent quiet evenings together enjoying my sister-in-law's kick ass cooking and holding hands and watching So You Think You Can Dance. We had Skype sessions where I laughed at him sipping Red Stripe through a straw and he laughed at me sitting on a tree stump to get good internet reception. In February, we launched our candidacy for the papacy (There is no logical way for me to explain this to anyone who did not know my brother. I can only be sorry for you that you missed out. It was big fun.)

And in March, I headed home to see him again, this time with my whole gang at my side. Our first full night home we went out to dinner. Both my brothers and their families and us. It was glorious and heart wrenching at the same time. I was so happy to meet my sweet niece for the first time, to hold those big brother hands again, to hear my sister-in-law's laugh, to watch my boys giggle maniacally with their cousins, to share quiet conversation with the man who is my first nephew and open my eyes to what a stellar human being he is.

Cousins at dinner

But it ripped me up inside to watch my brother fight for every breath, to see the look of panic in his eyes, and to realize how tired he was. I went back to our guest house that night knowing deep in my soul he was ready to go home soon. And with a panic in my heart. I was there. Then. But I would leave again soon. What if the timing God chose happened to be the one that left me far away in that moment? What if I would have to leave knowing I would never see him again here on earth? And I was angry about the lack of control my life demanded of me.

Cousin Dinner

In the days that followed, my brother entered the hospital and we began to realize that his battle with ALS was drawing to a close. Difficult conversations had to be had. Hard decisions made. A birthday had to be celebrated. And seafood had to be eaten. And a family had to come together to figure out how to live, laugh, love and say goodbye. And do you know what? If God had said to me, "Colleen, I am going to take your brother home and you have no choice in that matter, but all the other details, I will let you plan", even in my eager to plan brain, I could not have come up with a more perfect scenario as we experienced in the days surrounding my brother's going home.

So many of the details are too intimate. Words are great tools to express certain things, and for others, they are cheap. So much of what happened would be cheapened by them in this case. But here is what I would like to share. I do not have a family that has followed a cookie cutter path. We touch every point on the spectrum when it comes to personalities and temperaments, life choices, and religious, spiritual and moral orientations. But I am blessed beyond belief with a family who knows without a doubt how to love fiercely and stand in unity despite those differences. And I believe a large part of our ability to do that was won as we watched my brother live and fight his battle with ALS with that as his only priority -- to love well, to point people to the love of Christ, and to live with unbounded joy.

These apples don't fall far from the trees, y'all
Cousin Shenanigans

So in the moments surrounding his going home, that is what we did. We laughed loud and loved strong and teased relentlessly. We drank too much and ate too much and talked too much (so much so that we were "shushed" by the ICU nurses while we were still outside in the waiting area). We cried and we embraced and we figured out where our strength lay. So that in the moment that Kevin ran into Jesus' arms, we could leave all of our differences behind and stand hand in hand singing. And cheering him on his way. I have no absolutely no words to describe what that moment felt like. It is forever suspended in time for me. The woman my sister-in-law was in that moment has forever changed me. Being the daughter who first lost a child of a mother who now sent her little boy home is the most breakingly beautiful title of womanhood I now carry. Standing in the embrace of my remaining siblings is a moment I will take with me forever. The faces of nephews and nieces and their expressions of love for their father and their uncle and the love shared by our children, the great big band of cousins that make up this family is for me a joy beyond all belief, a hope for a future that shines with radiance. These young people that we raised? They are good, y'all. So, so good. You will thank us one day for our procreative gifts. I promise you.

