tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31472042534298658462024-03-04T22:42:09.582-06:00Chasing ButterfliesKelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-39068738861619033502023-06-16T15:02:00.003-05:002023-06-16T15:27:17.586-05:00A Cup of Water<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in; text-align: center;"><span face="Calibri, sans-serif" style="text-align: left;">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.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in; text-align: center;">Mark 9:41</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">When I first got married to Jared, I remember staring at what was now<i> our </i>house with all its unfinished projects and imagined potential and saying something like, "As soon we get the upstairs done and I love it, that's when we will have to move." Well, our big upstairs project is almost done and as much as I never really wanted to move to St. Louis in the first place, I do love it now... and it is time to go (almost).</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">We are currently in a sort of time in between times. Jared just wrapped up his longstanding salary-with-benefits job to dive into a faith-fueled, nomadic summer as we begin language and cultural acquisition courses, prepare our house for sale, tour about visiting family, and, Lord have mercy, <i>fundraising.</i><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">Oh, fundraising... I must admit, I had been dreading this part. Ignoring it, putting it off, wishing I could just apparate straight to Honduras and live freely off the land, but that's not what we are called to. And I think I am starting to get a little glimpse of <i>why. </i>We were never meant to live this life alone. And we were certainly not meant to do it on our own strength. We need the Lord, we need to trust the Lord, and so often the way he provides is through people.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">PEOPLE?! The Lord’s love I can trust, but trusting <i>people’s </i>love can be a little trickier sometimes (I would know, I’m one of them). And yet, in the Lord’s wisdom, he has set it up for us in such a way right now that we need to keep remembering that he is with us<i> through</i> people. Not dreamed up, "out there" sort of people, but actual, broken, living-their-own-lives-too <i>people. </i>You and me kind of people. Thankfully, we really have had so many people give us encouragement, stamps of approval, the right kind of challenging questions, story sharing, and a whole lot of prayers along the way. Being supported <i>financially</i>, however, still feels vulnerable. At times, I am tempted to fear the thoughts and opinions of others. <i>Will people think I’m being friendly because I’m trying to get something from them? What if our friends start avoiding us because they think we’re going to ask for money? What if we’ve come all this way and nobody wants to support us at all…<o:p></o:p></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><i><br /></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">Even though I know this discouragement is <i>not </i>from<i> </i>the Lord, the enemy's voice still creeps in from time to time. Once I recognize what's happening, I slow down enough to hear the Lord's still small voice calling me to <i>trust him. </i>The more I lean into the peace that comes through that trust, the more I am freed up to remember the excitement of our call to Micah. When I can laugh off the discouragement I'm experiencing as an attack from the enemy, fundraising itself becomes part of the excitement--this amazing call isn't just for us, we get to invite others to be a part of it, too! Support-raising (in whatever form it takes) is giving others a tangible way to say "we are with you” to us, before we head out and say “we are with you” to our Micah family.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif">The support we receive<i> from</i> others—whether intellectual, emotional, spiritual, or physical--is then turned into support<i> for</i> others. Every popsicle, every word of encouragement, every cup of coffee, every job training program, every porch chat, every English class, every pool outing, every Bible study, every movie night, every drama outreach, every prayer in time of need, every hand we are able place on another’s shoulder doesn’t just demonstrate our own support, but yours, too, and, ultimately, the Lord’s, whose hands made ours. The Lord loved those Micah guys before I ever got a chance to know them, and yet he has allowed me—<i>us</i>—to be a part of showing them that love. And at the end of this age, when we see the ones we have loved in this life robed in glory in the next, we will know the sweet reward of seeing the ones to whom we’ve given a cup of water along the way in the arms of their Savior (and ours). What an honor to be even a small part of the Lord's demonstration of love in another's life!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;">And yet, as excited and hopeful as we are to step into this call to Micah (with all its ups, downs, and in-betweens), we are still sad to leave our current chapter behind. We have such a wonderful community, beloved family and friends, meaningful work, shared joys and shared suffering, finished and unfinished projects, too much stuff to know what to do with, and the home where our family began. Going is great; leaving is hard. For this reason, I am grateful that we need as much support as we do--it's a way stay connected to those who go with us--through prayer, emails, visits, donations, treasured memories, and, especially, the shared hope we have in Christ. The sure hope that he is in the business of restoring broken families and bringing his people Home. To him. And to each other. Forever.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><br /><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><i><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKOOGY9yeJ94E0n0caWpVWlwWkr5c34Jijx3yUAZjZ7OdgYElRTIqvWpNEsqU1N0BHi2Xyk409pyAzwzlPskPM8VGG4czMogFNqOhFi5hPsI1H1nk6GiYjTmWN9Z8mbRFmL0A9BYQkhBj4o3wtujU6DarK2C5V7hFacVmX830tkJnNWI05y1wZ51Cmg/s3088/IMG-2356.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2320" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKOOGY9yeJ94E0n0caWpVWlwWkr5c34Jijx3yUAZjZ7OdgYElRTIqvWpNEsqU1N0BHi2Xyk409pyAzwzlPskPM8VGG4czMogFNqOhFi5hPsI1H1nk6GiYjTmWN9Z8mbRFmL0A9BYQkhBj4o3wtujU6DarK2C5V7hFacVmX830tkJnNWI05y1wZ51Cmg/s320/IMG-2356.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></i></div><i><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"><br />Would you consider supporting us as we prepare to move to The Micah Project in Tegucigalpa, Honduras? <br /><br /><a href="mailto:bullocks.micah@gmail.com">Contact me</a> if you are interested in signing up for our newsletter, joining our Prayer Team, or <a href="https://secure.qgiv.com/for/TheAntiochPartners/restriction/Partner+Support/subrestriction/Bullock++Jared+and+Kelsey">supporting financially</a>.</span></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span face="-webkit-standard, serif"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; margin: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-15980230554757612992022-07-30T12:45:00.003-05:002023-06-10T13:35:19.476-05:00A Bountiful Eye<p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"><span class="JsGRdQ">Nearly a year after Michael Miller visited our home in St. Louis and prayerfully called us to work for The Micah Project, I find myself sitting on a plane to Honduras with my husband on my left and our toddler on my lap—both napping. Seizing the small window to snag a moment in the Word, I flip open my pocket-sized Bible. Out of any sort of regular rhythm, I check the date and flip to that Proverb: 22. With my brain already stirred up by the travel flurry, I have a hard time slowing down enough to feel like I’m actually grasping anything. <i>Lord, help me see what you want me to see!</i></span><span class="JsGRdQ white-space-prewrap"></span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"><span class="JsGRdQ white-space-prewrap"></span><span class="JsGRdQ">I linger a while on verse 9,</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"><span class="JsGRdQ">“Whoever has a bountiful eye will be blessed, for he shares his bread with the poor.”</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"><span class="JsGRdQ white-space-prewrap"></span><span class="JsGRdQ">A bountiful eye? What does that mean? I chew on what this phrase might be getting at for as long as my sleep-deprived mom brain will allow. Finally I finish out the chapter, hoping that some sort of seed has been sown in me. With such a quick and blurry-eyed devotional life, I admit that I sometimes wonder if my days of seeing and hearing from the Lord are long lost in a sea of diapers, fruit snacks, and googling how to attack various types of stains. <i>Oh Lord, am I still of any use to you?</i></span><span class="JsGRdQ white-space-prewrap"></span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"><span class="JsGRdQ">Later, after a warm greeting from Michael and his solid crew of rowdy yet lovable teenage boys, we all load up in one of Micah Project's fifteen-passenger vans (15? That’s it? Nah, there’s always room for one more!). As we drive along the windy highway, we come up on a toll way of sorts that is lined with people, mostly women and children, who are running up to vehicles with a small selection of typical treats, hoping to make any profit they can as they themselves bake in the hot sun. I’ve gotten so used to this scene that I forget the Christ-like compassion that the Micah boys apparently have not. Fifteen-year-old David leans out the window to call over one of the vendors. I imagine he is hungry for a sweet snack, but instead he surprises me by handing her the delicious Burger King whopper he has been saving for himself. Inspired by his generosity, every other Micah boy begins to join in, searching the van for every order of fries and burgers they can find, all so that they, too, can give them away.</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"><span class="JsGRdQ white-space-prewrap"></span><span class="JsGRdQ">And that’s when I remember and start to understand Proverbs 22:9,</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-center para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"><span class="JsGRdQ" style="font-weight: 700;">“Whoever has a bountiful eye will be blessed, for he shares his bread with the poor.”</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"><span class="JsGRdQ">Oh… So this is what it means to have a bountiful eye—seeing another’s need and giving whatever you have to meet it! I am particularly struck by who I am seeing with such a “bountiful eye” in this moment—the very kids who come to us begging and hoarding and stealing, all because they have been trained to think they won’t have their needs met unless they have an eye out for themselves. And now look at them! Freely giving to another the very thing they just treasured moments ago (and, believe me, a whopper is no small thing to an ever-ravenous boy stuck who is stuck for hours in a van). How? A bountiful eye. Through these kids’ time at Micah, experience has shown them, they are cared for—a bed to sleep on, a roof over their heads, food on their plates, and love wherever they turn. Now full, they remember what it feels like when they themselves were once empty, cold, hungry, alone. And instead of turning their eye, they catch sight, they have mercy, they give.</span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"><span class="JsGRdQ white-space-prewrap"></span><span class="JsGRdQ">And then I wonder… why didn’t I join in, shuffling through my own snack bag to experience the blessing of sharing my food with the hungry, too? And why do I doubt, after all this time seeing the Lord’s never-ending faithfulness to me, that he won’t come through "this time"? Why do I replay anxious thoughts, doubting over and over that I have “enough”? Will I get enough time in the Word to be an effective disciple? Will we have enough financial support heading out on the field? Will I have enough strength to do all that is on my plate--with a whole new kid on the way? Do I have enough time, enough energy, enough sleep, enough talent, enough money.... enough, enough, ENOUGH! </span></p><p class="_04xlpA direction-ltr align-start para-style-body" style="--font-size: 12px; --line-height: 1.57; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; color: #152c30; font-family: "YACgEe79vK0 0", _fb_, auto; letter-spacing: 0.04em; line-height: 18px;"><span class="JsGRdQ">Who do I think I am to doubt that my GOD is enough for me? Why do I anxiously wonder that what I need will eventually run out, when my proven-trustworthy Lord has promised me that he will supply all my needs according to his glorious riches in Christ (Philippians 4:19)? He always has, and he always will—even in spite of my not-enoughness. I look at these boys, and I wonder, could the grace the Lord has shown to them be big enough for me? Hint: it is. For me. For you. And the more time we spend in His house, the more naturally and readily we’ll begin to believe it, and the more naturally we and readily we will be able to share that grace, too</span></p>Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-74526787430794478322020-03-10T07:52:00.004-05:002020-03-11T10:13:40.392-05:00Where I Belong<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>(This past weekend at our church in St. Louis, Jared and I were asked to give a testimony on 'Belonging'. Now days later, we find ourselves about to board a plane to Honduras once again. As we go, I carry the reminder that God truly is at work in us in both places. No matter what part of this earth we find ourselves in, we are always underneath our Father's roof.)</i><br />
