Photo of the Week...5.28-6.4

As you walk down the concrete-cracked steps to The Hole many things pass through your mind, especially if it's your first time there.  The houses are brimmed with rusted, tin roofs and the children are missing shoes.  Stray dogs scurry from drain to drain hoping a good second-hand meal might make its way to them.  Old men sit in groups, smoking unfiltered cigarettes, drinking rum through missing teeth.  Not exactly the place you'd go to find hope, or even a friendly handshake.

Every time I make my way to the bottom of those unending stairs I can almost feel the weight of this place burdened heavy on my back.  Like, even if I came feeling light and free, I'd take on cargo just by walking this first stretch.  Fortunately, like in every good drama or iconic story, there's a turn, a fork in the road that changes the seemingly dark, presumed ending.

At the first left-turn, the view changes.  Kids that were previously sitting on the concrete bench in the alley, light up at their first glimpse of you.  Running into your arms, giving you high fives, hugging you with a force beyond their own strength...it's magical.  And I have to fight back tears almost every time, not understanding how they could love so much with receiving so little in their own worlds.

As you drag your posse of kids along with you, curious neighbors step out of their homes.  The woman dressed scantily, lots of piercings and tattoos, lots of emotional scars.  The man with half-opened eyes, perched at his doorstep, trying to sleep off the night before.  The teenager with the severely baggy pants, wearing his mask of "street cred" covering up the scared little boy behind it.  Each of them with their own hang-ups, still wishing they were a kid so they, too, could jump into someone's arms and feel loved again.

Just ahead you see the steps to the Cuerpo de Cristo church that was built next to a roaring river of trash, sewage and debris.  Hardly visible is a man sitting there with a swarm of kids around him.  As you move closer he raises his head and you see him clearly.  Gentle eyes, warm smile, good heart.  His name is Rafael.

A place like The Hole hardens people.  Some may say it's a good way to protect yourself, to not let yourself feel.  The horrible things that happen daily there would leave one in a coma if they allowed themselves to be vulnerable to it.  But where so many others have gained hard lines on their faces from years of life leaving them, Rafael exudes grace.  His face remains untainted by the remnants of despair all around him.

He's become a brother, a friend, a place of refuge for the kids who have no father figure to turn to.  He hugs and twirls and bends down low if he has something important to say.  He talks with worried mothers and lost teenagers and questioning toddlers...and to me, when I'm all fired up about another young girl in the community who's gotten pregnant.

I imagine that Rafael carries some of the same burdens the rest of the people in The Hole do but somehow he transforms it into a smile.  Not a forced one, or a fake one, but a real, genuine smile that puts people at ease, kids and adults alike.  His job is not an easy one, and some days he looks rugged with exhaustion, but he chooses joy.  He chooses grace.  He chooses kindness.  He may not have chosen this path that he is on but there is one thing that is very clear to me...

...God chose him for it.

Photo of the Week...5.21-5.28

 

My perspective was different than most everyone else.  From the front of the room I saw neutral-hued hands lifted high, the glory of God filling the place.  Four countries represented, one hundred and eighty chairs filled with people unified by international partnership.  Voices of every tone, many tongues, one language -- worship.

I believe with all my heart that God knew exactly what He was doing when He placed sound in our voice boxes, music in our souls.  He knew that for most, just words preached or hands clenched or eyes closed wouldn't be enough.  That song would bring Heaven to Earth, washing unending love and grace over His people.

I could hardly make out my own words as tears streamed from the corners of my eyes, down my reddened cheeks.  "How Great Thou Art" echoed into our ears, strengthened our cause, unified our hearts.  In that moment, as some sang in English, others in Spanish and Creole, I could feel a glimpse of the Eternal Home so many of us long for.

Some wept and some smiled, while others swayed their burdens away.  You could feel His peace, sweeping through a chilled conference room that has perhaps previously hosted weddings or business meetings.  But this night, at this hour, it was God's Temple.  A place where people gathered and were reminded of God's awesome power spanning into our troubled world.  If only for a moment, all pain, sorrow, troubles -- vanished.  If our souls could carry us, we may have lifted from the ground.

There is something indescribable about community, regardless of race, language or background.  As this broken world continues to struggle, emerge by its lonesome, we found something that night that binds and bonds.  God's ultimate redemption plan laid out for all to see through the thankful words of adoration to a Father who adores His children. 

How Great Thou Art, those words have healing power.