Celebrating Kevin's birthday in the ICU waiting room the day before we cheered him home to heaven
Me with some of my favorite people on earth, my sister, my niece, and my cousin

I look back on that time and feel overwhelming gratitude to my God. I didn't want my brother to have ALS. I don't want him to be gone. But these are things God does not consult me on. However, I did want to hold his hand and be next to him when that moment arrived. And I was. I did want to feel a tight part of my family circle and share that experience with my mom and my siblings. And I did. I did want to see him one more time outside of the hospital when he was still "well" and I did. I did want to be able to tell him all the reasons I loved him and was so proud of him and I did. I did want to celebrate with joy when at last he had beat the beast and won the crown. And I did. I did want to sing to him the songs that had beat in my heart for him while I was far away and I did. I wanted my sister-in-law to know how deeply beautiful she was and how much I appreciated her. I wanted to say out loud to her that we supported every choice she had made in this difficult journey and we supported her as she began a new phase of life. And we supported her relief that the battle was over. I got to say those words. And I did want to laugh and have a good beer and eat fried stuff from the Gulf and talk in my New Orleans accent. And I did. I wanted a piece of my brother to take with me forever. He left me that. That man, he knew how to live well, and you know what, because of that, he knew how to die well. I know that sounds weird, but anyone who witnessed it would unequivocally agree with me, I know.

Crawfish and beer. It's how we live. It's how we love. It's how we roll.

I didn't really know how to write a to-do list for my brother's death. I didn't want to. But when the moment came, I knew, he knew, we all knew, how to live it. And if I got to pick, this is how it would have been. If I get to write the script for my own going, I want it to be just like his.

And just to keep reminding me that this was just a sweet tender mercy and not to let myself get used to it, God went back to his usual ways and put me back in my place of humble submission, when, on the morning of the funeral, I found myself late and lost and in the midst of an utter panic attack, screaming at my older sister on the phone for help. And then the brunt of the pastor's joke as I walked into the church having scorned my poor family into beaten little pulps in my grief and pain and the anxiety of things being out of my control again. Crying and laughing at myself, and seeing that once again, He had worked it all for good even when He didn't give me a say. And me, back to my sheepish little apologies and promises of greater trust in the future.

And do you know what? I'm pretty sure I could hear that man, my big brother, giggling at me from heaven. And I think he might have been tying my baby's hands to his shoes too. But that, too, is a story for another day.

Family bonfire in my brother Stephen's yard

Let's Be Encouragers

Today I am offering us all a simple way to take action against trafficking and slavery and exploitation. It might not seem like it's even related to some of you, but, in truth, it's the most important thing we can do.

• Today, let's offer praise and encouragement to the young women in our lives who are most vulnerable. It can your daughter or you sister, your niece or your neighbor. But I also invite you to think outside the box a bit. 
• Is there a girl at your children's school is especially smart and a little on the outside of the crowd? Can you drop of an anonymous note with a treat to encourage her in her intelligence and individuality? 
• Do you know a strong, sporty girl who feels a little different from all the other girlie girls around her? Can you encourage her to embrace her strength in some way today?
• Can you send some teenage friends a note on Facebook reminding them that they are beloved daughters of the King? 
• Is there a single mom you know? How about swinging by with a pizza and movie gift card tonight and a note of encouragement? Or asking her if there is anything she needs to accomplish this weekend that you can help her with.
• Is there a pregnancy center in your area? Can you drop off some notes of encouragement to the expectant mothers there with a small self-indulgent gift like lotion or fuzzy socks or nice tea?
• How about a Boys and Girls club or YWCA in your area? Call and ask if there is some way you can offer encouragement to the girls there.
• Is there a health clinic or WIC office in your area? What if you just popped in with packs of mints and a smile, some "Great Job" stickers, and passed them around to the waiting mothers?
• Bake a girl cup cakes today. Your girl or someone else's. When she asks why tell her she is a daughter of the King and you wanted to remind her that she is a beloved and well-respected princess.
• Want to help me here? In the comments below of via e-mail (I finally remembered to post my e-mail in the sidebar), send me a note that I can pass on to Maria at Salvando Corazones as she plans to head for her fundraising trip to the States, or to her first trafficking survivor who is currently living with her, or to a woman in my community I know could use the encouragement. There is a beautiful teenage girl in our church who suffers from severe epilepsy and seizures. She sings in church when she is well, but I have not seen her in a while. Maybe you would like to write her a note? Send anything my way and I will translate it and get it to a woman who will be blessed by it.

