Flickers of Light

     "If your farts could smell like anything, what would you want them to smell like?" I ask our youngest room of boys a playful question before bedtime, attempting to lighten the heavy tension of the day.
     "Shit," our fourteen-year old firecracker responds with a hard look in his eye. "Because that's how I feel right now."
      After letting his sharp words land, I pointedly reply with a firm tone, "Listen to me: none of you is shit. You hear me? None of you."
      Firecracker Boy snaps his head in my direction, finally acknowledging my presence with a newfound awe in his voice, "Did you all hear Kelsey!?"
     These boys mistakenly believe that I can't possibly be 'a dirty-rotten sinner like they are'--solely because they've never heard me swear (literally). And although I will never intentionally sin to try and prove my equal-fallenness to them, I have no problem using what they deem as a 'bad word' to get across a good message. To rewrite the lie they keep believing: that they're trash. That they're irredeemable. That they are defined by the darkness they find when they look inside themselves. That they are beyond the reaches of the light of our Lord's grace... Because that's just not true. Even when all evidence points against it. Because no matter how dark the darkness, I believe in the power of the light.

     If you were to buy a box of lightbulbs, would you consider them worthless just because you've never actually seen them light up before? No. You just know that they aren't plugged in yet. Even though they currently appear to be worthless hunk of glass and plastic when trapped behind that flimsy cardboard box, if you know what they are, then you also know what they are capable of and what their purpose is. They just need to be plugged into the source of light. And then... they shine.

     "I'm not an honest person," Prodigal Boy tells me with a hard look in his eye. We are currently defining various human 'values' in my one-on-one student's Civics class. Sincerity, Solidarity, Integrity... I almost skipped over this material, finding it too basic and cheesy, but it has surpisingly opened up good conversation.
     "Why's that?" I ask gently.
     "I'd rather be alone. I don't want anyone to bother me. Everyone lies to me, so why should I be honest with them? Besides, if you let someone in, they're just taken from you anyway."
     I nod understandingly. Prodigal Boy's older brother recently passed away. Not to mention a history of loss and pain. Rejection from an an abusive, now-in-jail father, a mother who abandoned him, a friend killed by the gangs...
     "I can see how you feel that way," I say. "But if we shut ourselves off to the pain, we shut ourselves off to love, too."
     Prodigal Boy looks at me, absorbing my words but not sure yet what to think.
     "People are going to hurt us and we are going to hurt them," I continue. "That's why it's so important to me to look to Jesus. We can always trust him--he is always honest and his love will never fail. And when my trust is in him that frees me up to open myself up to others. I know that other people will hurt me and lie to me, but I also know that we all want someone to know who we are. And how will anyone ever know who we are if we aren't honest or if we keep closing ourselves off? Someone needs to break the cycle. That's why Jesus came. He knows us and he showed us that he loves us and that we can trust him. And when we look to him, we can start to be a part of the change. Then you can be the friend to someone else that you have always wanted someone else to be for you."
     Prodigal Boy continues to drink in my words. Will he come out of hiding? Will he look to the light? Will he let love in?

    In many ways, I think we all start out like lightbulbs in a box. Wonderful creations intended to fill dark places with light. Just because we haven't plugged in yet doesn't negate our good design nor our intended purpose. We need the true light, of course--we aren't anything without it. But with the light? Oh, how beautiful that we, creations so fragile and small, get to carry something so much more glorious than ourselves.
     However, because of the world we live in--a world seeking self-glory and never seeming to find enough--we keep trying to find our identity by looking to ourselves. Our heap of glass and plastic... but that type of who-am-I search will never work. We will only end up defining ourselves by the darkness, rather than by the Lord's never-failing light. We need to plug in to the truth.

     As I am about to start Bible study with a few of the neighborhood girls, Firecracker Boy stomps into my what once was a clean cabin. He flips his rain-soaked hair and plops his wet body as close to the ladies as possible. The girls beg me to let he and his other dripping companion join us. I let them.
     After allowing some time for flirty banter and popcorn tossing (with plenty of eyerolls and "No... No..."s on my part), I finally sit them down for a little time in the Word. John 10. Just the first few verses. Jesus--the good shepherd--knows his sheep, calls them by name, and leads them out. His sheep know his voice and follow him. Jesus says that the thief comes only to steal, kill, and destroy, but he came that we may have life. Abundant life.
     The kids are far more interested in each other than the Bible passage (not surprising). Even so, I continue. I tell them that their are a lot of voices in this world. Around us, inside of us.
     "So how do we know which voice is the Lord's?" I ask. No response... they're still looking to each other. I give specifics.
     "The voice that tells you that you trash," I say. All of a sudden the kids are silent. They look at me. Waiting. "That voice is not the Lord's."
     "The voice that tells you that you will never amount to anything in this life," I say. The kids are still. "That voice is not the Lord's."
     "The voice that tells you that you need a boyfriend or a girlfriend to finally be happy," I say. "That voice is not the Lord's."
      I continue with this list of lies, and the kids continue to stare at me as if I've peered into their heart. This is the voice they are hearing, and living by. This voice is not the Lord's.
     "The voice that tells you that you are worthless," I repeat. "That voice is NOT the Lord's!"
     I can't help but notice the doe-eyed stares, filled with both fear and longing, that are gazing back at me. I want them to know which voice is the Lord's. The voice who came to bring life.
     "That's why I read the Bible," I say. "These words are true. God proved we could trust his voice--he would make a promise, and keep it. He would make a promise, and keep it. Make a promise, and keep it. And so we can know what he says about us is true. And he loves us."
     Oh, if they would only believe it...

     Plugging into the truth, we finally begin to shine. But on this end of eternity, it feels like we are caught in the flicker on the way to being turned on. You know the moment I'm talking about right? When flips on an old light and it buzzes a bit, going on and off a few times times before it finally kicks in? Everything before Jesus finally comes feels a little bit like that. Even if we've finally plugged into the truth, there's a lot of lies to fight. Wrong voices. Trapping us in darkness. Causing us to flicker as we learn how to live in the light. A light that the enemy would love to steal from us--so he points to the flickering darkness and attempts to convince us that the light in us and others is burning out. That the flicker shows us that the light will end... but that's not the truth. The darkness doesn't define us, the light does. And if we know the truth, we know that the Lord's light never fails. He promises to finish the good work he started in us. And when he comes back again, the light will never end. He will shine forever, and as we look to him, forever, so will we.
   
    As I finish writing this, one of the youngest boys in our project, who has been watching a movie with his cousin in my cabin, uses up his final warning with some choice words and an inappropriate gesture. He refuses to leave, but I wait--telling him that I accept him but not those words in this cabin.  Meanwhile we can play outside if he'd like, and as for this cabin he can come back tomorrow. I hear a whole lot more words when I say this... But I know those words aren't true. And so I wait. He punches my arm as he finally stomps out the door, which I close behind me... Hoping that one day, in his heart, the light will finally turn on.

