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.