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I didn’t want to come here. I’d just spent nearly five years with The Micah Project, and I had no interest in moving away from a place that I loved, people that I loved, a job that I loved, and--in my pride--a reputation that I loved. <i>Micah</i> was where I felt like I belonged. What could I possibly have <i>here</i> that I didn’t already have t<i>here</i>? </div>
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Oh right: him <i>(points to Jared)</i>. I loved Jared, and Jared was <i>here</i>. But there were also moments and days when I forgot. Or, at least, when I wondered if that ‘love’ would be enough (no matter how great a job Jared did at showing me). A few weeks before getting married, a dear friend and staff member at Micah asked me what I was afraid of as I looked ahead. I answered, “that Jared would figure out he didn’t want me, and I’d be stuck in his life.” Would I really <i>belong</i> with Jared--in his heart and in his place?</div>
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After hearing me out, my friend responded, “Even if that’s true--which I really don’t think it is--you’re going to be okay.” And he was right. The answer to my fears was not convincing myself that Jared loves me--though I know that he does--the answer to my fears was knowing that the One who has <i>always</i> loved me will always <i>keep on </i>loving me. As I approached one of the biggest changes of my life, the biggest part of my life never would: the Lord. He is the same--always has been and always will be--and my standing with Him is sure, unchanging. I <i>belong</i> to him, and nothing--NOTHING--can change that.</div>
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So, what does that have to do with “belonging” at Central? Well, just as my marriage to Jared, though utterly beautiful and an incredible gift, is not where I find my <i>ultimate</i> belonging, neither do I find it at Central. My belonging, first and foremost, is in my identity with Christ. He has chosen me, and that type of choosing lasts for an eternity. Sure, I wish that my marriage to Jared would extend into eternity, too, but it’s not going to. Marriage is for this side of the Second Coming, but our connection to one another as fellow children and heirs of Christ? Well, that’s forever! This realization doesn’t lessen my commitment to him, but rather<i> increases</i> it. Our bond in marriage is for a <i>lifetime</i>, but our bond as fellow members of the family of God is for an <i>eternity</i>. Likewise, whether you like it or not, all of you fellow children are stuck with me for an eternity, too ;).</div>
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You see, our membership to Central Presbyterian Church is temporary, but our membership to one another as members of the body of Christ is not. I don’t belong here because I have a prestigious business card I can hand you, or a host of nearby friends and family to boost my reputation, or a knowledge of this city’s rich history, or a stage where I can showcase all my talents to impress you. I’ll be honest, I wanted those things at first--to tangibly claim my place here--but God needed to show me (AGAIN!) that <i>He</i> is my entrance. And He is yours, too. Jesus is how we are connected for an <i>eternity</i>, and not just at Central but anywhere we go. But right now he has me--and you--<i>here</i>. And while he does, I look forward to seeing how God uses and shapes who he has made me (and you) to be through the power of the Gospel. We’re growing<i> together</i>. Broken believers bumping up against broken believers--confessing, forgiving, serving, praying, loving, grieving, and rejoicing (kind of like marriage, huh?)--together looking forward to the coming of Jesus--in whose heart and place we <i>truly</i> belong. Forever.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-size: medium; text-align: left;">(Oh, and speaking of 'belonging', there is a new member to the family. Introducing BABY BULLOCK! Coming to you this summer :))</i></td></tr>
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Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-8627694703707072592019-08-29T08:06:00.000-05:002019-08-29T09:25:14.375-05:00Loved to Loveliness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Jared! Look!" I run up to my now-husband on our trip home from our honeymoon. I point to the Scripture I had just distanced myself to read. Matthew 4, the wilderness... post-baptism.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">"Look, Jared!" I say again, as if he hadn't heard my previous shrieks in a public airport. "The Father told Jesus that he was his beloved son <i>before</i> he went into the wilderness! <i>These</i> were the words that were tested! <i>This </i>is what Jesus knew was true of him! <i>That</i> is how he defeated the enemy!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Somehow in that moment I knew exactly what I was saying. After a clear and miraculous demonstration of love that was just showered on me, I knew deep down where I was headed next: the wilderness. And I knew that no matter how much I thought I knew I was loved now, that truth was going to be tested. But I also knew that truth would be exactly what I would need to make it through a dry season. And I was right.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It has been a sly trick of the enemy to attempt to convince me that I'm loved because I'm lovely, rather than the other way around. I didn't know how easy it would be to see pictures of myself in a wedding gown and feel pressure to always be that beautiful, lest my husband's eye for me start to wander. I didn't know how simple it would be to start letting his compliments regarding my heart for others turn into a rubric for how I must continue to look like a Proverbs 31 woman. I didn't know how much the lie had seeped into me that the love I'd been shown by him was actually something I had somehow earned and therefore would need maintenance to be up kept. And I certainly didn't know how much any belief in those lies would perpetuate the very thing I feared in the first place: looking and acting <i>ugly</i>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Anxious striving and performing--like a tumbleweed of never-going-to-be-good enough works that are blown away by the wind. And yet I keep chasing them down to try and prove myself to be as valuable as I felt when I was in the center of what I assumed to be God's will. And, yes, my time at Micah was certainly God's will for me, but so is this. This time of letting the 'my beloved' words get rooted in me without a stack of reasons I can cling onto for why I somehow deserve to be. The words that remind me of who I am. My new, unearned identity: his.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For some reason, though, those aren't the words I think I want to hear most of the time, because trusting those words means trusting someone outside of me. Trusting someone else's love. A love I can't control. And so I find that I would rather be the one loving, not the one needing. Need scares me. It's vulnerable. And most of the time, I don't like it. What girl wants to be thought of as 'needy'? Who could love a girl like that? But as much as I want to be in a place where I'm not rushing my husband to the urgent care because I slice my finger open when I try to cook. Or in a place where my house is no longer overrun by kids to take care <i>of</i>, but rather where I'm the one curled up in a ball and being cared <i>for</i>. Or where I find myself in a puddle of tears because even though my head knows the truth my heart is taking some time to catch up... But that's exactly where I find myself. And when I'm at my utter worst I also find myself wanting to go home, because I wonder if I'm really wanted in this one. Because I wonder if who I am is not enough. But when I believe that? I'm not trusting my husband. I'm not trusting his promise. And I not only hurt me, but him. And yet, even in the moments where my mistrust has turned into swords, Jared has still looked me in the eye and spoken all those lies away. He has given me his word... I just need to believe him--that I'm wanted, in <i>our</i> home--and, by God's grace, I do.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No, home isn't Honduras anymore. But neither is it is here in St. Louis. Or in the States at all, for that matter. Not really. Home has now become for me where my husband is. Home is where my heart is at rest with my husband's deep assurance that I'm loved by him. Not because I'm lovely, but rather, because his love for me is bigger than me, bigger than us. That the marriage promise really is safe. No outs. And thankfully, believing that is true puts my heart in the place where I become the wife I want to be for him: lovely. And that belief brings me to the place where I can finally love again, just like I've been loved: freely and fully. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes, I've seen the Lord's love in a beautiful, raw, and vulnerable way through my husband here on earth--especially when I feel most unlovable. But, as wonderful as Jared is, his love has only been an imperfect glimpse. Though our marriage here on earth is a promise to be kept, as broken human beings we won't live into our vows perfectly. In the end, our confidence can't come from each other or we'll fall every time the other does. And, aside from that, our marriage here has an expiration date. One of us will inevitably feel the weight of that 'til death do us part' one day. But that doesn't mean our love and our hope are coming to an end. Because our hope for home isn't ultimately based in each other. We have a true Home that's coming through a marriage that is built for forever. Our true Husband has promised to love us--his bride, the church. A love that is free from fear that death will ever again part us. One day our Husband will bring both our hearts to the place where they are always truly safe: with Him. And we will never, ever have to believe the lie again that we have somehow earned his love. I don't want to play the game of eternal love-maintenance, and thankfully we won't have to... when we are finally fully lovely, because we are beholding the face of the loveliest Husband we could ever imagine: Jesus.</span><br />
