Fresh Coat of Paint

I am going to balance my last post of no photos with a post with A LOT of photos!!!

Last week we painted Carmen's house.  Carmen is a friend who's husband was murdered almost a month ago in The Hole.  While chatting over coffee one day she mentioned that every time she walks by or sits down on her front porch the memory of Lepido's death flashes in her mind.  She felt like she had to live it over and over again.

I am naturally a fixer.  I am naturally a creative thinker and if there is one thing I have learned in my life it's that a fresh coat of paint is a good way to start new.

I am not suggesting that painting Carmen's house would take it all away and life would go on normally and roses would bud around every corner.  But there is something to be said about beautiful change.  About recognizing grief, finding a way to help you cope and looking toward what your "new normal" can be. And even though paint doesn't bring a husband back, the look on a wife's face when her home has a little facelift sure makes me think we could change a whole lot of yuck in this world with a simple can of paint.

Pastor Rafael did A LOT of painting...couldn't have completed it without him...

    

This porch is where Lepido was murdered...I was on a mission, this was the space I wanted to change the most...

Carmen painted all of the details like the window and door frames

Even Carmen's mom, Emilia, joined in the action!

And Carmen's granddaughter, Isileidy, too!

And my little buddy, Alexander!  Remember his older brother Wilson?

Pour Out

I am always very hesitant to post anything without a photo.  I feel like without a photo to go along with what I have to say it's just not as thought-provoking.  But today I don't have a photo.  I didn't even take my camera out.  But I still feel like God speaks through words and not just pictures.  So I will write even though I have nothing to draw you in first.

*             *             *

The ladies and I have been planning for weeks to do our next outreach project.  One of the ladies suggested we paint the nails of some of the elderly women who are somewhat "shut in" their homes.  I thought it was a great idea so today was the day.

I showed up to the Hole and two of the women were still working and not sure when they'd be home and several of the other women were cooking and couldn't come along.  So it was just me and Yudy.

We set out to find our first "viejita" and my friend, Ani, suggested her mom.  So Yudy sat down and meticulously painted her toes and then her fingers.  We handed her a verse I had written out on pretty scrapbook paper and we went on our way.

The next woman's house we stopped at had just gotten her nails done and didn't want them repainted.  "Maybe another time," she said.  We prayed for her and her son that was in prison, handed her a pretty printed verse and moved on to the next house.

We stopped at my friend, Elisabeth's house and asked if her Mom was around.  She was down with a cold and didn't want to leave her room.

I could feel disappointment creeping in.  I could feel myself saying, "But God...we are doing this in your name, why can't we just have some women that need their nails painted?"  As we walked around the barrio I was talking to myself in my head thinking that I didn't even have any spectacular photos to post or "God moments" to speak of on our blog.  (I know, it disgusts me as I write it)

We were already into our "quest" an hour and only one set of nails painted so we walked a little ways to another elderly woman's house.  I was hoping with all my might that she wanted painted nails and that there was sufficient available light for some stellar photo-taking.  She was sick and didn't want to smell the odor of nail polish and gracefully declined.  So I dutifully prayed for her that she would get well and that God would be present in her current illness, all the while speaking loudly in my head the disappointment I felt about the day.  I just wanted to go and sit down, drink some coffee and chat with my friends before I went home.

I knew the next house over, the mom of one of the girls in my class was not doing very well.  About a month prior she had a portion of her intestines removed and it was causing her some grief.  Yudy and I walked over there to find Rosa Angelica's mom laying on the couch, crying out in pain with her grandmother holding her hands; tears streaming down her face.

A month earlier I had prayed for her, just a day after her surgery, that she would heal well.  In that month she hadn't had a bowel movement or been able to eat anything without vomiting.  She was frail and thin with an extended belly.