Photo of the Week...4/28-5/4

 

You can trace the lines on her face to the years of hardship she has endured.  Day after day, harvesting and sorting beans to sell in order to provide what little she can for her family.  In the early morning she sits below a sparcely-leaved tree, protecting herself from the already blazing sun.  It's her spot, hardly comfortable but its familiarity somehow comforting.

On every trip I've taken to Phaeton, I have wanted to take her picture.  But in Haiti, because of Voodoo, there are many adults who believe that by taking their photo you can steal their soul.  Other Haitians won't allow it because of the vast amount of "good-intentioned people" who come to Haiti, take photos of their living conditions and make promises to bring help, but then never do.  Something in me that day felt bold and I took a chance.  I'm glad I did.

There is something about her presence that completely captivated me.  Quiet and focused, yet her eyes soft and full of life.  A couple of little ones would often interrupt her diligent work by sitting on her lap and she never once seemed bothered or discontent with their continuous disruptions.

By the end of our trip she had made her way to where our group would gather at Pastor Lucner's house.  We had conjured up some good 'ol fashioned competition and were having races against each other.  She laughed heartily when we asked her to join in the fun.

There are just times in this season of my life where I am taken back by something seemingly ordinary that appears extraordinary to something deep in my soul.  And when I took the time to stop and gaze upon her aging face I saw grace, dignity and peace; all things I can only hope to aquire someday.

Photo of the Week 4/2-4/9

I was walking through The Hole with one of the short-term mission teams and as I passed by a little alleyway, I saw her.  I am rarely taken back by anything in The Hole anymore but for some reason she made me stop.  She hardly noticed me at first but I don't like to take pictures of people without their permission so I quietly greeted her in creole and asked if I could take her picture.  I snapped a shot of her and her son and then asked in Spanish how old he was.  No response.  She didn't speak Spanish.  I pointed to him and then held up a number one, then two, then three.  She shook her head and held up the number one.  One month old.

I am not sure why she struck me so.  I've seen a Haitian woman before.  I've seen a Haitian baby before.  I've even seen a Haitian woman bathing a Haitian baby before.  But she caught me unexpectedly.

One of the biggest commonalities our two cultures share is motherhood.  And I can't even tell you how much my eyes have been opened since I've become a mother myself.  And although I only stood at her doorstep for twenty seconds, I couldn't keep her out of my mind for hours after.

I wondered about her life and the things she did daily.  A simple task like bathing a newborn can be a little more challenging in a washbasin with cold water.  Her son clearly was not enjoying himself.  I thought of my own babies during bath time in a comfortable baby bath shaped like a cradle with warm water and lavender-smelling suds.  Neither of my kids ever made a peep during their baths.  In fact, I would suffice to say it may have been their favorite time of day.

I wondered if she had a husband that cared for her like mine does.  Someone who supports her dreams and encourages her in all aspects of her life.  Do they lie in bed at night talking about the funny things their other kids say or the new noise the baby is making now?  Do they go through the next days' agenda, planning out who is going to do what and where help is going to be needed? Do they even have a bed?  Or an agenda?

Does she have a mother that adores her and who sacrificed everything so that she could go to school, play sports, indulge in creativity and art?  Or a father who taught her how to shoot a perfect free-throw or who played catch in the front yard as the sun was setting on the day?  Or sisters who fought with her, like all sisters do, but when push came to shove would drop everything to be there for her?  Did she even have a mom? or a dad? or sisters?  Were they there when the Earthquake hit?  Did they make it through? Did they only come to Santiago because everything they had in Haiti was destroyed?

I know nothing about her and I have never walked a mile in her shoes -- or an inch, for that matter.  But for all I know she is happy.  Basking in the glow of being the new mom of a healthy baby boy.  Going about her day, checking things off her mental list of things to do, taking one moment at a time.  Something as simple as bathing her baby; him, exercising his voice box -- her calm and peaceful, reminded me of how many bath times I've rushed my kids through.  Sometimes raising my voice at them because they wanted to play longer than I wanted them too.  In no time at all, her little newborn will be walking and talking and in no time at all I will be sending mine off to college.  

I think it's time I stop and smell the lavender suds.

Photo of the Week...3.9-3.16

If you hop in a van and take a short ride from our neighborhood you enter a small community just on the outskirts of town.  Structured buildings and street vendors turn to cow pastures and wooden shacks. The road is chaotic with potholes and loose pieces of concrete -- a reminder of its out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere status.