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<span style="color: dimgrey; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">For in him all the fullness of God was pleased to dwell, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether on earth or in heaven, making peace by the blood of his cross.</span></div>
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<span style="color: dimgrey; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">And you, who once were alienated and hostile in mind, doing evil deeds, he has now reconciled in his body of flesh by his death, in order to present you holy and blameless and above reproach before him, if indeed you continue in the faith, stable and steadfast, not shifting from the hope of the gospel that you heard, which has been proclaimed in all creation under heaven...</span></div>
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Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-4297890852629708752019-07-15T13:54:00.000-05:002019-07-15T14:03:34.908-05:00Fading Flowers, Lasting Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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"The grass withers, the flower fades,</div>
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but the word of our God will stand forever."</div>
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Isaiah 40:8</div>
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There are only a few weeks left at Micah before my pending wedding, and my heart is heavy. The weight of what I am leaving behind is as prominent in my thoughts as the new season to come. And though my faith is renewed by the reminder that the Lord--the I-AM God--is present in and through it all, I am still struck by the brevity--as well as the eternality--of life.<br />
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<i>Holding onto Mocha's paw, I look into the eyes of this 91 dog-year old chocolate lab as the teary-eyed vet gives him his last injection. The gray-haired smile of Micah's 'grandpa' brings tears to all of our eyes as we gaze back at him. Mocha has been a companion and friend to many at Micah for what has felt like an eternity, but in this moment we all know his life in this world is not eternal at all but coming to a close.</i><br />
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<i>I have encountered death in so many forms here at Micah, but this is my first time to sit with a creature at the crossroads. With each moment I have left with him, I wonder which one will be his last, and as I do time feels suspended--hanging in the balance. I know the moment I have with this dog now will soon be a memory. So how do I embrace each moment of life when I know that death is coming?</i><br />
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<i>Before I know how to answer this question, it comes. Mocha passes--his body and memory remaining with us--and the day goes on.</i><br />
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<i>The previous moments still lingering, I begin to clean out my room, knowing I won't have much more unscheduled time before the coming wedding. Going through pictures, notes, and prayers, I am reminded of the Lord's faithfulness through so many seasons. Seasons that have died but that still live on in memory. Seasons whose passing have always cleared the way for something new to come forth--bringing my heart great gratitude as I know another season is coming to a close... and another is beginning. One moment gone, another in store. For me, for those around me, for those I have never known... but all known by the Lord.</i><br />
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"All known by the Lord."<br />
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This thought brings me great comfort as I step forward into life alongside the man that I love--knowing there are so many I know and love here that I am about to leave behind. In body, that is, but not in heart--that is a place they will never leave. Even so, the Lord has allowed me to be here with them in body for a time--to live and to love those who he has placed me with in a way that is tangible to them. Not that I've done this perfectly--I have contributed both to the hurt as well as the healing in my time here--but somehow the Lord shows his unbroken love to and through broken people (me being one of them). And I know that his unbroken love will continue to shower all over my Micah family--no matter where we all go. The Lord is with them as he is with me. And I want them to know it.<br />
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<i>Elvin, our newest Micah boy, bursts into my cabin, "Is it true you're going to the States?"</i></div>
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<i>Prepared for this, I affirm gently, "After we get married? Yes. For a while."</i></div>
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<i>Elvin and I gaze at each other for some time until I remind him, "You know that we love you."</i></div>
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<i>Elvin nods.</i></div>
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<i>"And the Lord loves you," I say. "And just think about how faithful he has been to you."</i></div>
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<i>I remind him of how the Lord had his eye on him while he was on the streets, that we were all praying for him there, that the Lord brought him to Micah, how the Lord has continued to be with him here, and how he always will be.<br /><br />Elvin looks at me, listening intently. I tell him of how Jesus loved his disciples and trusted the Father's plan for him, knowing that he was to go the the cross and leave them for a little while, but how he then resurrected and returned--giving us hope that life together is forever. The separation is just for a while. And that, by God's grace, the family of God will all be together for eternity one day.</i></div>
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<i>"The Lord will never stop loving you," I say. "I am just one of the many, many ways he has shown you some of that love."</i></div>
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<i>As he looks at me, his current teacher (apparently he ditched class for this conversation) knocks on my door. "I'm looking for my student," she smiles at us with a knowing glance.</i></div>
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<i>I look back at Elvin, "See? She loves you too. God is going to continue to show you his love through so many people."</i></div>
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<i>Elvin leaves and walks off with his teacher, who loves him (by the grace of God). A grace I know the Lord will continue to show him--forever.</i></div>
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And so, as I look to the Marriage to come, I know that I can walk forward with confidence. Knowing not only I, but these boys, are in his hands. The Lord is on the other side of this aisle of life. An aisle the Father has walked us down. He has been by our side through each and every passing moment. And then, at the end of the aisle, when the Lord Jesus embraces us as his Bride, we will finally be able to truly experience the forever-life that he bought us through his love--a love that endures forever.</div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-51896306335540696702019-04-17T12:51:00.001-05:002019-04-25T15:23:36.367-05:00Lady in Waiting<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsiOxpcA8bXkl8GyrjPZkFMixGwV01GETn_niThveV-xTzauoffNGxM2uECj14u2UyJ7AzM7bcGjxRfbC8nT42o7mUyO8KiEXxUlKTzP9ZqhyphenhyphenzlL9XElWd23jM_wTjAUhZ9uzVzmAV0Y4/s1600/2019-04-10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="512" data-original-width="384" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsiOxpcA8bXkl8GyrjPZkFMixGwV01GETn_niThveV-xTzauoffNGxM2uECj14u2UyJ7AzM7bcGjxRfbC8nT42o7mUyO8KiEXxUlKTzP9ZqhyphenhyphenzlL9XElWd23jM_wTjAUhZ9uzVzmAV0Y4/s400/2019-04-10.jpg" width="300" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "comic sans ms" , "marker" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Surprise, I'm engaged! </span></span></span></div>
<span style="color: #444444; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">While on a brief trip to the States to do a couple of Gospel of John shows, Jared (the incredible man over whom I made a <a href="https://kelseycratty.blogspot.com/2018/08/rash-decisions.html">RASH DECISION</a>) flew into my hometown and proposed in my childhood living room--just a few days after he and his parents had visited me at The Micah Project in Honduras. And yet, magical as that trip was, Jared waited until I was back in the States. In the one place I always feel at my absolute worst: Rockford, IL. Where all of my brokenness, attitude, and unworthiness is most clearly on display. There--that's where Jared promised to love me forever. There--the place I'm at my worst. And, as magical as that location does not feel, I can't think of anything more romantic.</span><div style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", sans-serif; text-align: center;">
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<br /><br /><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Post-proposal Jared and I drive back to his current city--St. Louis, where I have another John show lined up. The days fly by--filled with so much love, encouragement, and support from friends and family. And then, far too suddenly, it is time to go again. Devastated, I get in the car to take two days to visit my dear friend and fellow Micah missionary, Stephen Kusmer*, in Indiana. Stephen was diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer this past January while I was in Rockford for my Grandpa's memorial service. Because he was suddenly rushed to the States, I haven't been able to see him since receiving the news. And though I have been longing to see him, right now my mind is blank, and I can't seem to think let alone get excited for this long-desired visit.<br /><br />"Lord, help me to break out of this sadness--to be a blessing and encouragement to Stephen," I pray.<br /><br />Prayer prayed, the sadness remains. I trust upon seeing my dear friend that all my sadness will fade away, even if only for the sake of my friend, but I still have a few hours left in this car ride and I don't want to waste them. Even so, I can't help but feel empty, not hopeful, so I pray again,<br /><br />"Lord rather than be sad about what I've left behind, help me to prepare for what is to come."<br /><em><br />Prepare... wait a minute... Oh my gosh! I'm getting MARRIED!?! </em>Suddenly I feel utterly unworthy. A rag-romping Cinderella in need of some sort of anointed fairy godmother. Entirely out of my element, I pray again,<br /><br />"Lord, please help me with the dress!"<br /><br />(Hint: he does).<br /><br />When I finally arrive at Stephen's door, I am instantly flooded with peace and joy. After a wonderful day together, Stephen tells me that our Micah friends--Sara and Paty--are coming for a visit, too. Sara, from Honduras, moved to Iowa a year ago to be with her mom after nearly her whole life apart. Paty is in the area for a couple of days visiting Sara. So, of course, they decide to visit Stephen in IN the same day I do (my presence unbeknownst to them).<br /><br />I open the door when they arrive, and they are obviously shocked to see me. (None of us have ever seen each other outside of Honduras). Paty immediately notices my hand, "KELSEY!?!?!?"<br /><br />"Yup, I'm engaged."<br /><br />Appropriate teasing ensues for the girl who 'never needed a man.' Paty grins and imagines me all done-up in a wedding dress. <em>Ugh... the dress...</em><br /><br />"Girls, I have NO IDEA what to do about a DRESS!"<br /><br />Immediately, Sara chimes in, "I have two bags of wedding dresses in my car!"<br /><br /><i>Wait... What? She can't be serious...</i><br /><br />"<i>¿En serio?</i> I just prayed for a wedding dress!"<br /><br />"<i>¡Sí!