Friday, March 30, 2018

Finding the Fatherless

Junior.

Junior found his father. Just last year one of our staff members came to him with a photo, an identity, a name. Junior finally had the opportunity to meet his long-lost dad for the very first time.

A whirlwind of emotions. So much pain over what never was mingled such anxious anticipation over what could be. Excitement—a long dreamt-of reunion. Fear—would Junior be disappointed in the man he would find behind the photo?

I was there. The day they met. Tears are surfacing to my eyes as I write this, just remembering the moment. A little awkward at first, to be sure. So much history. So much life lived apart. Will they be able to sift through a list of unshared-memories and reach each other’s heart?

“You look so much alike,” I remember saying to Junior’s dad as he and his wife sat across from their newfound son… a son amongst other brothers, who were now playing on the playground beside us. Since coming to know Jesus a few years prior, Junior's father had begun to turn his life around. Though such a hope-filled testimony, I wondered if Junior was mourning in this moment as he watched his siblings laughing under the care of their dad... vicariously experiencing a life he never had.

“You have an incredible son,” I encouraged Junior’s regret-filled father as we looked at the boy-now-young-man seated before us. “We are so proud of him.”

Junior. The same Junior who is now seated with us in the ‘adult car’ one year later.

As we drive back to the hotel, our project's Honduran director shares part of his own story, “I never had a father in my life, so I have had to raise my kids without having that example.”

Without the example of an earthly father, that is. But this once fatherless man before us does have an example, he knows the example all examples are after: the Father.

“I have learned so much about God through being a father. The love I have for my kids? I just, wow…" the father gushes as he maneuvers the steering wheel. "You can’t explain that kind of love. The love the Father has for his children.”


------------------------


Later that day, I see one of our current Prodigal-sons wading around in the pool when it is time to leave again for the beach. I plan on passing by him, but I sense the Lord’s prompting to draw near. So I do.

“Are you looking for something?” I ask, noticing that his eyes are searching the pool floor.

“Junior’s watch,” he responds without lifting his gaze.

Oh, poor Junior. His cell phone also got its own little baptism that day. This kid can’t catch a break.

I start circling the edge and peer into the murky water. All I find are leaves.

The Lord prompts my heart to pray… with our Prodigal. Uncomfortable, I attempt shoving out the thought. God-stuff can be a runaway trigger for this kid. He doesn’t want anything to do with it. But the prompting resurfaces, so with just enough Spirit-filled bravery I say, “Let’s pray.”

Too nervous to see how he’ll respond to my 'holier-than-thou' suggestion, I jump right in, “Father, help us to find this watch, just like you have found us.”

Prodigal boy has stopped looking. He’s not so sure he wants to find the watch anymore. Or maybe, like me, he is afraid that the Lord won’t answer this prayer... confirming his suspicion that God isn’t with us after all. I've found that sometimes it is easier not to pray for things… that way it doesn’t give God an opportunity to fail us. But since I'm pretty sure He’s the one who prompted me to ask, I have just enough hope that He’ll come through.

“Go on, look,” I sound more confident than I feel. He hesitates. “Go to the middle,” I say. “Keep looking.”

He dives in, and comes up… without a watch. A few more dives. Still no watch. Come on, God, show this boy that you love him. Show him that you hear us. Show him that you’ve found him.

All of a sudden I see Junior rush onto the scene along with another boy, one who is currently playing the role of cranky skeptic in our motley crew. Junior puts on the goggles he just retrieved from his cabin and dives in with Skeptic and Prodigal. Still no watch.

I make one more circle along the edge… and stop. I see something black. It’s not a leaf.

“Right there,” I point.

Prodigal rushes forward, dives in, and bursts out of the water… with the watch.

Esoooo!” I cheer, then reach out and fist-pump the resurfaced Prodigal. “The ones who prayed!”

“Huh?” Skeptic is confused by our exchange.

“Kelsey prayed,” Prodigal shrugs.

We prayed,” I say.

Junior kisses his fingers and points them up to the sky, “GRACIAS, BUEN PADRE!”

“Pray for me!” Skeptic inserts, forgetting to uphold his doubtful demeanor. “I lost my sock!”

I smile and roll my eyes before walking away. Gracias, buen Padre. Gracias.


------------------------


The next morning I see our project director walking in my direction. He stops in front of me. “Junior’s dad had an accident this morning,” he tells me with a grim gaze. “He passed away.”