We reduce the risk of trafficking, slavery and exploitation when we reduce vulnerability. The surest ways to make a big impact are through providing education and work. But stepping into the lives of vulnerable women and girls and offering them hope and encouragement is certainly worth while. And cultivating a habit of doing it regularly, letting yourself be gently (or brazenly) by the Holy Spirit further and further out of your comfort zone may well turn into something much bigger than you ever imagined it could. Just like my little friend in Nicaragua.

And let's not stop praying together, okay? When we pray, we change our own hearts, so that when we act, we can change the world.

Thank you all for standing with me and for having a heart for the oppressed. The earth looks just a little bit more like heaven because of it.

Feeling Tense?

I am taking a break from my 30 Days of Action posts to write about something that has been rumbling and bubbling and then finally settling peacefully in my heart these last few weeks. Something prompted by a thought that has followed me since I read Heather King's Shirt of Flame: A Year with St. Therese of Lisieux in July. It's about being tense, or more accurately living in tension. And how that differs from but is not totally different from what we call guilt.

I have had many conversations with people who have read books or articles full of inspiring stories about people who are living radically, sacrificing everything and making huge differences in the world. While on the one hand they are inspired by these stories, on the other they find themselves battling scruples and guilt over the state of life in which they find themselves. Often overwhelmed by the latter, they toss the inspiration in order to free themselves from the weight of the guilt.

This is a feeling I am quite familiar with as a missionary. I battle with myself all the time about how much is too much for us, how little is too little and is asking too much from our kids, how much is just enough. I put things in my basket at the grocery store and then take them out. I stand at the corner giving myself the luxury of hailing a cab then wave it off when it stops and head to the bus instead. Recently, we discovered that one benefit of living in this mission with a car is that it has revolutionized food purchasing.

When we could only get to the very nearest city and that by bus, our purchasing opportunities were quite limited. Turrialba, while it is a city, still remains very typically Costa Rican and the stores market mainly typical fare in regards to food. In addition, whatever we purchased had to be loaded into recycled rice sacks and lugged to the bus where it sat for two hours on the ride home. Then we carried it on our backs to our house. Even when we had the occasional ride to the store, we were always eager not to be overbearing and so limited our purchases. Even then, we bought way more variety of food than the typical family in our pueblo.

But with our car to drive, we have a wider variety of options. One which we recently discovered is the opportunity to take a monthly trip into Zapote, a suburb of sorts of San Jose, to shop at Price Mart (this is apparently how you say Costco in Spanish -- who knew?) We went for the first time last month. After filling out our forms and having our candid snapshots printed on to plastic cards, I turned to find a long forgotten wonderland of flavored coffee creamer, donuts, toothpaste in four packs, pancake mix and maple syrup, barbeque sauce and feta cheese. I was totally overwhelmed.

We walked through Price Mart reveling in purchases we had not made in eight months. Olive oil. Syrup. French vanilla coffee creamer. Dark chocolate granola bars. We passed on the lovely cheeses, the sticky sweet donuts, and a load of other processed foods that appeared lovely in their familiar packaging but that we have learned really taste no better then the packaging itself. We bought a lot of food. Good food at good prices. We bought toiletries and medicines to last a long, long time at the best prices we have found yet in Costa Rica. We treated the kids to the cheap pizza and got an oil change for the car. We priced out some items we will need when we are sharing our mission with groups and other families. It was a good trip, and while we indulged ourselves some, I don't think we did too badly.

But in the weeks that followed, I was haunted by guilt over the French vanilla coffee creamer. I stressed about buying it. I stressed about using it up too quickly, not fully appreciating it. I scrupulously only allowed myself only one cup of coffee with the creamer and then drank plain. I would see families walking down the streets of our town and wonder how much rice I could have given them to feed their children with what I spent on my coffee creamer. I was so shell-shocked that I have not suggested another trip to Price Mart since then. Some people in my house are still lamenting not buying the big box of chocolate covered almonds they saw and I have feared I would be like some indulgence monitor, putting things in the basket and then guiltily taking them back out and stashing them on the wrong aisle, much to the chagrin of the Price Mart employees, I'm sure.