</i> My aunt got these for me to sell to consignment shops so I could raise money to send to Honduras--to help people. But no one will by them from me. Since I'm <i>Latina</i>--"<br /><br />She doesn't even need to finish her statement for me to understand--they think she stole them.</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Imagining I must have heard wrong (second language problems), I casually follow her out to the car from which she pulls out two massive bags of, yup, wedding dresses. I take out the first and, to my surprise, it's gorgeous. I put it on, and I feel like a princess. I try on the rest, but this is the one I come back to. I check for the male approval in the room. "That one," Stephen affirms, as baffled by all this as I am.<br /><br />Trying to find words, I tell Sara I have some money in my backpack (not that it would even be nearly enough) but she stops me, "NO! This is the will of God, Kelsey. These dresses were to help people. God wanted you to have it--it's yours."<br /><br />Still stunned, I take in the sight of my dear friends. Friends, who have had particularly trying seasons this year, and here they are genuinely and humbly celebrating with me... And all I want right now is for them to have my joy.<br /><br />"Alright!" I insist and gather them round. "I'm praying for YOU! Because this is OUR Father who has blessed me today, which means he's not only my father, he's yours, too. And that same faithfulness you see in God towards me is the same character of the God who loves YOU."<br /><br />And then... I pray. Once I finish, I open my eyes to see hopeful, heart struck tears. And I know--this dress is not just for me. This dress is a sign, a symbol--of the Lord's extravagant love for <i>all </i>his children.<br /><br />Yes, I'm getting married. But whether or not that ever happened this side of eternity, I know that the true marriage is to come. Our Lord Jesus is the ultimate romantic. He committed to us with a promise when we were at our utter worst--when we nailed perfect him to a sinner's cross--and he will see his promise through to the very end when he clothes us in the most beautiful and priceless garment we could ever imagine: his righteousness. And though it cost him everything, he has given us himself... no charge.</span></span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: 400; text-align: center;"><br />----------</span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /><br />*Read more about Stephen's journey <a href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/stephen-ku%C5%9Bmer/thoughts-from-the-chemo-chair/2383946554988951/">here</a> & please join us in praying for him!<br /><br />**As Jared and I have been praying into our wedding, Jesus' parable of the Great Banquet (Luke 14:12-14) keeps surfacing. Feel free to pray with us into what this could mean for those around us as we prepare.</span></span></span></h1>
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Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-11434886613941934242019-01-19T11:37:00.001-06:002019-04-25T15:20:49.766-05:00Glimpses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">When someone dies, a lot gets ‘left behind’. Money (or debt, I suppose), clothes, trinkets, pictures, you-name-it. And that stuff has to go somewhere, does it not? So, the question comes: who wants what? What goes where? All that left-behind ‘stuff’ may have already been specifically assigned, or maybe it will be sorted through later by family, or perhaps picked through in a big estate sale or thrift store by strangers. Interestingly, the same item seems to decrease in value the ‘further out’ it goes in that line of thinking. If someone you love specifically denotes something for you, you’d value said-item far more than if you were to happen upon it in a resale shop. Why? Because of your attachment to the person, not the thing. The thing just calls that person to mind.</span></span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I was pondering this as I got home and saw so much of my grandpa’s ‘stuff’. I’m not a particularly nostalgic person, so the things felt more like clutter than a reminder of him. Now, I’m not knocking those who are nostalgic, I recognize we are all different and to some an item of a loved one is a way to treasure their memory. And there is certainly room for both in the Bible--we have examples of when God commanded the Israelites to travel with tangible reminders of those before them (Aaron’s budded staff, for example) and times when what was supposed to be a beautiful reminder/sign went sour when they started worshipping that thing rather than the God it pointed to, and therefore God would destroy it to make a point (i.e. the Temple). That said, my non-nostalgia is not me patting myself on the back for being more spiritual than the rest of you ‘stuff people’. Like I said, there’s beauty in both (when the heart is right, that is).</span></span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Even so, I wonder what we value most of what my grandpa, Gerald Larson, ‘left behind’ and what that says about us. Is it his woodworking--all that artistic skill, wow!, is it his sharp wardrobe--we all know he had an eye for fashion!, is it his library of highly theological works--what a mind!? What are we drawn to? Why?</span></span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, if there’s something we value of what got ‘left behind’ we can’t just have it--we first have to honor at least some degree of hierarchy for preference of who gets what, right? For example, family was called to look through my grandpa’s woodworking and wardrobe, not the manager of Good Will. But who gets first pick? Well, I’d say the one it all belongs to in the first place: God. He made us and all the stuff that we made whatever we made with, so he should get to go through and pick out what he wants before giving the rest of us a go, should he not? So why doesn’t he? Well, I’d say it’s because he already did. He has picked. And he chose the person.</span></span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Right now, as we speak, Gerald Larson--not even that name as we know it, but Gerald Larson the person--right now is with the one he belongs to. When all is said and done, who we are is who God cares about. That’s who he came to save. Not our stuff, not our wardrobe, not our list of achievements, not our show-and-tell of ‘good works’, not our paintings and poems, not our books, not even our bodies as we know them here, but our person. Our spirit, who has a new body waiting for us. One that is not wrecked by sin, disease, pride, resentment, pain, and even fleeting, misplaced pleasure. But a perfected, forever body that holds our now perfected spirit. No longer at war internally or externally. Within and without--united in faith, hope, and love.</span></span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">While my Grandpa was on earth, I loved him--dearly. I still do. And I got to behold glimpse after glimpse of who he is: Gerald Larson, the person. Not just the artist, not just the intellectual, not just the woodworker, not just the prankster, not just the stubborn competitor, and not even just the pastor. But him. The glimpse of him that I got to see when his spirit warred with his flesh--and won. You see, I counted his ‘disease’ (as I’ve heard it called) a blessing. Because when his ‘disease’ or ‘flesh’ or whatever you want to call it took over and he was unkind, or harsh, or lashing out, or lying, I got the privilege to know that that is not him. At least not the true him, the new him. That is the sin--the ‘old self’--that Jesus died for that got left behind with all the rest of his stuff. Because of the extremity of the ‘disease,’ it was as if I got to watch the weeds being separated from the wheat right before my eyes, which then enabled me to see with greater clarity who he is alongside who he is not. All that came from ‘the disease’--or his sin--is not my grandpa, because he doesn’t ‘take it with him’, so to speak. The sin died with Jesus on the cross.</span></span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">My grandpa is who is now held in my Father’s hands. It is my grandpa I got to see when he knew he was weak and humbly acknowledged his need for the Lord. My grandpa who sparkled as he retold his favorite Bible stories. My grandpa who with faith and wisdom would preach a sermon that would cut right to our hearts. My grandpa who with free laughter would play with uninhibited joy like a child. My grandpa who would flood us with love as he would speak and pray over us. My grandpa who could care less what sort of ‘cultural rules’ we were supposed to abide by when he felt moved to do something by the Lord. My grandpa who shined when he would talk about how dearly he loved my grandma. You see, I don’t think he was delusional for forgetting grandma’s ‘failures’ when he would talk of her; rather, I think he learned something a little quicker than the rest of us: that that beautiful wonderful her that he would revel in was just a sliver of a glimpse of who the Lord had been crafting her to be all along. My grandpa remembered and looked towards the true her, the new her. The her with all of her sin washed away.</span></span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh if we could see each other through those eyes! The eyes of the Lord’s grace and redemption! If only we could also look at one other with ‘hope eyes’-- letting the lens of Jesus’ blood draw us to who we are becoming in him. The redeemed who. The who my grandpa is now finally fully free to be--the who he is in and with Jesus. The true him. The him I one day long to see. Because all the squinty, imperfect glimpses I got to see of him, my wonderful grandpa Gerald Larson, here were already so, incredibly beautiful. And those were just glimpses! So, that’s what grandpa left behind for me: glimpses. Glimpses of who he is in Christ. Glimpses that we carry to some extent, too, as those glimpses have shaped who we are. And for now, those glimpses will carry me through, until I finally get to see my grandpa, Gerald Larson, for who he truly is--when he is finally revealed in full. In glory.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nGWXRneqD8c6t2ktooSBNBiIuhlWbK5iV1kpZtyTHRODM96DBAyJtikhgZpXxwjEqUJWExVr30qXVNY6-QO04LvWTeVY4aU-6wNAfIT4A89WfozatoM7plqXGmBxtl0vFaRM_2i6MYmg/s1600/50167515_1297490530389758_2532023597703102464_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nGWXRneqD8c6t2ktooSBNBiIuhlWbK5iV1kpZtyTHRODM96DBAyJtikhgZpXxwjEqUJWExVr30qXVNY6-QO04LvWTeVY4aU-6wNAfIT4A89WfozatoM7plqXGmBxtl0vFaRM_2i6MYmg/s200/50167515_1297490530389758_2532023597703102464_n.jpg" width="150" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><i style="white-space: pre-wrap;">For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.
Romans 8:18-21</i></span></div>
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Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-91218609296428019152018-10-13T12:28:00.001-05:002018-10-13T13:12:47.022-05:00Flickers of Light<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"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.<br />
"Shit," our fourteen-year old firecracker responds with a hard look in his eye. "Because that's how I feel right now."<br />
After letting his sharp words land, I pointedly reply with a firm tone, "Listen to me: <i>none</i> of you is shit. You hear me? None of you."<br />
Firecracker Boy snaps his head in my direction, finally acknowledging my presence with a newfound awe in his voice, "Did you all hear Kelsey!?"<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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"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.<br />
"Why's that?" I ask gently.<br />
"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."<br />
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...<br />
"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."<br />
Prodigal Boy looks at me, absorbing my words but not sure yet what to think.<br />