Oh, Junior…

A year ago, you met your father… Today, you will hear he has been taken away…

My sadness is comforted by the clear demonstration of the Lord’s hand on Junior throughout this trip. Covering Junior, guiding Junior. I think of the watch… and the phone… Gracias, buen Padre… I know it is no accident that Junior has been the boy accompanying us in the adult car, saturated in such rich conversation and reminders of our heavenly Father’s love. I know the Lord is here. That doesn’t erase the pain, but it does remind me that He is with us in it. That whether Junior knows it now or not, He is with him… in every moment.

All of us in ‘the adult car’ gather up our things, and somberly take our seats. Our little group is leaving our beach adventure early in order to arrive in time for the burial.

“Do you have your phone?” our leader asks before we pull out.

“It’s in the back,” Junior answers. His wet phone is buried in a bag of dry sand.

After a length of silence, I lean forward and ask the tear-glazed young man seated in front of me, “Why didn’t you just throw the phone away when it got wet?”

His head snaps towards me. What kind of a question is that?!

“Why not just throw it away?” I repeat.

Junior mumbles something I can barely hear, but I catch the drift: he believes it will work again.

“We don’t throw away what we value,” I affirm. “It’s worth it to wait… for it to come back to life again.”

I give a soft squeeze to his shoulder and sink back in my sit. We pass the next moments in silence.

Lighthearted conversation begins to surface. In all the change, I am thankful that this car and its occupants have been a constant for us amidst the chaos. Laughing over Marcos’ fixation with marshmallows, running out on the side of the road when caught in heavy traffic, talking about our favorite movies—all of this feels so normal and oddly refreshing.

And then we pull in... to a house packed with people—known to Junior's dad, but unknown to him. Gathered outside, a large group of family and friends from his church listen to a well-known story: Jesus raising Lazarus.

“That’s his son,”
I hear an old woman whisper beside us as we walk deeper into the house, where we are presented with an open-faced casket. No fancy makeup in Honduras, just raw, unadulterated death. Junior nods and walks back out with a firm, resolved gaze after glimpsing his father’s now life-less face. Since everyone has been waiting for us to arrive, the crowd now loads the casket in the back of a truck. We all get in our cars and follow behind.

I see someone on a bicycle beside us. I think about what it must be like to be one of the tires. Always going around the same axel, again and again and again… Never feeling like you are getting anywhere. Just endless circles. And yet… the bicycle is moving. The whole time. The bicycle is going somewhere. The bicycle has a rider.

And now here I am, at another funeral. Another not-always-genuinely weepy crowd. Another pile of dirt being thrown on someone’s death box. Another blow to my brother’s already-broken heart. And I already know, this will happen again.

They say history repeats itself. I agree. But what if these moments, these stories, this seemingly tragic circle of life were more like tires on a bicycle. Though it may not seem like it to us, we really are going somewhere. We have a Driver.

“Let’s go,” Junior tells us after we've handed out the last bag of water to the hot and thirsty crowd. The other female staff member and I follow behind as we watch the father-less father of our project walk silently in stride with our Father’s son. Together.

Though the tires keep circling, I have hope for where the bicycle is going. The Driver, our Good Father, is bringing us Home.



The LORD watches over the sojourners; he upholds the widow and the fatherless...”
Psalm 146:9
(The very verse from my Psalm of the day that I 'happened' to be meditating on right before I received the news about Junior's dad)   

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Diving In


My first night back at Micah also happened to be the first night of our newest boy: Marcos.

Sometimes sweet, often whiney. Sometimes giggly, often murmury. Sometimes smiley, often frowny. Marcos. This eleven-year old kid—fresh off the streets, now in our home. Kicked out by his mother, received by our Father. Marcos.

The initial days begin like a predictable routine. On his first full day with the Micah Project, Marcos steps out of our van with a grimace, wrinkled nose, and smelly attitude.

I attempt conversation, “Did you like the Villa Olympica?” (Where the boys go for their various sports practices).

“No,” he snorts and storms off.

I don’t even need to ask what triggers him—part of the newbie procedure: showing him the pool. Though swimming is something these kids enjoy, learning how to is not. Patience isn’t exactly something that comes naturally to a parentless kid. Marcos, like the others, has been used to running his own life. Nevertheless, every Micah boy needs to take swimming lessons before pursuing another sport. I. E. Marcos doesn’t have a choice. Hence, the tantrum. If ever we say to a street kid that he needs to do one thing, he automatically thinks we are withholding the better option. In this case, we are, in fact, holding out for something better: the ocean. Deeply fun yet ferociously dangerous (if you don’t know how to swim, that is).