     

Rash Decisions

     I've often found that it takes a fall before learning how to stand. But that fall doesn't always have to be our own for us to learn which road not to take. Hence, this blog entry. I'm going to let you in on my own foolish fall, hoping that you won't go down the same road and take the path of wisdom, instead. The first time.


     As Jhon and I walk up the narrow stairwell on the way to his drum-lesson, I notice the multiple facebook chats he keeps flipping between. All girls. Surprise, surprise.
     "Jhon..." I interrupt his 'flow.'
     "Mmhmm," he responds (just to appease me--his attention is still fixed on his cell phone screen).
     "When a man goes out fishing, are there different sorts of lures depending on what he is trying to catch?"
     "Yeah..." he glances towards me--I've started to get his attention.  Jhon's people, the Garifuna, often live on the Honduran beaches and earn their livelihood as fishermen. Tapping into his roots, Jhon tells me about a few kinds of fish and what is used to trap them.
     "Okay, so what does that mean for girls?" I ask. "What kind of girl do you want to catch?"
     He looks at me dumbfounded. I'm pretty sure any catch would do just fine for him. Any girl, every girl--whichever one will take the bait. That's not the kind of girl I want for him.
     "Jhon, the kind of girl who is using her body as bait is not the kind of girl I want for you," I say. "I want a girl who will honor you and encourage you to be the man God has called you to be. And that kind of girl will not use her body to bait you. Got it?"

     I want to be this type of girl, too. The kind of girl who honors men, who encourages them to be who God has made them to be. The kind of girl who keeps her eyes on Jesus and waits on him with patience. I don't want to be the girl who uses worldly means to trap what she wants--only to lead others to their downfall. So you'd think I would have taken my own advice, but I didn't. I fell... just a little. But because the Lord disciplines those he loves, he didn't let me get away with even "just a little." He had to go and remind me what truly matters: the heart.
   
     Enter: Boy. Exit: Wisdom.

     As I am on a prayer walk of all things, suddenly my thoughts started to drift, and with those thoughts, a glance. A simple glance. Towards a tree. Now, this particular tree--a lime tree--I have passed by before and even unintentionally picked off one of its leaves. Insodoing, I noticed: wow, this leaf sure smells nice! And so, I rubbed just a bit on my wrist to enjoy its citrusy scent. Not a lasting scent, by any means, just a slightly lingering reminder of God's beautiful creation. Simple, innocent. Not today, though. Today, I have a motive. A selfish one. Boy... I want that leaf. I want to cover up the lingering sweat I keep accumulating from all my soccer play with these kiddos. I want to smell good. Somewhere, deep in my subconscious, I'm looking to make a catch. And I'm greedy for bait. And so, I grab not one but a handful of those yummy leaves. Ripping into them, I let their oil seep out and smother them all over my wrists and neck. Ridiculous, I know, but remember: Wisdom has left the upstairs control room.

     Enter: a visual rose garden. Exit: the pretty scent--none of it has remained.

Yup, sure enough up my arm I have begun to form a giant, painful, blistery, rose-colored rash. Well this is lovely. Not only has my bait fallen off the hook, but I'm pretty sure I've just added some strong repellant. Oops...
     Fortunately, the Lord disciplines those he loves, and his object lesson on this recently humbled daughter heart has not been wasted: "Charm is deceptive, and beauty does not last, but a woman who fears the LORD will be greatly praised" (Prov 31:30). I'm convicted: I've started to rely on physical beauty for bait...
     Now, there's nothing wrong with smelling nice and taking care of physical appearance, but what is my motivation? Am I trying to win someone over with a hook that won't hold? Or am I truly seeking to honor the Lord from a pure heart--a beautiful heart that flourishes under his faithful, gentle, steady love? That's the kind of girl I want to be. That's the kind of heart that I want to have--and if the Lord ever wants to open someone's eyes enough to see that heart, well, may the fragrance of Christ be what draws him to me. Not a lime leaf.
     Continually fighting to keep up looks, charm, wit, and smells is a tiring battle--and a losing one at that. Time and gravity are pretty strong enemies if the physical stuff is where we find our strength--just check the wrinkles... and eventually the coffin. But if our identity is in Christ, and his character is what marks us? That lasts, because He lasts. He's the I AM--the Beautiful One, the ever present, life-sustainer!  So ladies, join me in taking Peter's advice: "Your beauty should not come from outward adornment such as braided hair or gold jewelry or fine clothes, but from the inner disposition of your heart, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is precious in God’s sight" (1 Peter 3:3-4). Come on girls, let's pursue righteousness! Letting kindness, compassion, humility, and love be our clothing. Let's wait on the Lord. Let's allow his Spirit to mold our character, and if and when the Lord ever wants to let a man in on that beauty--then may it be His doing and His drawing power. But even if he doesn't, Jesus is enough, so let's look to please Him--who looks not at outward appearance, but at the heart.
     Thankfully, when our hearts get sick--he sees us through the eyes of healing grace. He sees who we are becoming, even through the pimply stages that are part of the pathway to maturity. Take me, for instance--I fell. We can all laugh at that funny fall together, but let's learn from it, too. Keep your eyes on Jesus and grab his outstretched hand whenever you start to slip. His hand will hold. He loves you.

Dirty

Giovanni...

A skinny street teen who I've had a tight bond with for the past few years--ever since I gave him my pair of bright orange Hope College sweatpants that caught his eye. He told me the story of how his mom died that day. Giovanni has never forgotten that pair sweatpants... or the time he told me his story.

Today when I see him, he reminds me of those very pants and asks for another pair. A new pair that will fit his skin-on-bone body.

I take down his size on a small slip of paper and with a carefree grin begin asking other random life questions to note down, too. Then this question blurts out: "Have you ever received Christ in your heart?"

He looks at me, both serious and sad: "No." His drug-glazed eyes take in the sorry sight of himself, "I... can't yet. I have to change all of this first."

I raise an eyebrow (if I could only raise one, that is). "Ahhhh, so it looks to me like you don't understand the Gospel yet!" I pat the stone concrete I'm currently perched on. "Take a seat and lemme tell ya!"

He reluctantly agrees, but listens nonetheless.

"Giovanni, Jesus did not tell us that we have to fix ourselves up before we ask him into our lives. We can't! And that's GOOD news!"

Giovanni stares at me, unsure what I mean by 'good news'.

I continue, "We can't ever be presentable enough--none of us--that's the good news! Jesus said 'blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.' You're in the perfect spot to let him into your heart and turn to Him!"

Giovanni drinks in my words, then wanders off to a corner by himself. To think.


You know, we can tell these kids the Good News every time we see them. Jesus came, died, and rose to open the way to Him--something we could never achieve on our own. And yet, even though this is the greatest news in the world, it's the hardest for them to believe.

