On Being a Brat, And a Bit of a Pharisee

So, it's been a bit of a stressful week around here in the mission field. We had some crazy unexpected moments when our bank (thankfully) noticed some fraudulent charges on our account and blocked our debit card, which is our only way to make purchases and access cash here. Then the notice from our landlord that they want to sell our house, so we need to be out by the end of January. Our oldest returning to Costa Rica after a time in the States, traveling alone internationally, through icy and snowy Detroit with threats of cancellations. And then, a twelve year old who required an emergency appendectomy and a three day hospital stay.

Ironically, this kid was a total champ and never complained once. Clearly, he has learned not follow my example.

And I am admitting that by the time I found myself shivering next to hospital bed at 4:00 am working on 20 minutes of sleep, I was feeling pretty sorry for myself.

You see, living life overseas, you get a glimpse of the way the rest of the world sees Americans. And sometimes you get a glimpse of where their impression of us as a bit pushy and bratty comes from. I have come to self-righteously applaud myself for learning to blend in to another culture. To speak their language and do things their way and not get my feathers ruffled when it makes no sense to me. (Okay, I get them ruffled, but I keep it between me and my husband.) I do not think most Americans are at heart spoiled people who intend to be single-minded culturally. I think we do not quite realize how the fierce individualism that is a core value of our culture makes it easy for us to off as having a sense of entitlement in cultures where that kind of individualism does not have high value, where what is valued is an inherent understanding of cultural norms and rules and a willingness to quietly do what is expected.

I thought I had become pretty willing. I mean, I've gotten used to sweeping and mopping my front porch because it is a rule, and have instilled in my kids the fear of ever walking barefoot, and the habit of not showering at night because it is bad for you, and I even remember to have three forms of identification and documentation on me at all times.  I was a pretty proud little peacock, all right. Until our hospital stay revealed me for what I am, still a bit of a brat, and because of my pride, a bit of a pharisee too.

You see, when your child is sick, your comfort reactors go into overdrive, right? You want to mother and nest and make everything just so for him. In the States, our hospitals and doctor's offices tend to reflect that. There is an attempt to make things feel cozy and homey and give you some sense of control over the circumstances and environment. Here? Not so much?

We have discussed the reality of medical emergencies here before, theoretically. And agreed, theoretically, that the medical system is adequate to handle most situations that would occur and that the $70 a month we pay for total medical coverage made any small sacrifices we had to adjust to worth it. I was SO above the American bratiness that demanded everything be just so for my kids. And me.

Until I wasn't. Which happened when theory became reality.

I am embarrassed by how that ugly sense of entitlement reared its head. Never once was worried about my child's actual medical care. First of all, it was an appendectomy, not a brain tumor. Secondly, we were in the highest rated hospital in the country, where preemies are treated in intensive care, and kids are cured of cancer. I was totally confident in the actual medical care Gabriel received.

What made me uncomfortable and left me feeling like this was not good enough for my child (and if I'm being honest, me) was all purely environmental...ambience, people, the place lacked ambience. And there were so. many. rules. And it made me feel stupid and humiliated that I had no inherent understanding of those rules and had to be corrected to the not so understanding nurse supervisor. I felt like a child out of his element, and raw with emotions. And when a child in that situation gets corrected, how does he respond? Well, by pouting publicly on Facebook like a true brat, of course.

And pout I did. About the uncomfortable chairs and not being allowed to put my feet up. About not being allowed to charge my phone. Or eat my Hershey's kisses. And on the inside? I pouted about a whole host of other things. About only one of us being allowed to enter the hospital at a time. About the dumb card that has to get whole punched when you change care takers so you don't exceed your limit of three changes per day. About iron beds and three public showers and toilets for a ward of at least 50 kids. About nurses who talked loudly and flipped on light switches every fifteen minutes all. night. long.

I tried to convince myself it was just sleep deprivation, but when I started to have obsessive thoughts about Starbucks peppermint mocha cappuccinos and shopping for shoes, I had to admit the truth. I am still a bit of an individualistic, entitlement minded brat, and a bit of a pharisee for the way I've judged others with those tendencies.

Yeah. I bought shoes and new outfit to celebrate his release. Long way to go, I tell you.