"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 <i>him</i> 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."<br />
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?<br />
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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. <br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
"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.<br />
"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."<br />
"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."<br />
"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."<br />
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.<br />
"The voice that tells you that you are worthless," I repeat. <i>"That voice is NOT the Lord's!"</i><br />
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 <i>life</i>.<br />
"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."<br />
Oh, if they would only believe it...<br />
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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.<br />
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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 <i>him</i> 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.<br />
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Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-59081454090034085882018-08-13T12:47:00.003-05:002018-08-13T12:58:52.882-05:00Rash Decisions<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
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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.<br />
"Jhon..." I interrupt his 'flow.'<br />
"Mmhmm," he responds (just to appease me--his attention is still fixed on his cell phone screen).<br />
"When a man goes out fishing, are there different sorts of lures depending on what he is trying to catch?"<br />
"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.<br />
"Okay, so what does that mean for girls?" I ask. "What kind of girl do you want to catch?"<br />
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.<br />
"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?"<br />
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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.<br />
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Enter: Boy. Exit: Wisdom.<br />
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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 <i>good</i>. 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.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYvtIweL3T10cZI5L4172FA6qGyXEgprKDFjNZkE9Vg4kpgK12qp3ci4pYUF8EapDMekhouXILXS8wTeiYLnEuJzc0f3YArqqRPBhwb7awheXnl70l3z9BS6kMf0_EFawB9uVII8-md8eG/s1600/39067698_417465892109080_3492327505690361856_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYvtIweL3T10cZI5L4172FA6qGyXEgprKDFjNZkE9Vg4kpgK12qp3ci4pYUF8EapDMekhouXILXS8wTeiYLnEuJzc0f3YArqqRPBhwb7awheXnl70l3z9BS6kMf0_EFawB9uVII8-md8eG/s320/39067698_417465892109080_3492327505690361856_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /> Enter: a visual rose garden. Exit: the pretty scent--none of it has remained. <br /><br />Yup, sure enough up my arm I have begun to form a giant, painful, blistery, rose-colored rash. <i>Well this is lovely</i>. Not only has my bait fallen off the hook, but I'm pretty sure I've just added some strong repellant. <i>Oops...</i><br />
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...<br />
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.<br />
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 <i>He </i>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 <i>Him</i>--who looks not at outward appearance, but at the heart.<br />
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.</div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-81642023597364619842018-08-03T23:02:00.003-05:002018-08-10T12:23:48.122-05:00Dirty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Giovanni...<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?"<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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!"<br />
<br />
He reluctantly agrees, but listens nonetheless.<br />
<br />
"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!"<br />
<br />
Giovanni stares at me, unsure what I mean by 'good news'.<br />
<br />
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!"<br />
<br />
Giovanni drinks in my words, then wanders off to a corner by himself. To think.<br />
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br /></div>
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But is that really so surprising?</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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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." </div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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<br /></div>
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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!?!</div>
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<br /></div>
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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.</div>
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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.</div>
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Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-25565987451543185222018-06-30T20:05:00.001-05:002018-07-01T00:31:37.949-05:00Ending the Hunger Games<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Another death.<br />
<br />
A casualty or a sacrifice?<br />
<br />
I'm counting on the latter.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And so, here we are, faced with another death...<br />
<br />
Another death.<br />
<br />
A casualty or a sacrifice?<br />
<br />
I'm counting on the latter.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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 <i>true </i>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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>real </i>personal.<br />
<br />
Oh Belen!<br />
<br />
Another death.<br />
<br />
A casualty or a sacrifice?<br />
<br />
I'm counting on the latter.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>we </i>chose in our rebellion against God. And yet death is not what we think it is. Death is <i>not</i> 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.<br />
<br />
<br />
*Belen. English translation: 'Bethlehem.' Hebrew meaning: 'House of Bread' with a strong connotation for 'House of Battle.'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-5962804824137106512018-06-27T13:20:00.000-05:002018-06-29T22:04:33.254-05:00Valued<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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" (<i>"</i>take care of the plants<i>"). Yeah yeah yeah, and the people?<br /> </i>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!"<br />
This previously wordless teen suddenly jumps up to defend herself, "Only because Ana is so annoying! She won't stop bothering me!"<br />
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, <i>everything</i>--he called it good. But do you know what he called <i>very </i>good?"<br />
By this point, another street girl has wandered her way over to me to answer my prompt: "Us."<br />
"That's right," I affirm. "Of all creation, God put his image in <i>us</i>. 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<i>, </i>and if that is the price he paid then we are very valuable. <i>You</i> are very<i> </i>valuable. So treat each other like it, got it?"<br />
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, <i>very</i> 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.<br />
<br />
<i>You are very, very valuable... </i>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 <i>something... </i>but where does that leave them in the end? Abandoned--with a baby, an absent father, and feeling even more worthless than before.<br />
But whether they know it or not, these girls <i>are </i>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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
Pulling her aside I say, "You want to be loved for who you <i>are</i>--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."<br />
I then point my finger up to the sky and show her the stars. "Beautiful right?"<br />
She nods.<br />
"When God created the stars he called them good, but when he created us he called us <i>very </i>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 <i>very </i>valuable. Live like it."<br />
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 <i>beautiful.</i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> </i>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 <i>His </i>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?</div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-25449308596145428782018-06-16T09:45:00.000-05:002018-06-16T09:55:37.134-05:00The Hum-Drum Life<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...</i><br />
<br />
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...<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<i>Drummmm Drm Drum Drummmmmm Drum Drum Drummm...</i><br />
<br />
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...<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...</i><br />
<br />
"You're getting tired," his teacher notes without looking up from his phone. "Take a break."<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
Jhon comes back and takes up the what-should-be-steady rhythm once more.<br />
<br />
<i>Drummm Drum Druum Drummm Drum Druuum Drummm...</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Cue: Mamma bear. I decide to load up my ammo, too: words.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
"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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<i>"Patience, it's the hardest thing..."</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
<i>Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...</i><br />
<i>Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...</i><br />
<i>Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...<br /><br />"Patience, it's the hardest thing..."</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<i>Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...</i><br />
<br />
Jesus was...<br />
<br />
<i>Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...</i><br />
<br />
Jesus is...<br />
<br />
<i>Drummm Drm Drum Drummmm Drum Drum Drummm...</i><br />
<br />
Jesus is to come.<br />
<br />
Jesus. Our faithful rock, our steady rhythm, our beautiful melody. Jesus.</div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-62080749719486980602018-05-26T13:48:00.000-05:002018-05-26T14:01:25.685-05:00Needy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
“Helping the poor” is not as glamorous as it sounded pre-doing it.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <i>Don’t you know I fed you yesterday!? Why are you hungry again today?!?</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<i> Yeah, I’m pretty, but I’m not offering you eye-candy or a play toy!</i> (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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
So why keep going back to that street corner?<br />
<br />
<i>“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.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>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.”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The grad looks at me, puzzled, as if I didn’t hear his question. He repeats. So do I:</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<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.”</i><br />
<br />
So why keep going back to that street corner?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
Because Jesus did it for me. He still does.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-89708725169885899722018-05-21T14:45:00.002-05:002018-05-26T22:39:25.550-05:00Fighting Dragons, Rescuing Treasure<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 16px;">Walking with fifteen year-old Luis to buy a coke, our neighborhood Cinderella spots us and runs over to give me a hug.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /><br />“That <i>guirra</i>