But is that really so surprising?

Giovanni, whom I love, sees the glue bottle he clutches, the dirty street corner he inhabits, the empty pockets he wears and thinks "Jesus can't come here." 

But that's the GOOD NEWS: He can! How do I know? He already came to the dirtiest, most shameful place that we could ever dream up--a naked, bloody, spit-on body hanging on a cursed tree. The cross. The cross where he carried all our sin that we are such addicts of, where he endured the insults we hurled at him, where he overcame the shame we've been wearing ever since we left the Garden... all on that dirty slab of wood... outside the camp. That's right, Jesus--the outsider, so that we could become insiders. With him.

And we certainly can't become insiders on our own--not by making ourselves 'presentable'. That game won't work with Giovanni and it won't work with us either. Because even though we may not have a drug in our hands (unless you count a cell phone...) or sleep on a cardboard box doesn't mean we're clean enough to be King-of-Kings worthy. We're dirty, too. And we know it! Sure, let's go ahead and try adding on some fancy clothes, a few extra degrees, a heaping of charitable deeds, 3 cute kids (one adopted)--are we presentable enough now? Well, if we compare ourselves to a holy God--of course not! So what do we do!?!

Oh wait... He already did it... For us. On the cross. We've got to trust that his holiness trumps our unholiness. That his goodness redeems our evil. That his love overflows our emptiness. Because it does. Every time.

And so... Let him in! And when you do, you'll come to find that--in the light of his glorious grace--He finally starts to turn you into the holy man or woman you always knew you needed to be to enter into His presence in the first place. Yeah, that's Good News.

Ending the Hunger Games

Another death.

A casualty or a sacrifice?

I'm counting on the latter.

I don't know what the Lord is doing, but I do know who He is--a Good Author. And this girl has a name. A story. A place in our hearts. Our sovereign Lord is not about to let her death be in vain.

Belen*. That's her name. She has one, you know, because she's a person, which matters whether you know her or not. I knew her, though. And so did the countless staff member who have poured time, prayers, and resources into her. And so did her 'brother' Axel, who is one of our Micah boys. And so did the other street kids, who for better or for worse looked to her as a leader. And so did her baby, even if that 'knowing' was limited and lacking. The baby left behind.

I can't say I'm surprised. I know I sound cold writing this, but that's the reality of what we are dealing with here. Of course we always hold out hope that maybe just maybe these kids will accept one of our many offers to break free from the chains of street 'living'. Former Micah missionaries had this girl in their home for short stint... before she ran back to the streets. The hospital offered help after she had delivered her baby... before she ran back to the streets. Her 'brother' Axel warned her outside the Micah gate that the streets ultimately lead to death... and yet she ran back... as she always did. But now, not even the streets are an option.

Not that Belen even died on the streets, because dying implies living. And what life is there on the streets? I saw her sister and the girl she'd cut with a knife just yesterday, who were sitting on the streets beside one another until one of them opened her mouth and they began clawing at each other, pulling out hair, and kicking the other in the face. That's the "life" Belen kept running back to, and now she has left it behind for good... after dying from an overdose. Translation? Belen must not have seen much life where she was living either, otherwise she wouldn't have been using so many drugs to try to run away from the very place she kept running to.

And so, here we are, faced with another death...

Another death.

A casualty or a sacrifice?

I'm counting on the latter.

Just before receiving the news today, I read a few chapters of the second Hunger Games. The scene in particular that struck me was when Haymitch hugged Katniss right before she was about to enter the arena and warned her, "You just remember who the enemy is. That's all." These words immediately called to mind Ephesians 6:12 where Paul says, "For our battle is not against flesh and blood..." and so I prayed in response, "Lord, help me to remember who the enemy is... and then may I be your Katniss. And fight."

It was after this that I learned about Belen's death, and I couldn't help but think of the Hunger Games all over again. Kids murdering kids. Trapped in a game whose rules they assumed they had to play by, and who could blame them? Trying to survive, but for what end? And now there is Belen, who has pulled her fair share of knives and gone down fighting in an untelevised hunger games known as street-living. But just like the other kids in the arena weren't Katniss's real enemy, neither are we to one another. We keep picking the wrong fight. Belen is not and never was the true enemy. Sure, she treated others and herself as one, but she was a part of a bigger war going on--the war for our hearts. And behind all of her wounds--inflicted both to and by her--Belen was just a girl who was scared and trying to survive. She was a part of the system of lies she and so many are fed. Lies that kept her trapped in what was already killing her. And now she is dead.

If Belen knew the truth that we really did love her and care about her, maybe she would have surrendered the knives, the sex, and the drugs she thought she needed to protect herself. If she would have just trusted us, maybe she would have let us help her find a new life. But she didn't. Not totally... But I know she did a little. She smiled when we saw her, she laughed at our goofy dances, she teasingly wiped cake frosting on our faces, she played in the pool, and she came looking for us when she was in desperate need. There were glimpses of free-her when she let us into tiny places in her heart. I know there was some love received by her... even if just a little. And a little goes a long way.

Because of that love, there is a piece of Belen that is still alive. Belen's story isn't over, because for some crazy reason, Belen is permanently written on so many of our hearts. Belen was and is dearly loved--even though I bet she never knew it--and because of that love... this has gotten real personal.

Oh Belen!

Another death.

A casualty or a sacrifice?

I'm counting on the latter.

Belen's death is not in vain. It's a wake up call--not only to the other street kids, but to all of us. Because whether we have a roof over our heads or not, death is still coming. So wake up! It's time to fight the enemy.

And, no, the enemy is not God--though I know there are some people who think he must be some sort of manipulative Gamemaker who takes a sick delight in torturing us to death for rebelling against him, but that's the very lie the enemy would like us to believe. God is actually the one who has authored our rescue out of this world. We need a Savior--someone to save us from our self-protective hearts and get our eyes on the One who we can trust to lead us into true life. We need Jesus.

But just like these kids will never leave their street 'living' and enter into the life we offer at Micah unless they actually trust us first, neither will we run to Jesus and enter into the full life he is offering us if we don't trust him first. And so often, we don't. We look at the reality of death and think that defines God, but that's not true. Death is the consequence we chose in our rebellion against God. And yet death is not what we think it is. Death is not an ultimate end. Death is a shadow. A veil. The enemy wants us to look at death and give up--to turn to some sort of drug or weapon to extend our little life here on earth--the life we aren't actually living when we're so worried about surviving. But what the enemy does not want us to know is that death is not an undefeatable enemy. Jesus proved that by his death and resurrection. He showed us his healed, holed hands for a purpose. He holds out life so we will take it. So take it! Trust him, and TAKE IT. I am so sick of seeing people die without ever having lived. Trust Jesus, and LIVE.