When arriving at so many barrios on this island I almost always have to take a deep breath in and prepare myself for the heartache that festers in me long after I leave.  Los Perez is not one of those places.  Although the signs of poverty are everywhere, a sense of peace lingers still.  I don't know if it is the humble people that live in the community, the rickety path you have to take to enter it or the laid back personalities of the children...but whatever it is, it is good.

I never feel anxious or worried about what will greet me.  In fact, I know there is one face that I will always look forward to seeing.  I've never met anyone that smiles with their whole self like he does.  He is never short on hand shakes or hugs and he always responds to a simple "how ya doin'" with "todo uva" or our version of "just peachy."

He knows every child in his nutrition center by their first and last names and knows where each of them lives.  He always starts their mealtime ritual by teaching the kids scripture.  I have witnessed first-hand, 70-some children re-sighting bible verses that most adults wouldn't even attempt.  He excitedly points out an 11-year old girl who has memorized 34 scriptures and counting.

Pastor Nico grew up in the church and always felt a real connection to God.  He watched his own father preach from the pulpit every Sunday.  He recalls a woman in his father's church who would always entice him to come to sunday school with the promise of a piece of candy.  It was that candy that kept him coming back.  It was that candy that brought him to a place where he heard God's word.  It's because of that candy that he knew God was calling him to be a pastor.  Nico started his ministry in Los Perez with that very same type of candy.  He knew that all he would have to do was get the kids to the church and God would do the rest.

And the kids came.

Photo of the Week...2.14-2.20

I remember the smell of freshly cut grass.  I remember the feel of the stadium lights shining down on me.  I remember the emotions filling me up as I put my arms around my teammates for the last time.  Taking in each face, each moment on the field, each touch of a soccer ball I felt on my well-worn cleats. I don't remember every game I ever played.  I don't remember how many goals I scored or how many girls I kept from scoring.  I don't remember every field I played on or how many miles I traveled.  What I do remember are the people that poured into me.  The people that shaped me into the person I am today. The relationships and bonds that formed as the result of a game.  

A group of men, living in all parts of the U.S., traveled this week to the Dominican to honor a friend, a mentor and a brother who lost his battle with cancer.  I never met Tommy Carter Barnes but this week I saw his legacy lived out through the lives he poured into.  These men worked from early morning to early evening demonstrating batting stances, proper throwing technique, and teachings on waiting for the right pitch.  They hugged and high-fived and fist-bumped a group of Dominican boys eager to learn, not only to be great baseball players, but also to be Godly men of integrity, discipline and character.  This group of North Americans have committed themselves, not just to the group of young boys in our baseball academy but have also committed to our four, full-time baseball coaches as well.

For families, and especially young men in this country, good, male role models are hard to come by.  That doesn’t mean they don't exist, it’s just not the cultural norm.  But on a baseball field lined with apartment complexes and broken down buildings, four men reminded me of how important investing in others really is.

Gamaliel, Rojas, Franklin and Jose Luis have become fathers, brothers and mentors to 210 young men desperately seeking someone to believe in them.  I have seen their dedication as they walk past my house every morning around 8:30 and don't pass by again until sometime after 5:00.  They always walk by with baseball players in tow who are asking questions, playing practical jokes on each other, laughing and practicing their swing in the middle of the street.  I had the unique opportunity this week to watch these four in action.  They don’t just show up at the field and do their “job” and hurry home.  They sit with the kids, share their lives with the kids and above all, they are building lasting relationships with them that these kids might not have elsewhere.

Each of the four men have their own stories; some growing up in the church, others growing up on the wrong side of the tracks.  But the common denominators between these men are the transformations that Christ did in each of them and a group of men from the United States who have committed to pouring into their lives so that they can pour into the lives of others using baseball as a catalyst.

Redemption Through the Eyes of a Little Girl

I have trouble with the hard questions, just like anybody else.  I serve a God that many people refuse to believe in because of the evil that wreaks havoc in our world.  I've seen hurt in people's eyes I can't erase.  I've heard stories that keep me up at night.  I know how people feel when they want to believe but just can't.  

I am no different.  

I don't understand why little boys are beaten or why fathers leave their families.  I don't understand why men's obsession with sex leads to prostitution and sex slavery.  I don't understand why children go hungry and thousands die every day.  These are all things I don't understand.

But what I have come to understand over the last decade is that my God is working ever so meticulously to restore a world he created and a people he fiercely loves.  It may not be on our time table or accomplished in our agenda but he works, without growing weary and never ceasing.