called me a @#$%! last night!” our not-so-clean-mouthed-himself Micah
boy rats out the currently sweet-dispositioned 12 year-old.<br />
<br />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?” <br />
<br />
“In castles,” the Micah boy answers as he shrugs his man-body shoulders.<br />
<br />
“Trapped, right?” I ask; he nods. “And what does the knight have to do?”<br />
<br />
“Fight the dragon,” he responds.<br />
<br />
“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—“<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“Exactly.”<br />
<br />
She just hasn’t been saved yet.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.)<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />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. <br />
<br />
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.<br /><br />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.<br />
<br />
So I look at him and smile playfully, “I’m not afraid. You're my <i>compañero</i>!”<br />
<br />"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… <br />
<br />
A few minutes later, Axel decides to clean up the living room. Sweeping.
Mopping. <i>Will cleaning up my mess make me
stop hating myself for making it? </i>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.<br /><br />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</span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 16px;">—</span><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12pt;">by the utter grace of God and the power of his Spirit—I still haven’t flinched. Patience. Grace.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12.0pt;">
<br />
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 <i>nothing</i> has chased us away. Through his
people, the Lord has been pursuing this boy's dragon-protected heart from every angle.<br />
<br />
<i><br />“There is a treasure inside of that girl—“<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
“Exactly.”<br />
<br />
She just hasn’t been saved yet.</i><br /><br /><br />
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: <i>Why?!?!</i> 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 <i>are </i>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
<i>will</i> see through to the end.<br />
<br />
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, <i>very</i> Good News, for he is mighty to save.</span><!--EndFragment--></div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-69041010899719582122018-05-15T12:16:00.002-05:002018-05-19T16:03:07.706-05:00Come Home, Little Kitty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
[Sometimes all that is needed to reach a street kid's feeling-forgotten heart is a story... This one's for you, Marco.]<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Little Kitty</b></div>
<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Here you go, Kitty,” she would say without even a glance before rushing out the door. “We’ll be home soon!”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“The Giant Cat is going to eat us all!” the crowds would cry. “Run away!”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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…<br />
<br />
And suddenly Kid remembered, <i>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...</i><br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Pretty Pretty Kitty,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Oh so small,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Pretty Pretty Kitty,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>May you fall,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>In with love and out of fear,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>As your family brings you near.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>It’s time to hear:</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Come home. Come home. Come home.</i></div>
<br />
<br />
As Kid sang and climbed further and further towards Kitty’s listening ear, the louder Kitty began to…<br />
<br />
Purr…. Purrr… Purrrrrrrr… PURRRRRRRR!<br />
<br />
And as he did, Giant Cat started to get smaller… and smaller... and smaller… All the while getting fuller… and fuller… and fuller…<br />
<br />
Until, Little Kitty was back in Kid’s hands. Purring and sleeping..<br />
<br />
“Little Kitty!” Kid realized. “It’s you!”<br />
<br />
“I am so sorry for leaving you alone, Little Kitty,” Kid hugged his purring kitten. “Let’s go home.”<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The End.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-47069347632013042062018-05-10T13:41:00.001-05:002018-05-12T09:09:45.261-05:00Cared For<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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.<br />
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...<br />
<br />
"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 <i>pulperia</i>."<br />
I swing by the Micah house to let the head of the education department know that I have found (or rather, have been found <i>by</i>) 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.<br />
As Marco takes my key to unlock the gated entrance, he turns to me, "You're going to buy me a <i>fresco</i> 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."<br />
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.<br />
Though I am pretty positive I already 'paid-up,' I agree anyway and pay for his Canada Dry. (But not without a quick lesson.)<br />
"What is money for, Marco?"<br />
"Food," he answers immediately.<br />
"Okay, so what if you knew that all your food was already taken care of?" I ask. "What would your money be for then?"<br />
He shrugs.<br />
"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?"<br />
He thinks about it, but decides against it.<br />
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."<br />
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.<br />
"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."<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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<br />
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.<br />
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 <i>live</i> 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.<br />
<br />
*Translation of the translation: <i>pop</i> is another term for soda/coke. ;)</div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-48309786807327934102018-04-20T22:19:00.001-05:002018-04-20T22:45:09.247-05:00Hidden Colors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
"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--"<br />
<br />
"And he died, the end!" Josue loudly interrupts with a flashy grin. Everyone bursts out laughing, myself included.<br />
<br />
I try again, "Once upon a time there were two fish--"<br />
<br />
Edward #3 doesn't like my start and goes for his own, "Once upon a time there was a <i>huevo interrado</i>!" Everyone (but me) laughs with him. Some sort of innuendo involving eggs.<br />
<br />
"Once... upon... a tiiiiime--" I say with raised eyebrows. Edward #3 finishes, "There was a <i>culebra interrada</i>!" 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.<br />
<br />
"Alright, alright," I roll my eyes with a grin. They're engaged enough with me that I give the storytelling one more shot:<br />
<br />
"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..."<br />
<br />
For some reason, all of the boys are listening. They don't add on, though, so I keep going...<br />
<br />
"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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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!<br />
<br />
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."<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
Oh my little turtles, I long for the day you will come Home... To the One who holds all your colors.</div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-86810210617559418902018-04-05T12:09:00.005-05:002018-04-07T16:48:45.341-05:00Ogre in the Shadows<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"What happened to you?" I ask little, bleeding Axelito as he attempts to slip by me unnoticed.<br /><br />"<i>Pelota</i>," Axelito blames his blackening eye and multiple battle wounds on a soccer ball.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"What happened to Axel?" Noe asks me as we share a watermelon between rounds.<br /><br />"Soccer," I answer as I cut another slice.<br /><br />Noe rolls his eyes and scoffs, <i>"Pelota?! </i>Ha!"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />"That one," Axel points to the cream (the one I said wouldn't hurt).<br /><br />Gently, I rub a little bit of the ointment onto his split-open hand.<br /><br />"Oww!" he winces. <i>Oh no, I didn't mean to lie!</i><br /><i>"</i>I'm sorry!" I apologize and withdraw. "I didn't think it would hurt."<br /><br />Axel grins, "Just kidding," and sticks out another cut-up limb.<br /><br />"You can tell me the truth, you know," I say as gently as I dab. "How did you get these wounds?"<br /><br />"<i>Pelota</i>," Axel repeats. But this time I noticed something I hadn't before in his downcast eyes--a twinge of fear. He's hiding.<br /><br />I nod. The boys know that if there's anything I don't like, it's lying.<br /><br />"Well, Axel, if you <i>did</i> 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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.</span><br />
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What if God hates not you but your persona?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The image you created to mask your inner ogre</div>
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<br /></div>
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Screaming, hiding, buried deep inside</div>
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Everything that’s dead feels hauntingly alive</div>
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And yet something within is desperate to be known</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But so long as you keep faking, you’ll always be alone</div>
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<br /></div>
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Come to the light, Come to the light</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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If everyone’s a monster, is that the key to being free?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Change the rules together, quit fighting the inner demon you call “me”?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Tell me, just tell me, just tell me I’m okay!</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But even if I do, your conscience knows another way</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Come to the light, come to the light</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Maybe, just maybe, you aren’t the “you” you fear you are</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
But you’ll never find your “you” by hiding in the dark</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The secret that you loathe will leak or it will shed</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So nail it to that tree and leave it there for dead</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Come to the light, come to the light</div>
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<br /></div>
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Your life is hidden, but not inside of you,</div>
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You’ll finally be free when you find yourself in Truth</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So why not let die what is already dead?</div>