*Belen. English translation: 'Bethlehem.' Hebrew meaning: 'House of Bread' with a strong connotation for 'House of Battle.'

Valued

     As I pass through El Centro with Jhon to buy him a snack post-drum lesson, I run into a few of our typical street crew. They are silently sniffing their glue bottles as they sit at 'their spot'--a concrete ledge inscribed with the words "Cuida las plantas" ("take care of the plants"). Yeah yeah yeah, and the people?
     Ignoring the flourishing vegetation, I make my way over to the disheveled, distant-eyed teenagers. I notice that one of the girls today is especially drugged out. I kneel down and repeat her name over and over--"Ana... Ana... Ana..."--until she finally receives my gaze. Once I have her limited attention, I ask, "¿Está bien?" She wearily shakes her head and shows me a long cut on the side of her neck; then she points a finger at the equally checked-out girl behind her: "She did it!"
    This previously wordless teen suddenly jumps up to defend herself, "Only because Ana is so annoying! She won't stop bothering me!"
     I look up to the sky, taking a moment to draw a deep breath and pray for wisdom. "Listen, girls," I say with a firm voice and raised eyebrows. "I want to see you treating each other how you want to be treated, understood?" (I feel ridiculous giving such simple advice to these high-as-a-kite girls caught in a cat fight, but since it's what I believe the Lord put on my heart to say I continue:) "I want you to know something. When God created the universe--the stars, the creatures, everything--he called it good. But do you know what he called very good?"
     By this point, another street girl has wandered her way over to me to answer my prompt: "Us."
     "That's right," I affirm. "Of all creation, God put his image in us. And he didn't come to die for the stars, he came to die for you and me. God gave his very life to purchase us, and if that is the price he paid then we are very valuable. You are very valuable. So treat each other like it, got it?"
      I look around at their attentive faces and can tell the "you are valuable" thing has struck these kids' hearts by the way they are staring at me--somehow they heard me through their drug fog, and I know that deep down they hope what I said is actually true. It is. Just to remind them, I take the two 'frenemies' to buy a simple snack. They follow me like puppies and longingly look at me to repeat what I had spoken earlier, "You are very, very valuable. So treat each other like it, got it?" The girls nod and walk back to their ledge, slowly munching on their chips... and hopefully on my words, too.

     You are very, very valuable... It's no surprise to me that these girls have a difficult time believing me. We go to great lengths to protect what we value most. And how have these girls been treated? Like they're not even worth a second glance by the majority of passerbys. Like a self-affirming pat-on-the-back to all the do-gooders who occasionally fork over a sandwich. Like a piece of meat to the hungry-eyed men of the night. You know, maybe that's why these girls cheapen sex--taking men's few flimsy flatteries as their highest bid, hoping that maybe just maybe their desired bodies prove that they are at least worth something... but where does that leave them in the end? Abandoned--with a baby, an absent father, and feeling even more worthless than before.
     But whether they know it or not, these girls are worth something. A whole lot, actually. After all, how do we know what an object is worth? By the price someone is willing to pay for it. And I know the One who paid the cost. The highest cost.

     Later this same evening I watch a fourteen year old girl in our neighborhood hitting on literally all of our guys as she strolls down the street. This girl, who has recently started attending the ladies' Bible study my roommate and I lead, has an impressive talent of being able to accentuate each of her, errrm, 'endowments' as she pops them all out with each swaggy step. As she puts her gropy hands on one of our younger guys' shoulders with a giggle and a hair toss, I look at the lost young lady and tell her in front of the guys--because I love her and them--"No, don't you sell yourself like that." She snaps her head in my direction, shocked by the implication of the words. I didn't mean to insinuate anything, but I use the blow to my advantage, hoping that somehow I am speaking healing into her apparent wound.
    Pulling her aside I say, "You want to be loved for who you are--in here," I tap my finger on her chest, where her heart is. "If you use your body to get the love you are looking for it's never going to work. You want to be loved for who you are, not for your body... and you already are."
     I then point my finger up to the sky and show her the stars. "Beautiful right?"
     She nods.
    "When God created the stars he called them good, but when he created us he called us very good," I repeat this simple message from before to another pair of thirsty eyes. "God didn't come and die for the stars. He died for you. You are very valuable. Live like it."
     The girl's masked hardness is broken in my presence, and her tender spirit shines through as she looks at me with widened eyes. As if I've just given her heart a small drink of hope, she nods. In this precious moment, the young woman before me looks utterly and undeniably beautiful.
     
     We know how much something is worth by the price someone is willing to pay for it... And the Someone who was willing to pay for us is the very One who made us, loves us, and died and rose for us, because for some crazy reason he wants to spend forever with us. When I try to look inside my own dark and twisty heart, I certainly have a hard time finding anything of value. But when I look to Jesus and recognize His infinite worth, I take the price tag dangling from my heart a whole lot more seriously. I'm His, and that's worth more than I could ever imagine. Jesus, our Redeemer, really is utterly and undeniably beautiful... so let's treat the people he paid for like they are, too, got it?

The Hum-Drum Life

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

Jhon has been getting back in touch with his Garifuna-culture roots with a special drum class, which I find myself sitting in on--listening to my beach-born brother pound out the exact same rhythm... Over... and over... and over...

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

Well, not the exact same rhythm since Jhon is currently getting tired of this monotony. Every once in a while he'll pause, readjust, and breathe out a sigh of frustration as his teacher just sits there on his cell phone voicing an occasional minuscule critique.

Drummmm Drm Drum Drummmmmm Drum Drum Drummm...

The longer I listen the more I notice Jhon's slight speed changes. A little faster... A little slower... A little harder... A little softer...

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

"You're getting tired," his teacher notes without looking up from his phone. "Take a break."

Jhon gets up to go to the bathroom--relieved. While he is away, the teacher finally acknowledges my presence. "Patience," he tells me. "That's the hardest thing."

Jhon comes back and takes up the what-should-be-steady rhythm once more.

Drummm Drum Druum Drummm Drum Druuum Drummm...

As the end of the hour approaches, a few of the other Micah boys rush in post soccer-training hoping to recollect their companion. Jhon's teacher pays them no notice; Jhon tries not to, either (without success).  After the boys' initial awe by the newness of Jhon's ethnic drum-beat, they quickly begin to scoff as they realize Jhon's slow steady rhythm is not about to get any cooler. They try to motion for him to do something fast, something "awesome"--but Jhon shakes his head and glances in the direction of his teacher. He's got enough fear in him to at least attempt continuing to pound out what the teacher wants, even though his peers are already storing up ammunition to mock him for these drum lessons later. And Jhon knows it, too--he's losing his rhythm. He's starting to sweat.

Cue: Mamma bear. I decide to load up my ammo, too: words.

When the teacher finally lets Jhon free, I jump on the moment, positioning myself next to Jhon and speaking to the boys before the teacher's intimidating presence leaves the room. The fear of him has given me a free platform to talk uninterrupted.