Every time I am on the drive to La Mosca I mentally prepare myself for what I will enter into.  We pass through the bustling city with vegetable venders and cute clothing boutiques to a community where trash burns, naked children roam the streets and people pick through garbage for a meal.

The summer of 2012 a medical group went to La Mosca to do a clinic for the children in the nutrition center.  We saw the usual cases of coughs and colds, skin infections and respiratory issues.  But as the day was coming to a close a young boy walks in carrying his little sister.  The boy looked healthy enough, although not wearing any shoes.  I looked him over wondering if he just came in for a check up or if he had other business at the nutrition center.  

As the blonde-headed baby he was holding turned around my heart instantly hurt and I did my best to not show it on my face.  In his arms was a child that looked to be no more than a year old with sparse hair, sunken eyes and skin that was literally sloughing off.  I walked over to them and holding back tears I touched the little girls' face.  She didn't react.  Not a smile, not a wince, nothing.  Just staring blankly at me with dark eyes.

I walked them over to one of the doctors and they sat down.  The horrified look on her face said more to me than if we had exchanged words.  She listened to her heart, checked her nose and ears, looked at the swollen, red skin and the pieces that were flaking off.  The doctor's expression changed from being horrified to being angry.  Her face reddened as she said that the child was in the final stages of malnutrition.  It wouldn't be long before her organs shut down.

I held a stern face as a tear began to fall from the corner of my eye.  I translated to the brother in the gentlest way possible about his sister's condition.  He sat stoic as if I had just told him my favorite color was green.  Everything in me wanted to snatch the little girl from his tiny hands and run away with her. But I've been here, in this moment, enough times to know that me adopting every child who is mistreated is both impossible and unhelpful.

We sent for the mother, a local prostitute and mother of six, and when she arrived I burned with anger.  I wanted nothing more than to give her a piece of my mind but quickly moved my thoughts to what would be best for her daughter.  With the doctors' help I explained the fate of her daughter if there was no intervention.  The mother sat there with an emotionless expression barely looking at the little one on her lap or any of us.  She told us her daughter was almost two and a half and we all tried not to react to what seemed to be impossible.

She walked out the door carting the little girl on her hip as if she was a piece of luggage and not a fragile child.  I felt the urge to rescue her, thinking to myself that when I returned to La Mosca again I would hear news of her passing.

A few months later we visited again and again the little girl came in with her siblings, no change in her condition, but at least still alive.  This time there was another staff member with me who was just as enraged as I was and we started talking to Pastor Luis about options.  Calling the police for child abuse?  Calling social services to have her taken from the home?  Asking the mom if we could adopt her?  All of these options Pastor Luis said would cause a lot of problems in the community and especially for the church.  People would view it as the Pastor ripping families apart and sticking his nose in business that wasn't his to be concerned with.  We talked to the older siblings and told them to talk to their mom.  And that was it.  They were out the door.

Fast forward to this week.  I saw "La Mosca" on the schedule again.  My heart sank.  I mentally prepared myself for the inevitable.  It had been three months since I visited and I was sure the little girl was gone.  Standing in the nutrition center I watched all of the kids pile in, scanning the room for a tiny little thing with sparse, blonde hair.  Suddenly, I saw a familiar twelve year old boy, carrying a blond-headed baby.  Her face turned toward me, just like the first day that I saw her, but this time bright eyes and chubby cheeks greeted me.  She walked, yes walked, to her spot on the nutrition center floor and began to eat.  I looked her over, every ounce of sloughing skin was gone.  Except for a few remaining scars her skin almost glowed.  I kneeled down next to her and touched her cheek and this time, she smiled.  A proud smile, like she knew what she had done was something special.  Like she knew she was giving this girl with her big, clunky camera...hope.

I know people wonder what they could possibly do to right what is so wrong in this world.  I know people wonder how a God that is supposedly so good could sit back and watch his children suffer.  But I know, as He has taken me on this intimate road of knowing Him, that His plans are so much grander than anything we could ever imagine.  Even when we don't understand Him, He is still there working. And if a doctor hadn't decided to come on a missions trip and find a small way to right what is so wrong in this world, that little girl wouldn't be here with us today.

I believe whole-heartedly that God could have wiped away all of her infirmities on His own but He chose to use us, not for his benefit, but for ours.

The Girl With the Golden Smile

Our little friend from The Hole, Arianni, is at home recovering after surgery to "clip" the tendons on the backs of both her legs, with the hope that it would relieve the tension and allow her to eventually be able to walk more normally.