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The sentence has been written, but Christ has taken it instead</div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>"For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God."</b></span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="background-color: #fdfeff; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #990000; font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>Colossians 3:3</b></span></span></span></div>
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Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-11833798477491492522018-03-30T12:24:00.000-05:002018-03-30T21:29:54.654-05:00Finding the Fatherless<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background: white; color: black;">Junior.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Will
they be able to sift through a list of unshared-memories and reach each other’s
heart?</i> <br />
<br />
“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, <span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; font-size: 12pt;">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.</span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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“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.”<br />
<br />
Junior. The same Junior who is now seated with us in the ‘adult car’ one year later.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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:<i> the</i> Father.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">------------------------</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Are you looking for something?” I ask, noticing that his eyes are searching
the pool floor.<br />
<br />
“Junior’s watch,” he responds without lifting his gaze.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, poor Junior.</i> His cell phone also
got its own little baptism that day. This kid can’t catch a break.<br />
<br />
I start circling the edge and peer into the murky water. All I find are leaves.<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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.”<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
“Go on, look,” I sound more confident than I feel. He hesitates. “Go to the
middle,” I say. “Keep looking.”<br />
<br />
He dives in, and comes up… without a watch. A few more dives. Still no watch. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Come on, God, show this boy that you love
him. Show him that you hear us. Show him that you’ve found him.<br />
<br />
</i>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.<br />
<br />
I make one more circle along the edge… and stop. I see something black. It’s
not a leaf.<br />
<br />
“Right there,” I point.<br />
<br />
Prodigal rushes forward, dives in, and bursts out of the water… with the watch.<br />
<br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Esoooo</i>!” I cheer, then reach out and fist-pump the resurfaced Prodigal. “The ones who prayed!”<br />
<br />
“Huh?” Skeptic is confused by our exchange.<br />
<br />
“Kelsey prayed,” Prodigal shrugs.<br />
<br />
“<i>We</i> prayed,” I say.<br />
<br />
Junior kisses his fingers and points them up to the sky, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">GRACIAS, BUEN PADRE!”<br />
<br />
</i>“Pray for me!” Skeptic inserts, forgetting to uphold his doubtful demeanor.
“I lost my sock!”<br />
<br />
I smile and roll my eyes before walking away. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gracias, buen Padre. Gracias.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The next morning<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12pt;"> I see our project director walking in my direction. He stops in front of me. “Junior’s dad had an
accident this morning,”</span><i style="font-family: calibri; font-size: 12pt;"> </i><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12pt;">he tells me with a grim gaze. “He
passed away.”</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12.0pt;">
<br />
<i>Oh, Junior… </i><br />
<br /><i>
A year ago, you met your father… Today, you will hear he has been taken away…</i><br />
<br />
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… <i>Gracias, buen Padre</i>… 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“Do you have your phone?” our leader asks before we pull out.<br />
<br />
“It’s in the back,” Junior answers. His wet phone is buried in a bag of dry
sand.<br />
<br />
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?”<br />
<br />
His head snaps towards me. <i>What kind of a
question is that?!<br />
<br />
</i>“Why not just throw it away?” I repeat.<br />
<br />
Junior mumbles something I can barely hear, but I catch the drift: he believes
it will work again.<br />
<br />
“We don’t throw away what we value,” I affirm. “It’s worth it to wait… for it to come back to life again.”<br />
<br />
I give a soft squeeze to his shoulder and sink back in my sit. We pass the next moments in silence.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br /><i><br />“That’s his son,” </i>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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
Though the tires keep circling, I have hope for where the bicycle is going. The
Driver, our Good Father, is bringing us Home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12pt;">“<span style="background: #fdfeff; color: #001320;"><i>The LORD</i> watches over the sojourners;
he upholds the widow <i>and the fatherless</i>...”</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Psalm 146:9<br />(The very verse from my Psalm of the day that I 'happened' to be meditating on <i>right before</i> I received the news about Junior's dad) </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12.0pt;">
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footer"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="index heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of figures"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="envelope return"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="footnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="line number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="page number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="endnote text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="table of authorities"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="macro"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="toa heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Bullet 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Number 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Closing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="List Continue 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Message Header"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Salutation"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Date"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text First Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Body Text Indent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Block Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Hyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="FollowedHyperlink"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Document Map"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="E-mail Signature"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Top of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Bottom of Form"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal (Web)"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Acronym"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Address"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Cite"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Code"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Definition"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Keyboard"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Preformatted"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Sample"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Typewriter"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="HTML Variable"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Normal Table"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="annotation subject"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="No List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Outline List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Simple 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Classic 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Colorful 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Columns 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Grid 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table List 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table 3D effects 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Contemporary"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Elegant"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Professional"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Subtle 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Table Web 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Balloon Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
Name="Note Level 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" QFormat="true"
Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="41" Name="Plain Table 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="42" Name="Plain Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="43" Name="Plain Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="44" Name="Plain Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="45" Name="Plain Table 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="40" Name="Grid Table Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46" Name="Grid Table 1 Light"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51" Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52" Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="52"
Name="Grid Table 7 Colorful Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="46"
Name="Grid Table 1 Light Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="47" Name="Grid Table 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="48" Name="Grid Table 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="49" Name="Grid Table 4 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="50" Name="Grid Table 5 Dark Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="51"
Name="Grid Table 6 Colorful Accent 3"/>
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Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-61853713221120250242018-03-29T13:07:00.000-05:002018-03-29T17:24:56.485-05:00Diving In<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My first night back at Micah also happened to be the first
night of our newest boy: Marcos.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
I attempt conversation, “Did you like the Villa Olympica?” (Where the boys go
for their various sports practices).<br />
<br />
“No,” he snorts and storms off.<br />
<br />
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). <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
Roger, one of our veteran caregivers, notices Marcos in a kiddy pool far from
all the action.<br />
<br />
“Come on in here with us,” Roger motions over our curious onlooker.<br />
<br />
“You can touch here,” I affirm. “And we’ll be with you.”<br />
<br />
“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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jugamos landa!”</i> Noe eagerly pulls me
away from the newbie to play a round of tag. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Absolutely! </i>Laughing, tagging, dunking, chasing, Noe and I immerse
ourselves in careless play.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i>Noe-less, I wade over to the boy who no longer wants to be an outsider.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
He nods, his attention still drawn into the huddle of play. I notice my opportunity.<br />