"What Jhon is doing here is incredibly difficult--to have the perseverance and patience to hold a steady rhythm. It is not always exciting, but it is such an important job," I say. "The rhythm prepares the way for the melody. The base precedes the glory."

As I speak, I notice the teacher is watching me, and for the first time, I see him smile. As we leave, Jhon is affirmed and reanimated. The boys' insults have vanished.

"Patience, it's the hardest thing..."

As we all walk out together, I can't help but think about how we live in a world that is always seeking the next new thrill. But the excitement of every exciting thing wears off. A new outfit becomes an old outfit. A new pop sensation becomes a dated one-hit wonder. A drug high becomes a crash and a craving. An image on a computer screen leads to another and another and another... Until thrill after thrill becomes the ordinary, and leaves no room for any thrill at all. We've forgotten the art of steady rhythm. The strength in the ordinary that prepares the way for glory.

As Oswald Chambers wrote, "The great hindrance in spiritual life is that we will look for big things to do. 'Jesus took a towel... and began to wash the disciples' feet.' There are times when there is no illumination and no thrill, but just the daily round, the common task... Do not expect God always to give you His thrilling minutes, but learn to live in the domain of drudgery by the power of God."

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...
Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...
Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

"Patience, it's the hardest thing..."

Taught and strengthened by our Teacher, may we continue to patiently wait on Him--trusting that our discipline in the ordinary is preparing the way for greater glory. May we endure the insults of those watching, who always insist on 'seeing something cool' when God has instead called us to humble service. May we go about our daily tasks with hope that He is coming. By the Lord's power and grace, may we grow in the steady art of faith, hope, and love.

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

Jesus was...

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

Jesus is...

Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...

Jesus is to come.

Jesus. Our faithful rock, our steady rhythm, our beautiful melody. Jesus.

Needy

 “Helping the poor” is not as glamorous as it sounded pre-doing it.

When the need was always ‘out there’ it became easy to romanticize the needy—pure-hearted Cinderellas trapped by their wicked relatives and dealt a crappy hand in life. This fantasized version of the poor only got perpetuated when ‘helping’ became hearing a few well-rehearsed sob-stories and handing out a meal here and there--keeping me feeling sorry for people (without being sure who to blame) while tricking myself into thinking how generous I must be for my few-dollar fast food purchase… all the while leaving the perpetual hunger behind.

But come back to that same street corner, and there will always be another plea--another meal, another pair of shoes, another bus fare, another… you name it. The needs are endless. Don’t you know I fed you yesterday!? Why are you hungry again today?!? I sense my resentment building for the human hunger that marks us all--the hunger that’s easy to hide when we’re constantly feeding.

And so, since I’ve fed and have more than enough to share, I go back to that street corner. I go back to that beggar who doesn’t look at me and see me but a wallet or ‘free’ entertainment. Yeah, I’m pretty, but I’m not offering you eye-candy or a play toy! (Since I’m not Jesus, I often suck at the whole ‘compassion’ thing). I am praying for compassion, though, I have to. When that street corner becomes a part of your life instead of just a magical mission trip, the labor of love can start feeling more like a chore. And when love begins to feel like a chore, it’s hard to see the people behind the needs--their perceived needs that is.

Because I know what their need is, and it’s not a sandwich. Though that’s a start. It’s not ‘fun’. I’m all about games, but soccer and some of my impromptu dance parties never takes them off the streets. It’s certainly not sex. Even though they already do enough of that--popping out babies and running away from them. None of that works to satisfy their hunger, and none of that works to satisfy ours either. It’s just easier to see from our perspective when they are the ones without a pocketbook and a glue-bottle shoved in their face.

But no matter how many times I tell them that there is something better out there--a place where we offer food, shelter, family--they just keep huffing and asking for toothpaste (someone always stole theirs). They even know about Jesus--though they do know the right Christian songs to play on their speakers (don’t ask me where they got them) as the white people walk past. They may even go to church and feel good for an hour every Sunday when they hear they’re loved. But do they believe it? If they never make any changes it sure doesn’t seem like it.

So why keep going back to that street corner?

“If a kid came into Micah, graduated, got a job, had a successful life, but never accepted Jesus, would all of it have been worth it?” a Micah-grad asks me on the roof of the Timothy House as we look down upon the city.

Pointing towards ‘El Centro’ where I just visited our typical street crew, I respond, “Even if those kids on the street never even enter the Micah house. Even if they spend their whole life on the streets and die there--never having accepted Jesus--it would still be worth it.”

The grad looks at me, puzzled, as if I didn’t hear his question. He repeats. So do I:

“We don’t love only if we know we’ll be loved back. Jesus didn’t. In fact, he knew Judas would betray him, and he loved him anyway. All the way to the end.”

So why keep going back to that street corner?

Because Jesus did it for me--I’m just as poor as they are. And thankfully the Lord doesn’t look at us with disgust--giving a few bucks to pacify us like filthy, intrusive beggars. Instead, he steps right into our need--our true need--and fills it. He gave 5000 bread then offered the Bread of Life. He asked for a drink then offered the Living Water. Jesus just gave. The sun just shines. The rain just rains. The sun doesn’t wait to see if the soil is ready before it comes up. It comes up. The rain doesn’t pick which land to fall on, it falls. And yes, I hope and pray that there are seeds buried behind all the dirt, but whether or not I ever see a flower sprout--and I hope I will--I will keep going back to that street corner.

Why?

Because Jesus did it for me. He still does.

Fighting Dragons, Rescuing Treasure

Walking with fifteen year-old Luis to buy a coke, our neighborhood Cinderella spots us and runs over to give me a hug.

“That guirra called me a @#$%! last night!” our not-so-clean-mouthed-himself Micah boy rats out the currently sweet-dispositioned 12 year-old.

I ignore him and return her kind greeting. Once we pass by I ask, “Luis, in fairytales where there are dragons, treasures, knights… where are the princesses?”

“In castles,” the Micah boy answers as he shrugs his man-body shoulders.

“Trapped, right?” I ask; he nods. “And what does the knight have to do?”

“Fight the dragon,” he responds.

“Right! The treasure is hidden behind the dragon. The knight has to fight for it,” I say, then add. “There is a treasure inside of that girl—“

Before I have a chance to finish my thought, Luis finishes my sentence with an awe over his own discovery, “--she just hasn’t been saved yet.”

“Exactly.”

She just hasn’t been saved yet.



This past weekend, 14-year old Axel gave into his inner dragon. Deceived by his selfishness and pride, he lashed out violently against our youngest: little Marco. Beating up on the only kid here that he has the ability to overpower.