A couple of weeks after that shopping trip, I found myself sitting on a beach in southern Nicaragua reading the book 7: An Experimental Mutiny Against Excess and pondering a lot of over-indulgence, consumerism and lack of gratitude. And how hard it is to overcome a lifetime if living in a culture that embraces all those things. My time as a missionary has opened my eyes and changed my heart in so many ways, but it has not taken away the impulse to buy more shoes than I need or the desperate craving for Coke Zero in Sonic Ice. Or my love of sticky sweet donuts and flavored coffee creamer. And sometimes, in light of the poverty I see every day, my affections for those things make me feel what in the past I had labeled as guilt.

But reading and thinking on the tenets in 7 and some of things I had read about St. Therese in Shirt of Flame has caused me to rethink what I call this haunting feeling that pervades my thoughts, my desires, my affections and makes me weigh them against the stark realities of poverty, sickness, human slavery and death. What we have labeled as guilt and thrown out as an unhealthy emotion, I think, may not be something altogether bad. Now, I am certain, as many people have commented to me in the aforementioned conversations, that our merciful Savior does not want us to live a life hindered by crippling, debilitating guilt. After all, it was precisely this kind of law that Jesus came to free us from. But I also think we have been a bit quick to toss out some really good inspiration because we were afraid to go where the initial guilt was taking us. We do not need to be a people of guilt, but I think when we begin to hear a warning cry in our hearts every time something makes us see our own ugliness and brokenness that says, "No, run, don't think about that. That's too hard. Jesus doesn't want you to feel badly about yourself" that we need to respond like Christ did to Peter when Peter shouted a similar warning at Him -- about the very hard and ugly way in which He would redeem the world -- "Get Thee behind me, Satan."

Why? Because while I think the Lord does not want us to be encumbered by a burden of guilt over which He has already risen victorious, I think He's perfectly okay with us living in a constant tension. It is the reality of our lives on this side of heaven. We live redeemed but sinful. We worship a merciful but just Savior. We serve a broken and beautiful Church. We are dying every day that we live. And we die in order to live forever. We pray to know better our Savior and He teaches us to know better ourselves. We eat bread that is His body while it still looks and tastes like bread. And we buy and we consume and we live while others beg and starve and die in a world He created. This is our reality.

And as Christians completing, as the Word telsl us, what was lacking in His sufferings, I do think we would be woefully amiss if that reality did not weigh heavily upon us most of our days. If my coffee creamer makes me think painfully of the hungry in my midst, it may not mean I need to toss the coffee creamer, but it also should not mean that I push aside the painful reminder of the poor. Perhaps there is something He is asking me to do, and the tension in my chest with each sip of delicious creamy goodness is His way of knocking. If that experience makes me think long and hard about what I purchase on our next trip and helps me to leave behind some indulgences and replace them with basic foods that can be shared, it has indeed done a very good work in my heart. And if I deliberate long and hard over each item and allow us only three indulgent purchases per trip, is it that really some kind of debilitating guilt? I don't think so. Maddening as it may be for the poor men who are forced to endure the shopping trip with me, I think it does us all some good to pick and choose intentionally as a family and to see the alternatives we are afforded when we bypass overindulgence.

Heather King says St. Therese lived in this constant tension. Feeling at once favored and special in the eyes of her Sweet Savior and alternatively small and humble and feeble in His service. Wanting with all her heart to be a missionary and yet embracing the call to the silence of the cloister. Being childish and simple and yet a spiritual giant all at the same time. If this is what embracing the tension can produce, then who I am to wave it off because sometimes it gives me a stomach ache?