This week, we are going to the ocean. Our annual Semana Santa beach trip—a Honduran tradition to celebrate Easter by getting sloshed on the beaches. We skip the sloshed part while still honoring the cultural tradition to hit the waves (before the masses arrive) and leaving plenty of room to celebrate the heart of the holiday.

Sticky with sweat from our sardine-packed van ride, we unload at our first destination: our hotel. Thankfully the heat draws our boys to the pool as opposed to the free wifi (an Easter miracle). The older boys immediately practice various unsafe dives, flips, and flops into a not-deep-enough-for-this-activity pool (according to my motherly American mindset, that is).

Roger, one of our veteran caregivers, notices Marcos in a kiddy pool far from all the action.

“Come on in here with us,” Roger motions over our curious onlooker.

“You can touch here,” I affirm. “And we’ll be with you.”

“No,” Marcos shakes his head; he is stubbornly decided. Although we could easily prove he has nothing to fear, logic never wins an argument with this kid.

Meanwhile, fourteen-going-on-eight year-old Noe, who is always up for play and adventure, calls for my attention. With Marcos’ entrance to the project, Noe is no longer the youngest—a role he misses dearly anytime it is taken away from him.

Jugamos landa!” Noe eagerly pulls me away from the newbie to play a round of tag. Absolutely! Laughing, tagging, dunking, chasing, Noe and I immerse ourselves in careless play.

Slowly, slowly, curiously, curiously, Marcos inches his way into the pool. And yet, even though he has gotten his feet wet, he still rigidly grips the edge.

Suddenly, something greater than our two person water-dance catches Noe’s eye. The rest of the boys are huddled in the middle of the pool with their not-so-mom-cautious leader Roger giving them their eagerly awaited battle orders. After a grand countdown the boys know what to do—the youngsters are lifted up on the shoulders of the elders, and together all are chucked backwards into a flying group headdive. Clumsy choreography paired with a powerful soundtrack: laughter. Noe quickly ditches our round of tag to join the Cirque de Street-punks (whom I love and adore, of course).

Marcos watches. His hard expression changes. His hand still clutches the edge of the pool, but loosely. I recognize the longing look in his eyes: he wants to join.

Noe-less, I wade over to the boy who no longer wants to be an outsider.

“This is why we have the boys take swimming lessons,” I smile—explaining, not condemning. “So we can do things like this. One day you’ll know how to swim, too.”

He nods, his attention still drawn into the huddle of play. I notice my opportunity.

¿Quiere juntar?” I ask if he wants to join. Though wordless, his response is affirmative.

Agarre mi brazo,” I extend my arm for Marcos to grab, which he does, and pull him over to the group relajo (where, even if he let go, he would still be able to touch).

As if someone had just performed a cannon ball in his heart, joy splashes through Marcos’ once-dead attitude and bursts through his now-sparkling eyes. He is laughing.

Just a splash, however. Once the play settles down, his attitude resurfaces.

When the time comes to leave our hotel and head to the beach, we encounter one small yet predictable problem: no Marcos. One of our leaders has been called to go retrieve him… We wait… still no Marcos. I climb up the hill and head for the cabins, from which I hear a multitude of voices all talking to… you guessed it: Marcos.

He refuses to join.

I sit on the steps before walking through the door. Please, Lord, give us wisdom. Give me wisdom in what to do.

Not sure if I will be adding help or harm, I enter anyway. Marcos is sitting like a dead fish on the couch, pouting. The boys are angry and annoyed as they irritatedly attempt to explain how much ‘fun’ the beach will be. When explanations don’t work, they pick up his arms—which flop like dead weight—and tug.

I remember the pool.

Vayanse, chicos,” I firmly instruct all the boys to leave. Marcos is not about to be coerced. He wants to go where the group goes. If the group gathers around him, he gets what he thinks he wants: their attention… minus the fun.

A la fuerza—no,” I tell them not to force him. The other boys look at me dumbfounded and continue their aggravated attempt to persuade him. I repeat the command to leave us alone. They see that I am serious and leave, reluctantly.

I can tell that Marcos is already drawn outside—where the group is. But in his pride he has to keep up his stubborn refusal—how can he get what he wants and still win?