And so, of course, when I see this violent exchange I give Axel a firm, “NO!” I’m okay with turning my own cheek, but I’m not okay with that cheek belonging to the most-vulnerable heart who is slowly, slowly beginning to trust us here. Aware I am not very effective in this situation, I seek help from a male educator. (When the Bible says that women are the 'weaker partner', I have no problem admitting my obvious lack of physical strength. I need a strong man to intervene in this case.)

Leaving an incredibly P-O’d Axel in another’s hands, I escape to my room to pray. My heart is torn between Marco and Axel—currently enemies of each other, but both loved by me… more importantly, both loved by God. Feeling utterly helpless, unsure how even to proceed—I release the boys into the Lord’s hands. Remembering that he is a Good Father and knows how to work in both of their lives, in his perfect way and timing.

The next few days pass with an ever-festering chip on Axel’s shoulder against tattle-tell me. I know deep down he’s actually angry with himself. For the anger he can’t control. And since he isn’t strong enough to control it, he seeks a cop-out version of ‘strength’ to mask the shame of this weakness: anger, violence, hate. Maybe just maybe then he’ll feel like a man. Threatening words, yelling for me to get out of his face, name-calling, raised fists… But, by the grace of God, I don’t even flinch. His ‘strength’—even the fake kind—isn’t working.

As the new week begins, the time comes for my 40-minute one-one-one time scheduled with Axel while the other boys are in school. Walking to the Micah house with a few books and games in my arms, I see our House Coordinator, Paty. I ask her for prayer and she gently encourages me before assuring me that she’ll be in prayer. I want to make the most of my time with Axel... though I am not sure how.

As I approach the currently fuming boy, Axel sees me and immediately stomps away with a few choice words. Marco’s current one-on-one helper sees the incident and nervously tells me about how Axel pulled a knife on her last Friday. Instead of surrendering to the fear, I ask her to pray with me. And so we do. Her hands in mine, I pray for his heart. Even as I speak, a shoe is thrown at us, but I can’t help but smile. Maybe just maybe, Axel is listening to this prayer over him—for the Lord’s love to enter his walled-up heart.

Allowing Axel some time to cool off, I begin to wash a few dishes. Axel apparently is over his alone-time, and quickly runs over to give me a gentle-kick—controlled enough to show that he isn’t intending to hurt me, just frighten me. But he can’t. The Lord is with me, and I have no vulnerable treasure to protect in this situation. No bullied child who needs Momma bear. Just me. And my treasure—my heart—already belongs fully to the Lord. Long ago, the Lord rescued me from my own inner dragons. I was angry and bitter and hateful like this kid once, too. But thanks to my Rescuer, I know I’m protected. He has saved me, and I am hopeful that he is in the process of saving this one’s heart, too.

So I look at him and smile playfully, “I’m not afraid. You're my compañero!”

"Friend? Ha!" He says and walks off. But even so I can tell, something has started to break in him. He has no power here…

A few minutes later, Axel decides to clean up the living room. Sweeping. Mopping. Will cleaning up my mess make me stop hating myself for making it? But this attempt to fix things hasn't had the effect he likely desired. He can't rescue himself. His dragons haven't flown away.

Post-room cleaning, I pass through a glass door and hear the wind whistle past my ear, the sound of glass shattering by my side, and a wicked laugh a few feet in front of me. Axel has just thrown little Marco’s wet-with-paint glass ornament in my direction, splaying glass and paint all around me. But other than paint, nothing has touched me. Not even a shard. Even more impressively—by the utter grace of God and the power of his Spirit—I still haven’t flinched. Patience. Grace.

Other staff members come around, encouraging him to help clean his made-mess. As he surrenders and joins us in the sweep, his anger already starts wearing out. His defenses seem to be shattering as much as the glass we are sweeping. Nothing, no nothing has chased us away. Through his people, the Lord has been pursuing this boy's dragon-protected heart from every angle.


“There is a treasure inside of that girl—“

Before I have a chance to finish my thought, Luis finishes my sentence with an awe over his own discovery, “--she just hasn’t been saved yet.”

“Exactly.”

She just hasn’t been saved yet.


Somewhere along the line, it seems that humanity has begun to buck up against the idea of ‘salvation’. My sucker-for-a-fairytale heart wonders: Why?!?! Where has our sense of rescue, adventure, heroism, and romance gone? Why do we look at our Savior and think ‘how cruel for him to tell us that we’re trapped in a tower, deceived by the dragon!' when we ARE!? As if him telling us our need was what trapped us in the first place? We already are trapped—without him, that is. Deceived. In need of rescue. But the set-up of the story is never its end. The trapped tower part is only the beginning. Our Prince has a plan—an epic story that he will see through to the end.

Our Savior, Jesus Christ, defeated death and darkness all in pursuit of his bride. Paying the price. Making a dragon-deceived wretch his beloved treasure. He did it for me! No, I'm not saying that I am now perfect by any means. There are still dragons to be fought off in me, but I know the Lord has the victory. And he finishes what he starts. And now I pray, that he saves these boys, too. In the meantime, I'll keep loving them--by the Lord's strength. With hope--knowing that salvation belongs to the Lord! And that is very, very Good News, for he is mighty to save.

Come Home, Little Kitty

[Sometimes all that is needed to reach a street kid's feeling-forgotten heart is a story... This one's for you, Marco.]

Little Kitty

Once upon a time there was a little Kitty who lived in a home all alone. Well, not totally alone. Technically this kitten lived with a family… but not really.

Dad left early for work and came back late--always too tired to pet Kitty. Mom was always out and about--buying new clothes, new pots and new pans (that she never cooked in), and taking Kid here and there. When Kid was much smaller, he used to sing and play with Kitty, but now that he was older he always had school and sports and special playdates with friends. The only way Kitty knew that his family had remembered him at all was the one bowl of meow-chow that Mom left for him every morning.

“Here you go, Kitty,” she would say without even a glance before rushing out the door. “We’ll be home soon!”

But soon was never soon, and even though his family thought they were feeding him, they never realized they were actually starving him. You see, what this family didn’t know was that this Kitty was a special Kitty. A Kitty that didn’t feed on normal food like you and I do. This Kitty was fed by song.

And so, day after day that Kitty’s family would leave him all alone, he began to get teenier and tinier, slimmer and thinner… and no matter how much he meowed for someone to sing, his family never even noticed.

Until one day when Kitty decided to go looking for the food that he needed. And so, he left his bowl full of meow-chow and jumped out the window, in search of what would finally fill him: a song.

Little did Kitty know, not all songs are good songs. But Kitty was hungry, and so he ate whatever he could find. And what he found was not good, no not good at all.

In the Alley where the Big Cats lived, Kitty heard a song. A loud song. A mean song. A gross song. I don’t need to tell you all that was sung, but I can tell you this: Kitty ate… and ate… and ate… But no matter how much he fed, the songs that he heard only made him hungrier… and angrier… and bigger… and fatter.