I spent a long night repenting and ask God to show me how to be like the Virgin of the Manger, who laid her little down in less than perfect conditions and humbly accepted that God chooses to be Emmanuel in humble places, where there is room for Him because He is not crowded out by what was there before Him, where there is need for Him because the need is not met by self-sufficiency, and where a world cries out for Him the silent darkness because it has not lit its own way.

Yes, I was humbled by my confrontation with my inner brat and pharisee. But perhaps it was just what I need to bring me deep into the spirit of Advent. Seeing how far I have to go to truly be Christ-like. And seeing that on my own, I am just a pouting, broken little mess.

When we arrived at our hotel after Gabriel was released, the maid came to make the extra roll-away bed and was inquiring about how he was. She smiled wide and declared, "That hospital is the BEST. The nurses are so wonderful. My four year old son died of cancer there two years ago. But they helped him so, so much and were so kind to me." Apparently. not being able to put her feet up wasn't that big of a deal.

And so I find myself at the foot of the empty manger and begging Him to come. Emmanuel, come. And save me from myself. Because I am far from you. And I cannot raise myself up. I need you to come down and rescue me. Free me from by inner brat and my inner Pharisee. Let love burn away my messiness and bring me liberty. And make me happy in the stables where the Jesus-lovers belong.

So grateful that being a brat doesn't exempt you from having awesome kids.

What We Do and Why We Do It

I am going to take some time this week to write a little bit more about our missionary foundation and the work we do. This blog has mostly been a place where I processed thoughts and shared my heart, but it occurred to me that there may be some newer readers who are stopping by and have very little idea why I live in Costa Rica or what we do as missionaries here.

If you weren't around in the beginning and are not sure where we live, I shared a little geography tutorial here.

If you don't know our personal story and how we ended up back in the mission field in early 2012, you can read my personal perspective in a guest post at My Crazy Adoption.

In order to say "yes"to God and answer His call to serve him in the mission field in Costa Rica, we founded our family foundation: St. Bryce Missions. You can find much there about our history and our mission and what we do. Our mission statement says this:
                                                              Mission Statement

   Saint Bryce Missions is a lay Catholic association of the faithful  established to aid and serve the poor in foreign mission and domestic evangelization. Faithful to the Magisterium of the Catholic Church and under the direction of the local Bishops and Pastors, we promote the rich teachings of the Catholic Church and support the third world missions by serving in lay apostolates such as teaching, evangelization, projects for the poor and helping build church infrastructure. Consecrated to Our Lady of Guadalupe, the source and focus of all endeavors of this lay apostolate is the Most Holy Eucharist and devotion to Our Lady. 

Over the course of this week, I will highlight some of the ministry we work we are currently doing in our large, rural parish, San Antonio de Padua de Tayutic. It is a parish that is comprised of a vast geographical territory which includes 18 rural communities and the entirety of the Chirripo Indian Reservation. While our main work in the mission field is the spiritual work of evangelization, we undertake many material works to aid the poor as well. The principle work among those is the construction and renovation of chapels in poor communities. The reasoning behind making this our principle work is expressed today on the foundation's Facebook page: 

Why building chapels for the poor is such an important part of the new evangelization, a great witness to charity and the virtue of hope. Blessed John Paul II said in his Papal Encyclical "Ecclesia de Eucharistia" "Like the woman who anointed Jesus in Bethany, the Church has feared no extravagance devoting the best of her resources to expressing her wonder and adoration before the unsurpassed gift of the Eucharist. No less than the first disciples charged with preparing the large upper room, she has felt the need, down the centuries and in her encounters with different cultures, to celebrate the Eucharist in a setting worthy of so great a mystery." 

This is our goal St. Bryce Missions: to help build and restore chapels in poor communities. The poor in many cases want a place to honor the mystery of the Eucharist but do not have the resources within their own community to build a chapel. The poor struggle everyday just to feed their bodies and it is part of our duties to help them meet their basic needs for food and shelter. But along with feeding their bodies, they must be nourished spiritually and come to the understanding of the reality of the hope of heaven so they do not despair at the harshness of their lives and fall into many sins. For Catholics, that nourishment is found in the Bread of Life, the Eucharist, and the life-giving grace of the other Sacraments as well. A chapel built in a poor community is a beacon of hope that rises out of a sea of despair that can draw all men to Christ. For very little of our resources simple chapels can be built from materials that will last for several generations. In providing a sacred space where the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass can take place and the Blessed Sacrament can be made available in the tabernacle, we are honoring Christ and the poor whom Christ loves and desires to be with in His Real Presence. 