She can only lay down or sit for the next 15 days and has an appointment to remove the casts on December 11th and begin physical therapy.

And even though she was bored and in pain she, of course, still had her golden smile on...

this Hope and this Future

I used to be a very negative person.  I saw the glass half empty.  I prepared for the worst and never expected the best.  I never felt a sense of peace or contentment.  Although I still struggle with some negativity, I have rid most of my life of its presence.

I prefer to speak of possibility, hope and expectation.  My life's passion is empowering others to recognize their inner strength and to dedicate their lives to serving God with the gifts and talents He's provided them with.  We all come with negative baggage but my dreams are filled with being a part of God's redemption story in others.

Over the years I've grown tired, perhaps even angry, at the amount of Christians who preach the "you are a horrible sinner and are going to die" sermon to unbelievers, as if that would motivate someone ridden with guilt, confusion and pain, to come into the loving arms of the Christ I know.  We all know the reality; we are sinners, we are going to die, we go to hell without Christ.  But shoving that in someone's face who hasn't experienced, or even knows about the grace and mercy Christ offered us on the cross, can only leave someone feeling as if they don't deserve a love like that anyway.

Through time, God has molded me into the kind of person that extends grace and forgiveness pretty easily but lately, I feel like He has been reminding me of the reality of who I still am as a human.  I've talked in several posts that God has been sharpening my character, so painfully sometimes, that I wonder how I could ever change a certain aspect of who I am so drastically.  And it is just as true today.

As much as I loathe hearing one more pastor or warrior of the faith preach on our inherent evil, the reality of it is still truth.  If, as believers, we ever forget that at our core we are simply just sinners and think we are past the trials of the flesh, I think it is just as dangerous as living in a state of self-pity and self-loathing over our evil heritage.  Because of the state of hearts, an innocent and blameless man died a brutal death as the only atoning sacrifice to reconnect us with God.  If we ever forget that, it makes what He did for us, cheap.

A couple of weeks ago, I was feeling especially proud of myself and all that God was allowing me to be a part of.  I even went as far as to reminisce on the person I once was and what a stark contrast of that person I am today.  As I was journaling, amidst words of hope and excitement, out of nowhere I began to write these words;

"You sacrificed for me.  You died for me.  Not just a simple death.  But a brutal death.  You knew it was going to be this way and yet you did it for ME.  You saw my face in the crowd, you looked into my eyes as I scoffed at you.  As I spit in your face and called you names.  As I mocked your crown of thorns and laughed at the blood dripping down your face.  You met my eyes, in all your suffering, and whispered to me, 'I love you, child.  I'm doing this for you.'  And you'd do it again, to show me over and over how much you love me."

At the end of writing the last words, tears were streaming down my face.  It was as if my soul had forgotten the reason I am who I am today.  The reality of who I once was, and the person I still am, reminded me that everyday I can live, if only for God's grace and to extend that grace to others.

The difficult balance of being proud of the people we've become because of Christ and the reality that we were destined for an eternity of damnation should create just enough tension to keep us humble.  But in fact, somewhere along the line we cheapen the sacrifice Christ made by boasting in what good people we've become. At the same time we also cheapen the sacrifice Christ made by dwelling on the innate evil within us, canceling out the fact that through Christ we were made a new creation.

We are a new life, a new creation.  This gives us the motivation to share this Hope and this Future with others, especially those who don't feel they could ever deserve it.  But we need never to forget the sacrifice that was made on our behalf that gave us this Hope and this Future that we now possess.

"You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness." -Ephesians 4:22-24

Take Out the Trash

Yesterday, on my way to The Hole I was conversing with God and I said, "...I don't want it to just be me, drinking some coffee and chatting with friends."

I've been struggling a lot with the "next phase" of ministry in The Hole.  The last few weeks have been mostly to be there and to comfort the community, however I could, after the loss of Lepido.  But five weeks out and life seemingly is going back to normal.

I do have a tendency to always want to do something rather than just be.  Like, just being isn't good enough.

I've caught myself having this conversation with God a lot the last week or so.  Not wanting this to just be a reunion of friends.  I want ways that I can bring Jesus to people who don't know Him.  I want real conversations about real life that bring about discussions involving the Bible and what God has to say about things.  If I just wanted to drink coffee with friends I could stay in my own neighborhood.

Yesterday, as all of us "hens" were sitting around outside drinking coffee I began to notice something that I hadn't taken notice of the last couple times there.  We have had a small following of teenage boys that "hang around" while we are all outside chatting.  They hardly ever interject into our conversations and they pretend like they are not listening.   But I catch them engaged in the conversations out of the corner of my eye.