In fact, Kitty grew so big and fat from the not-good songs that never filled him that he became the size of a building! Which wouldn’t be so scary if he weren’t so hungry and angry all the time. But he was, and so, the people were afraid of him.

“The Giant Cat is going to eat us all!” the crowds would cry. “Run away!”

But what the people didn’t realize was that Giant Cat was just Little Kitty. They were right--he was hungry--but not for people. He just needed a new song. A good one.

Thankfully, Kid caught wave of the terrified talk of the town, and he sadly started to think about all the good times he used to have with his own missing Little Kitty… how they would play and sing…

And suddenly Kid remembered, Singing! Whenever Kid used to sing to his own Little Kitty, he would always start to purr. Maybe just maybe singing would help Giant Cat, too...

And so, Kid decided to walk towards the Cat that everyone was running away from. Kid latched hold of Cat’s violently swishing tale and began to climb, all the while singing:

Pretty Pretty Kitty,

Oh so small,

Pretty Pretty Kitty,

May you fall,

In with love and out of fear,

As your family brings you near.

It’s time to hear:

Come home. Come home. Come home.

As Kid sang and climbed further and further towards Kitty’s listening ear, the louder Kitty began to…

Purr…. Purrr… Purrrrrrrr… PURRRRRRRR!

And as he did, Giant Cat started to get smaller… and smaller... and smaller… All the while getting fuller… and fuller… and fuller…

Until, Little Kitty was back in Kid’s hands. Purring and sleeping..

“Little Kitty!” Kid realized. “It’s you!”

“I am so sorry for leaving you alone, Little Kitty,” Kid hugged his purring kitten. “Let’s go home.”

And so, Kid carried sleeping Kitty all the way home. And every night before bed everyone sang Kitty’s song. And Kitty was happy… and full.

The End.

Cared For

     A middle finger, a forceful push, a threatening fist, a strong slur. Why should I be surprised? This cute-as-a-button, chubby cheeked child had to find some sort of leverage to survive on the streets. Vulnerability is not prized amongst knife-pullers.
     Our kids enter our doors as survivors. How else do you get by on the streets? A street kid needs food just like the rest of us--so he learns to beg, manipulate, lie, and rob. He needs shelter--so he hides. He needs love--so he goes after it in all the wrong places. But surviving and living are not the same thing...

    "Here, take this," Michael pulls a small wad of cash out of his pocket to give to eleven-year old Marco. "Kelsey can take you to buy something at the pulperia."
     I swing by the Micah house to let the head of the education department know that I have found (or rather, have been found by) her missing student. "Marco has some anxiety," I repeat Michael's compassionate reminder and tell her that I am taking him to one of the little snack shops next door.
     As Marco takes my key to unlock the gated entrance, he turns to me, "You're going to buy me a fresco right?" (Translation: I keep Michael's money, you pay for my pop.*). I remind him that Michael already gave him money, but he is insistent, "You owe me one remember? From a loooooong time ago."
     I know exactly what he is referring to. Well over a month ago our second youngest of the house, 14 year-old-yet-child-hearted as ever Noe, invented some sort of ping-pong ball across the room into a bucket game where if they won I was supposed to buy them a treat. Marco didn't exactly come close to completing the challenge, but I promised that Noe's winnings would cover them both.
     Though I am pretty positive I already 'paid-up,' I agree anyway and pay for his Canada Dry. (But not without a quick lesson.)
     "What is money for, Marco?"
     "Food," he answers immediately.
     "Okay, so what if you knew that all your food was already taken care of?" I ask. "What would your money be for then?"
     He shrugs.
     "What if you use that money you have there to get someone else a little something?" I suggest, pointing to his slightly bulging pocket. "I'm here to take care of your needs. So what if you use that money that you have to take care of someone else's?"
     He thinks about it, but decides against it.
     I smile and affirm, "It's your decision. But just so you know, it was way more fun for me to buy you a pop than one for myself. I want you to have the joy of that, too."
     Upon returning, Marco and I play a round of Skip-Bo (a much-loved card game around here). I notice that Marco is hoarding all of his cards... but you can only ever have five in your hand. His hoarding is keeping him from winning. He's stuck.
     "If you don't use your cards, you'll never win," I say. "That's what they're there for--to play them. Just like the money you have. Michael gave you that money to use it."
      Eventually Marco notices that how--save as he might--I'm totally owning him. Finally, he lets me help him to release his tightly-clutched wild cards. Slowly but surely, Marco catches on and ends up winning the game (with only a small amount of cheating on his part).

     Surviving and living aren't the same thing. Marco is learning this, and so am I. So are we. We are born into a dog-eat-dog survivor game (from our perspective). God knows this, and yet that is not how he created us or this world. God doesn't want us to simply survive. He wants us to live. And so, God gave us the law: don't steal, don't lie, don't commit adultery... Ironically, all of the street-survival tactics I see day after day. Street-tactics that come out of a heart that doesn't know it is already cared for. And yet, without knowing the Father's heart, humanity quickly turned God's good law into another survival strategy attempting to earn our way into God's good graces--lest we get knifed by him or by others. Pharisees who clean the outside of the cup, but inwardly are still dirty... Filled with mistrust and fear. "Good person" survival strategy works to an extent to get by here in this world, but it can never offer life
     Jesus said that he didn't come to abolish the law, but to fulfill it. To him, the law wasn't some sort of survival strategy but rather the natural outcome of a life of faith in God. Jesus tells us, "don't be anxious about what you eat or drink..." If we know that God's got our daily bread under control--(or better yet: that Jesus endured 40 days of fasting because he knew that "man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of God")--why would we ever feel the need to steal? Instead, we are freed up to give--generously! "Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you." How would we ever be able to love like that? Unless, of course, we were loved like that first. And we were.
     The Son of God lived a perfect life because he trusted himself wholly to his Father--proving to us that we can trust Him, too. He wants us to live not just survive. He wants us to be able to look up and out instead of in--where we will only to find a black hole of navel-gazing perceived personal-betterment. Jesus wants us to be able to love--the only way we can finally live. And the only way we will ever be able to find that life is when we know that our Good Father, who not only has the power to provide for us but will and wants to... in every way. And nothing, no not even pain and death, can separate us from his love and care. Jesus showed us that, too.

*Translation of the translation: pop is another term for soda/coke. ;)

Hidden Colors

"Let's make up a story together!" I playfully suggest to the currently good-humored teenage boys packed into the Micah van. "Once upon a time there was a dog--"

"And he died, the end!" Josue loudly interrupts with a flashy grin. Everyone bursts out laughing, myself included.

I try again, "Once upon a time there were two fish--"

Edward #3 doesn't like my start and goes for his own, "Once upon a time there was a huevo interrado!" Everyone (but me) laughs with him. Some sort of innuendo involving eggs.