This video shows the process and simple design we have created to provide long-lasting, dignified places of worship that will need minimal maintenance over time:

We have completed a number of projects over the last year and a half in the area in which we are working directly, including the chapel above in the indigenous community of Quetzal. All work is funded through donations from sponsors (parishes, groups, families, and individuals) who adopt a particular project and sponsor it.

Last month, our supporters at St. Nicholas Church in Lydia made it possible for us to fulfill our dream of spreading the work of chapel building to other poor areas of Costa Rica, Latin America, and the world by funding the construction of a long awaited chapel for the community of Bella Vista in Puntarenas, Costa Rica. We spent a week visiting with the community and visiting homes to share the joy of our faith and the Eucharistic presence with our brothers and sisters now.




We have a number of new collaborations in other areas we will soon be seeking sponsorship for, but our current priority projects awaiting adoption can be viewed on our funding site. In addition to the Bella Vista chapel above, a chapel reconstruction for the indigenous community of Nimari is fully funded and underway, as well as the Padre Pio chapel in the rural community of Bajo Pacuare de San Joaquin.

Our current priority projects are now the two chapels needed on the island of Chirra in Costa Rica:



There are also a number of smaller renovation projects that can be seen on the funding page as well as information on how you can organize your group to raise funds for a project you would like to adopt. Take some time to look around the site and see if God pulls on your heart to reach out to your brothers and sisters at the ends of the earth and care for the poor by nourishing their souls with the Most Holy Eucharist and plating the virtue of hope in their hearts.

1 Corinthians 13:13 calls faith, hope and love the three remaining, or abiding, virtues:

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.

And the Catholic Church calls them the theological virtues and the foundation of all Christian moral activity: 

 The theological virtues are the foundation of Christian moral activity; they animate it and give it its special character. They inform and give life to all the moral virtues. They are infused by God into the souls of the faithful to make them capable of acting as his children and of meriting eternal life. They are the pledge of the presence and action of the Holy Spirit in the faculties of the human being. There are three theological virtues: faith, hope, and charity (CCC 1813)

I can think of no better way to act on these virtues and make them apparent to the poor than in your charitable love for them building them a place to practice their faith and renew their hope in the presence of God among them.

Help us by sharing this post, our web sites and Facebook pages with your contacts, spreading the word about who we are and the work we do, and considering if your parish, ministry, community or family might want to adopt a chapel project and work for its completion. E-mail us for more information at stbrycemissions AT gmail DOT com.

**We are often asked about short term groups sponsoring a chapel and coming to participate in its construction. We welcome your group and would encourage you to visit and get to know the community you are aiding, but we prefer to allow local builders to hire workers from within the communities to complete construction problems. It provides much needed work, increases the community's involvement in and responsibility for their project and ensures the work is done according to local quality standards. Thank you for understanding.

Cannibals, Thieves and Other Missionary Miscues

I had hoped to get  back here and reflect a bit on the incredible January we have had before now, but life just has not yet allowed for that. Instead today, I am sharing a bit of missionary humor over at A Life Overseas. So while you wait for the scoop on our January journey would you join me for a bit of fun over there? It really is such a lovely community.
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Here's a little peak at my post: Because the stress levels that accompany missionary life can often be so over the top and we are constantly battling our fears and fighting for peace, it is imperative that we as missionaries keep our sense of humor and ability to laugh at ourselves...Now if you know me at all, you know how I love to tell a funny story. So head on over and read the rest and laugh with us about this sometimes funny always crazy life we lead.

Let's Get Going

So I said in yesterday's post that I was going to come back today and share ways that we can all begin to be part of the solution of the atrocity of human trafficking. Here's the truth, I have a lot of inspiration, passion and ideas and that's about it.
But if you're willing to bear it out with me and help me do what we can where we can, I am willing to try to get this going. I want to fight the temptation that tells me I should wait until I have a well-formulated plan to invite people into. I want to fight the temptation to say tomorrow will be a better day. I want to fight the perfectionist side of me and be willing to be made of fool of for Christ and His most vulnerable children.
My vague idea is to create 30 Days of Action Against Human Trafficking, big and small ways we can all join in the fight for awareness and action on this issue. I'm brainstorming, making contacts and thinking it through as I go. That means it will inevitably develop and change as we go along. But one piece of counsel I always offer to those trying to discern what God is calling them to is "Don't wait while you wait." Do whatever you can. Here. Today. Right now.
So today, we are creating some ways you can join us in prayer and invite others to do the same. Today, I spent time on the phone with a missionary trying to make a real difference here in Costa Rica, getting educated, getting inspired, getting invited to visit and learn more. And thinking of ways you can join us. Now. From wherever you are.