One of the boys is Carmen's 16-year old son, who they call Bunga.  He was recently laid off of work because of shortage in supply and he now has entirely too much time on his hands.  Five weeks ago, he and I barely had a relationship.  He would barely say hi to me and he acted "too cool" whenever I was around.  Something changed after his dad's death.  I don't know if it was the fact that I came to his dad's funeral or if I was just someone who consistently showed up in his life but today as he came to hang out he made sure to come hug me and ask me how I was doing.

Earlier in the afternoon, Yuleidy, was carrying two heavy buckets of trash to be dumped in the river.  Being pregnant and the fact that both her brother-in-law and her husband were sitting there while she walked past with the buckets, I felt the urge to say something.

I teased Bunga (although my words were serious), "Bunga, I need to teach you something today."  He shyly smiled, and continued sweeping the porch.  "Yuleidy, who is pregnant and younger than you, just walked by carrying the trash from your house.  Do you maybe see a problem with this?"  He continued sweeping with his back to me but every time his face turned I could see his shy grin.  "Taking the trash out should be the responsibility of the men in your house.  Yuleidy cooks and cleans and takes care of her daughter.  Don't you think she might need help with something like the trash?"  My words now caught the attention of Yuleidy's husband sitting close by.

"Bunga, you have the chance to be a good man.  To be an example to the younger boys around here that look up to you.  Do you hear what I am saying?"  A couple of the teenage girls around us all snickered and commented that Bunga doesn't listen to anyone.  I said out loud, "Bunga listens to me.  He knows that I love him.  He knows what I have to say is important."

Bunga continued sweeping.  You know when someone has a smile on their face that to everyone else it may say "I'm just letting the 'old hen' talk" but you know that the wheels are really turning?  He had that look.  And when he turned around and stopped sweeping he smiled at me.  Like, a real smile.  Not one that is just to appease the 'old hen' but one that says "I'm listening."

After I spoke to a friend today about the experience she called it a "teachable moment."  Something I initially thought was so unimportant was revealed to me to be incredibly important.  The more I thought through it and the more I rolled it over, God very clearly said to me, "Goody, no one has ever expected anything of him.  Today, you gave him expectation.  A standard that he can live by and live up to."

So as I struggled for the past week wondering what my next "move" was in The Hole I have been given anticipation and hope for more teachable moments.  For opportunities to invest and expect more than anyone else ever has from these youth.  To break chains of generational sin.  To stop cycles that seem so impossible to stop...

...except when I have the chance to teach a boy to take out the trash.

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.

the place my heart calls home

i walked down the familiar stairs that i have gone down hundreds of times before.  although this time they seemed eerily unfamiliar.  today they were crimson-stained and told of the early morning events that unfolded in my sacred place: The Hole.

i didn't make eye contact with the twenty or so people seated on the concrete staircase and i didn't let a word leave my lips, not even my normal salutations that they are accustomed to.  i could feel the salty water behind my eyelids waiting to be released and i was afraid if i did anything but walk briskly i'd be unable to stop the niagara falls.

i veered left down the alley and saw Minino and Wilfreidy sitting in their doorway, trying to process in their eight year old and six year old minds the heaviness that plagued their barrio.  i gently kissed and hugged them both, not holding on too long as to not release the gates too soon.

a hundred people lined the path, familiar and unfamiliar faces.  i may have walked past people i knew only because i was looking intently for my Carolina.  her cousin saw my lost demeanor and grabbed me by my hand and led me into her home.  my eyes took a minute to adjust to the darkness and lack of electricity but i saw her sitting there, pretending to sip some soup.

when our eyes met i knew the time had come, i couldn't hold it in any longer, and as i embraced my dear friend and stroked her hair i cried with every cell in my body, unable to contain its release.  she only whispered softly as if speaking to someone else, "mataron mi papa, goody, mataron mi papa."  i know, sweet girl, i can't believe he's gone, either.

we held each other for a few minutes, wiped away our fading mascara and held hands as we made our way through the crowd.  a place that is normally piping with energetic kids in pajamas and women drinking coffee is now silently mourning the loss of one of their own.

in the school courtyard, i hugged his brother, Juan, and we shared tears, kisses on cheeks and disbelieving head-shakes.  i found Yudy, my peace, my saving grace, and cried some more as we said, "it doesn't seem real," over and over again.  i entered the school building surprised to see a coffin.  i wasn't sure what kind of situation i was walking in on but i definitely wasn't ready to see him.  so i scanned the room quickly and found his widow, my dear Carmen.