His internal debate has instantly given new leverage to another lovely female staff member who has been attempting to utilize her mommy-coaxing skills. “If you want to stay, let’s go down to the vans and ask permission,” she suggests.

Marcos agrees. He gets to go find the group as well as keep up his appearance that he is winning the battle (at least somewhat).

I draw near to Marcos as he drags his feet out the door (he at least least has to look like he doesn’t want to come).

“We aren’t going to force you to have fun,” I say. “It’s more like… an invitation.”

Marcos nods and starts running ahead of us. He sees the other boys, takes one of their lime-green plastic sunglasses, puts them on, and hops in the back of the ‘adult car.’

I slide into the seat behind Junior, one of our older boys who had been in the huddle of irritated convincers.

“How did you get him to come?” Junior asks, even more dumbfounded than when I had instructed the boys to leave us alone.

I lean in and say with a hushed tone, “Remember the pool when Marcos was at the edge?”

Junior nods.

“Convincing him didn’t work," I remind him. "He had to see the group having fun, and then he wanted to join in on his own.”

Junior raises his eyebrows and nods—I’ve gained his respect.

“Oh, and—” I lean in further and whisper, “The real key is… I prayed for wisdom.”

I grin, so does Junior. Gotta give credit where credit is due.


You know, sometimes I wonder if we spend too much time frustratedly focused on everyone at the edge of the pool. Convincing, coercing, dragging… "Let us do good to everyone, and especially to those who are of the household of faith,” Paul advises us. Maybe the best way to love those on the outside is to love well on the inside—then those on the edge will be drawn in, too. That way no one is left behind. The invitation is open, so let’s live the kind of life that others want to be invited into: a life of love.


“Father, I desire that they also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory that you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world. O righteous Father, even though the world does not know you, I know you, and these know that you have sent me.
 I made known to them your name, and I will continue to make it known, that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.”
—Jesus’ prayer over us, the night before he was led to the cross (John 17:24-26)

Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Sailing on to Forever

One of the greatest temptations of my heart is to start meditating on my own usefulness. I want the power of God to ignite my life. I want to be a finely-tuned, stunningly-played instrument in his grand orchestra. I want to become more and more like Jesus—my God—but never do I want to fall into the trap of thinking that I am God. Without His life-giving power I am dead. Without His skilled hand and mighty blow, I am a dusty hunk of metal. Without Him—the great I Am—I am not even an I. My very existence is owing to Him.

I want to be useful; this desire is good. But how do I hold the tension of walking in the good works the Lord has prepared in advance for me to do and yet not wallowing in the praise that follows them? A sinking ship overladen by the glory man gives--too great a weight for me to hold. Lord, take all the heavy praise I have robbed from you and blow your wind in my sails. Set me free to soar in your sea of grace.

Oh how I long to sail in this sea of grace, his ocean of love—to follow Him wherever he may lead. And yet, so often when I see his hand in a place, I remain there that I may experience his touch once more. But his hand moves... will I?

Stepping back into Micah, it is hard not to attach myself once again to this place. The Lord called me to surrender my life here with open hands, and I believe that I have. But the longer that I remain, the more my fingers start to clasp. Following the warm reception and praise I receive for my return, I tighten my grip, beginning to calculate my own perceived purpose and strategically mapping out my own journey. 
Believing the lie that I am a better author of my own story than the One who wrote me into His. Afraid that if I let the Lord lead, he is just going to ditch me when he is done with me. Afraid that I will lose the love the Lord has already proven is forever in his hands. But I know that if I want to hold onto water, that I ought not to clench my fists. If I want water I know I should cup my hands or, better yet, to jump into an ocean. So why do I consistently and desperately try to lay hold of a few drops in a bucket rather than taking the plunge?

Because each drop matters to me.

But too often I forget that each drop matters to the Lord, too—even more than to me—and I need to trust Him with each and every one. With each and every life, and with each and every moment. Not afraid to lose a single one—as I remember that each is an added pearl to long string of grace that has no end.

That said, dear friends and family, I don’t know where I will be in a few months. I don’t know where I will be in a few years. I don’t even know how many days remain for me on this earth. But I do know one thing: the Lord’s love has no end. And his mercy will keep me in his Hand all the way until the end. An end which is just the beginning of forever.

A Cup of Water

For truly, I say to you, whoever gives you a cup of water to drink because you belong to Christ will by no means lose his reward. Mark 9:41 ...