Here's what I've got for today:

• Begin praying the prayer on one of the pictures below each day (I am including a specifically Catholic one and one for my non-Catholic followers and friends. This is by no means an effort to divide us, but I feel like we really need a stronger presence and stance from Catholics on this issue, to step up to the plate publicly the way many other Christian organizations have, thus the specifically Catholic option.)
• Share the picture and prayer on your Facebook page.
• Tweet the url to this post and tag @StBryce
• Pin this post on Pinterest.
• Check out the Salvando Corazones web page and like them on Facebook. I spoke with Maria, the founder this morning and she told me that prayer would be a great help right now. Begin to pray that they can get the funding to get the first licensed safe house for trafficking victims of the ground by Christmas and put 18 girls in a safe environment to recover from this horrific abuse.
• Pray that the Holy Spirit will guide us and show us how The Saint Bryce Foundation can collaborate with them in their work.

The Story of a Border Crossing

I thought you were all due for a little comic relief here, and we had a day that was pretty laughable last week. We had headed down to the Caribbean beach town of Puerto Viejo with Greg's dad who was here visiting. He wanted some time to soak up the beach and treat the kids to something nice while he was here.
While we were there, we found out the rates the tour company's were charging to bring folks over to Panama were really low right now as it the low season for tourism here. Looking at the calendar, we realized visa renewal loomed just ahead of us next month and with me having a trip to the States planned at the beginning of the month and our chapel construction under way, it was better to leave now than later. So we booked the trip to leave on Monday morning. The van would be at our hotel to pick us up at 8am.
The first fun was that all of our clothes were really gross from the weekend at the beach and needed washing. We went to the places that were advertised as laundry mats only to find they were actually women who were willing to wash out two loads of laundry for the small sum of $40. So we opted to figure it out on our own. Somehow my husband convinced the boys that standing in the shower in their bathing suits hand washing the clothes was fun. And he convinced me that these clothes would dry enough on the porch of the hotel overnight that we would be able to pack them up in the morning.

(Photos from our trip to the Jaguar Rescue Center in Puerto Viejo)

I scrounged up enough clean clothes for everyone to have something to wear the next morning while the bos worked.  The clothes got washed and hung to dry outside. Somewhere in the middle of the night one of the worst torrential down pours that anyone seems to remember began on the Caribbean coast. It rained almost 16 hours straight. The clothes outside were wetter than they had been when we hung them up. Trying to be a trooper, I gathered them in to a plastic bag and figured we could dry them when we got where we were going. I headed to the room where the clean clothes and suit cases were to get us all ready to go. Only to find it was locked.
And upon further investigation, it turned out the hotel did not have any keys for the door. At this point, we had just minutes to be ready for the bus that would arrive to take us to the border. The boys made do with whatever mish mash of dirty pajamas they were wearing and headed to the lobby to wait for the bus while the Greg and the hotel maintenance man attempted to break into the bedroom. Soon the boys returned announcing that the bus had arrived. I mentally prepared myself to have to journey to Panama in my pajamas as I strapped on my sandals and prayed Memorares to the contrary. Greg went to buy us some time with the bus driver.
Finally, after disassembling the door frame, the man was able to get into the room.  I threw the bag of wet clothes into the suit case and handed it off to Greg while I quickly changed from my pajamas into my most comfy maxi skirt and a t-shirt. The maxi skirt would prove to be a poor choice as the not-so-good, terribly rainy day wore on and the water slowly creeped its way up my cotton skirt from its edges which were all too close to the ground. I was wet from the knees down for most of the day.
Minutes later, we were in the tour bus headed toward to border town of Sixaola. We arrived without incident and exited through Costa Rica immigration with no problems. Then we proceeded toward the bridge which spans the border of Costa Rica and Panama. We were to cross it on foot, pass through Panamanian immigration, and meet the tour bus from the Panama office on the other side. So, in the rain, trailing kids and luggage behind, we stepped out onto the bridge. It is a 103 year old wooden suspension bridge which clearly  has not had much maintenance in the last 80 years or so. There is a brand new bridge being constructed just on the other side of it, but apparently there is some governmental scuffle about whose job is to finish the last portion where the two sides (the Costa Rica side and the Panama side) meet.  The old bridge has gaps between its wooden boards large enough to make a mom's heart beat hard and fast and to complete negate the convenience of luggage with wheels. The rusty grates that provided protection from the edges of the bridge had gaps of their own. We walked slow enough to keep anyone from slipping on the wet wood boards but fast enough to keep anyone from getting interested in what was over the edges of that bridge. We arrived at the other side wet and relieved.