unhelpful women bent around her, trying to force her to guzzle down soup.  i could see in her eyes as they stared blankly at the floor that the last thing she wanted to do was eat.  i stood between her and her groom and she glanced at me, initially thinking maybe i was just another well-wisher wanting a hug but when her mind came back to reality and saw that it was me, we were lost in tears and half-mutterings and shaky knees.

i sat there holding her hand for a half an hour, fully knowing that he was five feet from me, never letting my eyes get above the legs holding up his casket.  i stared at the fading candles, crooked and leaning as they dripped wax on the concrete floor.  i felt the urge to get up and fix it, make the candles straight, clean up the falling wax, but that would mean being too close to him.  i wasn't ready for that.

his boys came in and out, sometimes staying long enough to cry over their father or touch his forehead.  other people entered, whipping out their cell phones to take pictures of his face.  i thought about getting up and griping at them but i know, culturally, death photos are perfectly acceptable.  finally the room was empty except for the priest, some randoms, his widow and me.  now was as good of time as any, i have to pay my respects before i go.

i pretended to fix a broken slat on the window on the opposite side of the room.  i relit a candle that went out directly above his head.  i touched the side of his casket and brushed some dust from its edges.  and then i looked first at his hair trying to prepare myself for his face.

he looked like he was sleeping; the advantage to the viewing being only a few hours after his actual death.  no makeup, no waxy look, no fake eyelashes.  it was just Lepido, asleep.  i hadn't realized it at the time but i must have looked like i might fall or something because Yudy suddenly appeared at my side holding my elbow and putting a hand around my waist.  her touch must have yanked my subconscious out of wherever it was because i began sobbing in that moment.

it was then that i saw his fatal wound, the one that i somehow missed for the other five minutes that i had been staring at his face.  along the side of his jawline, a series of deep stitching, holding his skin unnaturally together.  i thought to myself, "he didn't have a chance."  i put myself there, at 3 a.m., wondering if i had been there would i have been any help at all.  if i had been hanging around with all of them, eating empanadas and sipping a cold drink would my presence have made a difference?  my out-of-date cpr training.  my amateur knowledge of holding pressure on a wound or putting on butterfly bandages.  no.  with a wound like that, he didn't have a chance.

most of the next couple hours were a blur.  i held his grandchildren.  i hugged his children.  i prayed with his widow.  i couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that literally a week ago he hugged and kissed me and asked when the summer teams were done.

i still can't wrap my mind around it.

i'm sure if you are reading this you are thinking Lepido and i must have been close.  sure, i've drank coffee with him.  i've talked life with him.  i've taken pictures of him and his family.  nothing that would equate to using the word "close."  i have tried and tired to think of reasons why this is affecting me so greatly and i have come up completely empty.  i haven't slept much at all since the event occurred.  i think about it when i have a free moment from sippy cups and cartoons.  i pray about it when i'm walking from my front door to my car.  i can't shake it.  i can't explain it.  i have no resolution.

i do know that The Hole holds my every cell.  my passion lies in those concrete alleys.  my compassion lies with those shoeless children.  and maybe, i can't shake this because Lepido was part of that place.  the place that i love.  the place my heart calls home.  and a little piece of my heart just might have gone with him when he left.

Photo of the Week...7/17-7/24

we'll just call this week's photo of the week, broken heart: week #2.

although i cannot share all the details of this story, just trust that it's a good thing you don't know them.  and although it would be easy for me to make this entire post about how unfair life is and how awful people are, God showed me very clearly that regardless of what humans do, He is still in control.  He will take what people intend for evil and make it good.

***

as he strolled into the clean, church building you could almost cut the tension with a knife.  people's eyes were already welling up with tears, although we were trying hard to not let him see.  he calmly joined the silent group with a tentative smile on his face.  i tried to smile, wondering how on earth he could even muster one up.

this week was for him.  and although others were there, he was the inspiration.  a deaf teenager, living in a trash dump, never learning an actual language to communicate with others.  on this island, children with deformities or disabilities are often cast aside like the daily trash.  they are not cared for.  they are seen as a hindrance.  most of the time they are taken to a government orphanage so someone else can deal with them, that's if they aren't aborted first.  but Yordy's mom loves him.  maybe not the way some judgmental hearts might want her too, but she loves him the best she can.