"Once... upon... a tiiiiime--" I say with raised eyebrows. Edward #3 finishes, "There was a culebra interrada!" Another innuendo. This time involving a snake. Classic. I ignore the intended reference and try to roll with it, "--a snake who lived in the jungle, in a tree." Edward #3 ignores the continuation and repeats his innuendo. Inappropriate teenage boy joking ensues.

"Alright, alright," I roll my eyes with a grin. They're engaged enough with me that I give the storytelling one more shot:

"Once upon a time there was a blue turtle, and all the other turtles made fun of him because he was different--they'd tease him, call him names..."

For some reason, all of the boys are listening. They don't add on, though, so I keep going...

"This made the blue turtle so sad that one day he found a place alone and cried. And as he did a mermaid found the blue turtle so she asked him, 'Why are you crying?' The blue turtle told her about the other turtles--how they would make fun of him and how he didn't want to different anymore. Since the mermaid was a magic mermaid, the blue turtle then asked her if she could use her powers to make him look like the rest. 'Yes, I can, but you won't like it,' the mermaid answered, 'if I do, I must warn you, you won't be able to remember who you are anymore.' The turtle didn't care about the mermaid's warning and pleaded, 'Make me like them!' And so, she did.

And now the turtle was just like all the other turtles, so they stopped making fun of him. But for some reason, he was always sad. Something never felt right, like he was always missing something. And no matter what he did, he could never figure out why. So one day, he found a place alone and started to cry.

The magic mermaid again found the turtle and asked him, 'Why are you crying?' The turtle told her all about how he always felt sad and how nothing ever seemed right, but no matter how hard he tried, he could never figure out why. The mermaid then revealed how he had once been a blue turtle but had changed his colors to be like all the others. He had forgotten who he was, which was why he was sad.

The turtle begged the mermaid to turn him back, so the mermaid said to him, 'I have been guarding your color inside of me to give it back to you one day, but I have to warn you, when I do you will no longer have me. I have given my life to guard yours.' The turtle didn't have a choice in telling her no. After saying this, the mermaid cried, and all her blue tears fell on the turtle and turned him blue once more.

The blue turtle finally knew who he was again. And not only him. All of the other turtles changed into all sorts of colors--the mermaid had been guarding their lives, too. Now there were so many colors of turtles!

Except... they couldn't see the mermaid anymore... and yet, they had her in their hearts and in their colors, and she had even poured out her magic into them, too. The end."

After finishing my impromptu tale, I look around and my eyes land on innuendo boy. He is staring at me in awe. We fist pump, and all of us finish the van ride in silence.

Later that evening, I watch those same Micah boys put on their fanciest jeans, snazzy hats, way-too-much cologne, and cool attitudes before strolling around the neighborhood. Where did all the little boys I once knew go?

Oh my little turtles, I long for the day you will come Home... To the One who holds all your colors.

Ogre in the Shadows

"What happened to you?" I ask little, bleeding Axelito as he attempts to slip by me unnoticed.

"Pelota," Axelito blames his blackening eye and multiple battle wounds on a soccer ball.

So caught up in my game of hide-and-go-seek with Noe and Marcos, I didn't even think to second-guess him... until Noe.

"What happened to Axel?" Noe asks me as we share a watermelon between rounds.

"Soccer," I answer as I cut another slice.

Noe rolls his eyes and scoffs, "Pelota?! Ha!"

Come to think of it, the amount of bleeding gashes doesn't really add up to a soccer ball wound... Unless he was playing a pretty vindictive version of dodgeball.

Later that evening, one of our adult educators unlocks the medicine cabinet for me. My mothering heart always finds such joy in being the privileged person to clean out these boys' wounds, even if the process is slightly painful.

"Which one of these would you rather have," I hold up a bottle of rubbing alcohol alongside an off-brand neosporin as I sit down next to Axelito. "This one will hurt, but it may be more effective, and this one won't hurt... or at least not much."

"That one," Axel points to the cream (the one I said wouldn't hurt).

Gently, I rub a little bit of the ointment onto his split-open hand.

"Oww!" he winces. Oh no, I didn't mean to lie!
"I'm sorry!" I apologize and withdraw. "I didn't think it would hurt."

Axel grins, "Just kidding," and sticks out another cut-up limb.

"You can tell me the truth, you know," I say as gently as I dab. "How did you get these wounds?"

"Pelota," Axel repeats. But this time I noticed something I hadn't before in his downcast eyes--a twinge of fear. He's hiding.

I nod. The boys know that if there's anything I don't like, it's lying.

"Well, Axel, if you did get in a fight, I want you to know that that's not how I see you," I say with a compassion that surprises myself. "I have seen you growing in maturity and patience day after day."

Axel looks forward with a straight gaze, lost in thought. And yet, as I speak, my words are finding him somewhere inside. I know this, because tears keep coming to his eyes.

"I see a good, righteous man inside of you who is coming out more and more all the time," I say as I spread some of the cream on his eye. "Covered by the blood of Christ."

After cleaning Axelito up, I hear from a tear-filled friend. More news. Heartbreaking news received from afar. A trusted adult has taken advantage of a child. I've been in that friend's shoes--I've been in that place. Receiving that news. Trust broken, heart broken. Anger, confusion, pain...

And then I think of Axelito. Afraid of the monster he is afraid he is. Masking himself with lies, trying to be who he wants to become but can't, and so catching himself in the cycle of destruction he defines himself by... So long as he is living in the dark.

Becoming an "adult" is not the magic solution. Layers of wrinkles and facial hair are only masks for a crying boy's heart. Either these abused kids will treat their wounds or they won't. And if they don't, their vicious cycle will repeat, and they will become the abuser we all so quickly condemn. For good reason. There is nothing okay with abuse. Nothing. Our brothers' blood cries out from the ground: vengeance. But the abusers were abused, too. So what do we do with that? How do we hold the cry for justice towards the abuser and the compassion for the abused in the same hands when they are found in the same person? The hands of the abused and the abuser... We need blood for blood. A sacrifice. We need Christ.

What if God hates not you but your persona?

The image you created to mask your inner ogre

Screaming, hiding, buried deep inside

Everything that’s dead feels hauntingly alive

And yet something within is desperate to be known

But so long as you keep faking, you’ll always be alone

Come to the light, Come to the light

If everyone’s a monster, is that the key to being free?

Change the rules together, quit fighting the inner demon you call “me”?

Tell me, just tell me, just tell me I’m okay!

But even if I do, your conscience knows another way

Come to the light, come to the light

Maybe, just maybe, you aren’t the  “you” you fear you are

But you’ll never find your “you” by hiding in the dark

The secret that you loathe will leak or it will shed

So nail it to that tree and leave it there for dead

Come to the light, come to the light

Your life is hidden, but not inside of you,

You’ll finally be free when you find yourself in Truth

So why not let die what is already dead?

The sentence has been written, but Christ has taken it instead

"For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God."

Colossians 3:3

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)