(Photos of the bridge crossing)

The line for Panama immigration was pretty long and we stood there in the rain trying to make the best of it all. We were rewarded for that by meeting the most warm, kind Panamanian immigration officer in the office on the other side. He was so excited to see our big family headed into Panama and to find out that we were missionaries that he waived the entrance tax for all the kids.
We found our van driver, dragged our luggage down the flight of steps that led to the street below the bridge and started on our way through Panama toward the islands of Bocas del Toro, our destination. A short way into our journey, the van driver received a phone call and then turned the van around and pulled into a restaurant parking lot. He informed us that the bridge we needed to cross into the dock town of Almirante was closed at the moment, so we would stop here at the restaurant for a while to see if it would open. I assumed this had something to with the weather.
So wet and getting tired, we savored the chance to sit, eat and sip a few cokes while we waited. The driver beckoned to us that it was time to head out and we headed in to the van. He informed us that the bridge we needed to cross was being blocked by indigenous workers who were protesting not being paid for their work on the banana farms. He would take us to one side, where we cross past the blockade and meet another van that would take us the rest of the way to dock.
We arrived at the foot of the bridge to giant traffic jam that was piling up as people took one taxi to one side, crossed and met another on the other side. Just at the edge of the bridge, under a large blue tarp, peacefully stood one hundred or so protesters. It's so hard as a missionary to just keep going on with life in those moments, to not stop at the sight of such injustice and join the protest. But our kids were wet and tired and getting them to safety was our first priority. We quickly walked past the blockade and met the van on the other side.
Now three hours behind schedule, the van sped around the winding mountain roads toward the dock. This apparently was not an ideal follow up to our unexpected lunch, because just as we arrived at the dock, Brendan showered the entire inside of the van with everything he had consumed. I smiled weakly at the horrified young back packers who had narrowly escaped the shower and attempted to clean us both up with some amount of grace. This was no easy feat as the place we had arrived was a wooden dock which was drenched with rain with bathrooms at either end marked men and women, but behind both of which were just holes in the dock's wooden planks opening into the water below. I found a sink outside and managed to get us slightly cleaned up, but remember, changing clothes was not an option as everything in the suit case was now even wetter than it had been before we left. We waited around the dock avoiding the humiliating glances of our fellow travelers as we had been informed that our boat taxi had been delayed due to weather. The boat finally arrived and we loaded up our luggage and hopped in, putting the motion sick traveler on the outside end.
We crossed the canals of Almirante and headed out into the open Caribbean Sea toward the beautiful islands of Bocas del Toro. We arrived without reservations for our three night stay and with the assumption that in off season it would be easy to find a place to stay. An hour and a half later, both the boys and I were begging Greg to just take any place that had room for us. He was finally able to make a reservation at some cabins on the island just across from Bocas Town and we grabbed some dinner and headed over.
From that point forward, our border crossing trip changed course. Bocas is one of the most beautiful, interesting places I have ever been filled with some of the most interesting people I have ever met. We soaked up every lovely minute there and fell thoroughly in love with the place.

(Photos from our time in Bocas)

When it came time to head home, we crossed the border and made our way back into Costa Rica and then to home without event. This is the crazy, funny, beautiful missionary life we lead. Full of once in a lifetime experiences that make great story telling. And as I often say to my kids, "Who gets to do this? We do! Why? Because we love the Jesus who first loved us!" How awesomely amazing is that?

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.