as spanish signing cards were waving around and new conversations formed with hands and expressions, his eyes lit up with hope.  he wasn't the only one anymore.  there were people here that wanted to give him language.  that wanted him to know that he is anything but a castaway.  that he has value and that he belongs to a kingdom that reigns above the dirty river his home sits next to.

i watched him closely, looking for the remnants of his recent horrific situation.  instead of angry or hurt eyes, he smiled so often that i was blown away by this young man still so filled with joy.  but there were moments.  when no one was looking, and just i was watching, the smile would slip away.  his eyes would look downward and his mind would wander.  remembering.  but almost as quickly as his smile left it was almost as if his heart reminded him that today was a new day, and his smile reappeared bigger and brighter than before.

i can't really explain all that those few hours taught me in a room full of people, signing a language i barely knew.  but God showed me through a deaf teenager whose future, according to this world, holds nothing but disappointment and ridicule, that joy can be found in every moment.  even amidst our worst nightmares, God has a redemption plan bigger than we could ever imagine.  and His grace extends beyond language, culture or circumstance.

Photo of the Week...7/10-7/17

i could feel it in the pit of my stomach.  the sinking feeling that God was doing something that was going to hurt.  he was going to break my heart all over again.

as our van trampled through the pitted dirt roads i could see the mound of trash burning off in the distance.  a mix of machinery and working men looked like figures in a cartoon because surely real humans wouldn't be in that sort of situation.

i closed my eyes and tried to prepare myself for what i knew was coming.  it was five years earlier that i had come here and had my heart broken for the first time.  i was hoping a repeat story wouldn't unfold.  i was quite naive.

there is something about La Mosca that brings out the worst type of christian in me.  i feel angry and bitter upon entering its fly-infested streets.  it makes me want to slap neglectful parents in the face as i stare at their lonely, unloved children.  it makes me want to curse at the owners of the garbage dump who exploit these people and trap them in a pit of poverty.  it makes me want to have a conversation, not a pretty one, with the evil one who owns these streets and holds its inhabitants captive.

its dark and it feels hopeless.

i could feel my subconscious working over time to harden my heart, to make it numb.  it knows full well that if i let myself feel this place, sink into its grief, i might not be able to pull myself out.

the medical clinic was going great.  nothing too serious to report.  a few scratches and skin infections but mostly female issues dominated the morning.  i felt like i was going to make it.  i had successfully visited La Mosca without mourning over them and curling into a fetal position in the corner of the church.  but i made a simple mistake.  i looked out the window.  i saw plates of food being passed.  i thought i would go take some pictures.

i rounded the corner to fifty kids sitting on the cement floor with plates of food in their laps.  not unusual.  i've seen nutrition centers before.  heck, half of my summer is spent in them.  but i caught her eye.  a little girl who looked like the Dominican version of my little girl.  let the breaking begin.

i scanned her with my eyes from head to toe.  hair disheveled.  scrapes on her face and back.  scabies scars from her neck to her feet.  a pair of shorts, tattered and clearly too big for her.  no shoes.  and suddenly my own blonde-headed beauty flashed before me.  this time with matted hair and calloused feet.

she didn't smile, she didn't react, she didn't play.  she just stared.  her deep brown eyes staring at the big black thing i was holding to my face.  little did she know that it was my protection.  i've shed many tears behind my lens, unknowingly to the world.  and this day was no exception.  they flowed without end, or sound, as i imagined my baby girl sitting on a cement floor, eating rice and beans, wearing her brother's shorts and with itching wounds all over her body.  bugs, literally laying eggs in her flesh and clawing their way out after they've hatched.  this little girl's reality became my reality.  she became my daughter.

pain and suffering used to be something i ran from.  trying so desperately to make "light" of something that so evidently couldn't become just a phrase for an optimistic person.  more and more God is teaching me to meet people in their grief.  hurt with them.  suffer with them.  dive into their pain as deep as they are in it.  its in that place, and only in that place, that we can truly understand what Jesus did for us.  what He asks us to continually do...share in His suffering and the suffering of His beloved.

i don't know if she understands the life that surrounds her at the ripe age of two.  nor do i know the plans He has for her.  but i know something...God keeps allowing me to ache for these little ones and the injustice of their situation.  every bit of suffering i feel for them does more and more to drive me to seek justice for those who can't seek justice for themselves.

and after all, even in what seems like the most hopeless of situations, i still got her to smile.  just maybe hope is on the horizon.

"For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ."  -2 Corinthians 1:5