I leaned over her and placed my hand on her surgery scar while Yudy prayed.  I could hear the "Amen" in the background of my mind but felt the urge to pray on.  I whispered to my God and pleaded with Him for her suffering.  Her children were all around me with concerned looks on their faces.  I continued, asking the Holy Spirit to fill the room and asked that God would be present with us at this time of need.  I honestly don't know what I was expecting to happen, I just didn't feel like I should stop praying for whatever it was.

As I lifted my head, she groaned in pain.  It was then that I realized that for the 5-7 minutes that I was praying she was silent.  Painless.  But the pain returned and I just knew this wasn't the kind of thing that would just go away.  I suggested we take her to the hospital.

After a bit of banter and a bit of arguing we convinced her to go.  I still had my bad attitude on my shoulder, wanting to stay in The Hole a little longer and drink coffee with my friends.  But God gently reminded me that He had different plans.

We loaded up in my jeep, her and three family members, and headed for her doctor.  I could feel a little cloud of guilt hovering over my head.  We arrived in about 20 minutes and as each person got out of the car they thanked me and I told them that I was "at their service," a phrase that is used here to basically say "it's nothing, I'm here if you need me."

As the car door closed I was absolutely disgusted with myself.  God probably had the plan for me to be there for Ana Patria from the beginning.  He wanted to invite me into an opportunity to serve someone in His name.  And as far as she was concerned, I did that.  But I knew in my head that I was still such a child when it came to spiritual maturity.  That I can still do so many things right as a follower of Christ and still be so selfish when it comes to how I want to do ministry.

As harsh as I was being on myself God whispered two words to me to remind me that I am still a work in progress: "Pour Out."

Pour out your life for others.

Pour out the love I lavish on you, onto others.

Pour out your expectations.

Pour out your plans.

Pour out your guilt and your disgust in yourself.

God has been on a very clear mission to sharpen my character this year.  To mold me to be more like Him.  And I have been struggling for the past month with pride.  I've never considered myself to be a prideful person but I am learning that pride comes in many different forms.  I may not struggle with the outward pride that everyone sees -- where you boast, and talk about how amazing you are and put others down because of your awesomeness.  But what I have been struggling with has been sneaky, and ugly, and it has been quietly slipping into my heart.  The kind of pride that fakes humility.  The kind of pride that fishes for compliments.  The kind of pride that seeks recognition.  The kind of pride that repulses me about others, has slowly crept into me.

In the gentle refinement that only my Maker is capable of, I was reminded that just because I do things in the name of Jesus doesn't mean that He is always my motivation.  And He needs to be.  Bringing people to Him needs to be my motivation.  Pointing people to the cross needs to be my motivation.  Taking the spotlight off of myself needs to be my motivation.

A life Poured Out needs to be my end result.

god said bring nail polish

before i left for The Hole i felt God say, "bring nail polish."
i thought, "seriously?"
"yes, i'm serious."
so i did.

what unfolded was one of my most favorite days i have ever had in The Hole that completely revolved around the fact that i had brought nail polish.  one by one, women gathered, curious as to what we were doing.  one by one, women sat down picking through, deciding what color they should use.  i looked around at four generations of women; painting each other's nails, laughing, chatting like hens and chicks and i couldn't help but feel that quiet pass of peace that only happens every so often.  that moment when all is right in the world and not a thing could taint it.  when god, this earth, his people and life collide in just the right way that you have a taste of what it must have been like in the garden of eden before darkness entered the world.  and as quickly as it comes and as short as it stays it makes you long for the next moment like that to come again.

we talked about coffee, we drank coffee and made even more coffee.  we talked about painting the step we were sitting on because carmen can't look at it without remembering that horrible night.  we talked about the community and what it's going to take to change a place like that.  and we talked about babies and breastfeeding and turning ninety-five.

i felt for the very first time in six years that i wasn't just a visitor in The Hole.  that i was adopted, somehow, into this place that invited me to hear the deep hurts and joyful triumphs of everyday living.  somehow, i have been given the privilege to enter into this sacred barrio and feel like i was sitting on my own front step.

all because i brought some nail polish.