I will be the first to admit that sometimes living in this constant tension does not make me the happy smiley girl I want to be. Sometimes, I just freaking want a Pumpkin Spice Latte and a Coke Zero with Cherry flavoring and extra ice. In a separate cup. There. I said it. But I have come see that that too is okay. This is where His tender mercy sweeps in and makes something beautiful of the mess that is me. You see, while I'm tempted to sulk and whine and grant myself way more indulgence I deserve in repayment for my measly sacrifices, He swoops into my struggle and draws me to Him--says to me, "Sweet Princess, there are no lattes today. But I am here. Come close. Rest from the struggle. Breathe the sweet incense of my presence. Feel better, little one? Good. Get up and do what I have asked." And then, one day when I least expect it, right in the midst of serving and doing and falling and rising, voila, a pumpkin spice latte appears out of nowhere, with the extra whipped cream I never even dared ask for even though I wanted it really badly. Because my Daddy loves me. Deeply, tenderly and intimately. And He loves to lavish me with gifts and surprise me with loveliness.

So these days, I am working at seeing all these impulses both indulgent and guilty as the forces that pull taut my spiritual heart rope, that keep me sober and alert, intentional and dependent as I try to be who God has called me to be in this crazy upside world that reeks of sin and shines with glory all at the same time. I think the Lord only pulls that rope as taut as we permit Him too. Sometimes, life demands that we let it fall slack while we put all our energies into growing a baby human inside us or rekindling love in our marriage or serving the demanding needs of our families or recovering from an illness. Other times, I think He asks if we will let Him pull it uncomfortably tight, so that it strains and stresses and pulls at us until we grow up just a little bit more. But I do believe that we are called to permit the tension to live within us, the feel its weight and to embrace it, not as guilt, but as another tender mercy meant to bring us further into the abode of His heart. And I think the spiritual progress we make is directly related to just how taut we permit him to pull our heart strings.

So if you are feeling the tension today as I am and battling the guilty grumpies as I often do, slow down rather than pushing it away. Run to Him and let Him show you what He needs you to see. Seek Him in the quiet and the stillness and, yes, the pain of your heart. Move past the guilt and give Him permission to pull your heart strings tight. And then see what He might do with you. And then happily, one day, if He is merciful enough, we might find ourselves sipping a double whipped cream pumpkin spice latte inside the gates of the Promised Land with no more pain or suffering, where our hearts strings fly loose and free in the light of His glory. Walk with me?

***P.S. Following any of the Amazon links in this post or on the sidebar and making a purchase will generate a small amount of credit for me. All credit will be dedicated to purchasing items for the Blessed Zelie Martin Initiative laid out in this post.

I have added this post to this week's Walk With Him Wednesdays link up at Holy Experience.

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.

It Wasn't The Goodbye We'd Planned

Yesterday afternoon we were supposed to take a break from our packing and preparations to have a BBQ and some fellowship with our friends before we head out.  A little "goodbye" gathering.

But on Wednesday afternoon at my doctor's appointment, we found a sweet little baby that had already left us and flown home to the Father.  So yesterday, instead of a joyful gathering of friends, we spent the day at the hospital, and, in our hearts, we bid a sad goodbye to our third sweet saint.

I have long ago given up any desire to understand the will of God. I beg Him only the grace to know His will and to do it. In the situation where we now find ourselves, there is no room for wondering. I know what I must do.  So there is only left the begging of the grace to do it.

I have been surrounded by the prayers and love of beautiful souls and the compassion of a wonderful pro-life medical team. It has been a great consolation.  But I hold in my heart the greatest of all consolations, the hope of heaven.  For I realize, that even when my body is well past the age of bearing babies, even if I should live until I am 100, always, I will be an expectant mother, until the day I hold my babies for eternity.

And the hope of that day makes the suffering and struggle and strength to do His will in the hard times all worth it.  For with every drawing near to His cross, we draw near to the glory of the Resurrection as well, and with every bowing low to His sovereignty, we come closer to bowing before His Holy Throne.

With His help and the grace won through your prayers, I will continue to count the ways He loves in the midst of the sadness, to seek joy in the midst of the pain, to trade the ashes of brokenness for the beauty of grace, and to live with expectant hope.

So goodbye for now, sweet baby...pray for us always.