<br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">¿Quiere juntar?” </i>I ask if he wants
to join. Though wordless, his response is affirmative. <br />
<br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Agarre mi brazo</i>,” I extend my arm
for Marcos to grab, which he does, and pull him over to the group <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">relajo</i> (where, even if he let go, he
would still be able to touch).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Just a splash, however. Once the play settles down, his attitude resurfaces.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
He refuses to join.<br />
<br />
I sit on the steps before walking through the door. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Please, Lord, give us wisdom. Give me wisdom in what to do.</i><br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I remember the pool.<br />
<br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Vayanse, chicos</i>,” 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.<br />
<br />
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A la fuerza—no</i>,” 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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
“We aren’t going to force you to have fun,”
I say. “It’s more like… an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">invitation</i>.”<br />
<br />
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.’<br />
<br />
I slide into the seat behind Junior, one of our older boys who had been in the
huddle of irritated convincers.<br />
<br />
“How did you get him to come?” Junior asks, even more dumbfounded than when I
had instructed the boys to leave us alone.<br />
<br />
I lean in and say with a hushed tone, “Remember the pool when Marcos was at the
edge?”<br />
<br />
Junior nods.<br />
<br />
“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.”<br />
<br />
Junior raises his eyebrows and nods—I’ve gained his respect.<br />
<br />
“Oh, and—” I lean in further and whisper, “The real key is… I prayed for
wisdom.”<br />
<br />
I grin, so does Junior. Gotta give credit where credit is due.<br />
<br />
<br />
You know, sometimes I wonder if we spend too much time frustratedly focused on everyone
at the edge of the pool. Convincing, coercing, dragging… "L<span style="background: #fdfeff; color: #001320;">et us do good to everyone, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">especially</i> 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.</span><span style="background: white; color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background: white; color: black;"><br /><br />
“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.</span><b><sup><span style="background: white; color: black; font-size: 9.0pt;"> </span></sup></b><span style="background: white; color: black;">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.”<br />
—Jesus’ prayer over us, the night before he was led to the cross (John
17:24-26)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br /></div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-70348515261121509992018-03-20T16:35:00.002-05:002018-03-20T16:35:46.317-05:00Sailing on to Forever<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.<br />
<br />
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. <i>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.<br />
<br />
</i>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? <br />
<br />
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. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px;">Believing the lie that I am a better author of my own story than the One who wrote me into His.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 12pt;">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?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
<br />
Because each drop matters to me.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.</span><!--EndFragment--></div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-55382885740055711402018-03-10T08:49:00.003-06:002018-03-10T08:49:25.816-06:00Recovery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The blessing isn’t in getting the prescription, but in
taking the prescription. How much good would a doctor’s appointment do me if I
refused to take the treatment he offered?<br />
<br />
Confession: I am a stubborn patient. I naturally fight any prognosis with my
own master Web-MD skills and Kelsey-crafted remedies in an attempt to speed up
the process. In so doing, I make the problem worse.<br />
<br />
I injured my foot in India.<br />
<br />
What is the solution? Rest.<br />
<br />
What do I do? Push myself.<br />
<br />
Why? I don’t want to rest.<br />
<br />
I could just leave the lesson here—pat myself on the back and say, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wow, Kelsey, good for you for knowing
yourself and how stubborn you are—gold medal in self-awareness and humble
admission of your failings… Now go run a 5k.<br />
<br />
</i>What a stupid solution. Unfortunately, it’s a solution I often take…<br />
<br />
But don’t we all?<br />
<br />
Attempting to push through the pain that flares up, ignoring warning signs in
order to keep doing what we want to be doing? In the meantime, we may become
numb to the pain but the problem persists—even if only ‘under the surface’. Meanwhile,
the injury only deepens. By avoiding short-term interruption all we end up with
is long-term consequences.<br />
<br />
“If you understand these things,” Jesus oh-so-wisely told his own
stubbornness-inclined disciples, “Blessed are you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">if you do them</i>.”<br />
<br />
Oh may we not only understand the Lord’s instructions, but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do </i>them! I don’t want to shut out the Doctor’s voice any more. I
need his help to receive the prescription—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pray
for your enemies, forgive, give to the one who begs from you, honor one another
above yourself, submit to authority, be still and know that I am God... </i>But let’s be real—it’s not just the
prescription I need, but also a dose of his Holy<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
</i>Spirit to override my rebellious one so that I’ll actually take it. I’m not
naturally submissive to authority—even His, who has what is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best for me</i> in mind. But by being my own
doctor, all I end up with is a greater problem than the one I started with.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Holy Spirit, convict me. Let’s tackle the
deeper issues, and when you give me your remedy—long-term a road as it may be—give
me the humility, willingness, and perseverence to take it, with the reward in
mind: restoration. Restore me to health, Oh God. Restore me to you.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br /></div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-3746085045671359342018-02-28T09:13:00.000-06:002018-02-28T12:25:07.263-06:00Leaving India (week 4)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
UnhideWhenUsed="true" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" UnhideWhenUsed="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="Table Grid"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" SemiHidden="true" Name="Revision"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" QFormat="true"
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<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 14<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i>“Why God not let Moses enter da Promised Land?” Miss suddenly looks up from
the game on her phone as we drive down the dusty village road. “In your opinion,
why he not get to enter?”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bible question—awesome!<br />
<br />
</i>“Actually I was just talking to someone about that,” I respond excitedly.
“First of all, it was his consequence for not trusting God, right? Hitting the
rock and all that.”<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i>Miss “mmmhmm”s in a ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yeah, yeah,
yeah—and…’ </i>sort of way. This answer isn’t sufficient for her; it isn’t for
me either.<br />
<br />
“But I also think it was the grace of God,” I continue. “All the longing for
the Promised Land, God knew that would never be satisfied here in this world. I
think—in some ways--God was protecting Moses from disappointment. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Is this really what I have been waiting for?
</i>It wasn’t the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">true</i> Promised Land,
you know?”<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
<br />
</i>Miss “mmmhmm”s in a ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">okay, okay, I
get that’ </i>sort of way. This answer has left her with something more. Not
fully satisfying, but enough.<br />
<br />
God’s consequence was really God’s grace. A way to keep him waiting—to keep him
hoping—for the true Home.<br />
<br />
I, too, am waiting for the Promised Land. <br />
<br />
A land where large spiders won’t fall out of my shirt as I get dressed in the
morning. A land where I won’t find rats scurrying out from behind a rusty
toilet as I attempt to take a bucket shower—only to find there is no more
water. A land where I won’t see images of fat, manmade gods superstitiously
plastering every wall.<br />
<br />
I, too, am waiting to go Home. And I am not talking about America.<br />
<br />
Because, ultimately, I’m not just waiting for a place where I can have a
spiderbite-free morning, a refreshing, ratless shower, or a statueless doctor’s
visit. I’m waiting for a place where none of us will have to fear being bitten
at all, where we will already be clean, and where there will be no need for a
doctor because we will all be healthy… worshipping the One True God. Living in
the light and love of Jesus. Together.<br />
<br />
The Promised Land will never fully be reached on this side of things. Our Hope
is not in a better-governed, more civilized America. If that’s all we were
waiting for, we would be severely disappointed. I know I would. Jesus wouldn’t
be there, and I want to be where He is. Ultimately, He is my hope. He is who
I want to see, and I want everyone—those of every tribe, tongue, and nation—to
see him with me. So I’m willing to stick around a little while if, by his
grace, He might use me in some way to help others see Him, too. And not only Him,
but each other—in freedom. When I close my eyes and imagine what it will be
like to see all of the people I so love and treasure as they were always meant
to be—without fear, robed in His righteousness, and bright shining in love—the
long journey Home finally feels worth it.<br />
<br />
“You know ‘The Transfiguration’—when Jesus takes three of his disciples up and
they see Moses and Elijah?” I bring the story to Miss’s mind. She knows it.
“Well, some people believe that Moses was actually the first one to see the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">true </i>Promised Land. Right there—with
Jesus. In glory.”<br />
<br />
One day, by the Lord’s grace, I’ll be there in glory, too. With you.<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 15</b><br />
<br />
“No, no rocks,” I say to the gentle-dispositioned boy. He is the only one
accompanying my morning walk today—along with the neighborhood dog who unfortunately
has become his target practice (Gentle boy has apparently been a little too
“discipled” by his trouble-seeking companion).<br />
<br />
Gentle boy looks at me, he looks at the dog; he looks at me; he looks at the
dog—the skinny, non-reactive, just-wanting-to-tag-along dog. Gentle boy finally
decides to attempt petting the dog. The dog is unsure at first—a little
skiddish—but after a few pats the dog becomes noticeably happy. As soon as
Gentle boy gains the dog’s trust he gets bored of this, looks at me again, picks
up a rock, and throws it. Goodbye dog.<br />
<br />
I imagine this young boy has encountered some situations where rocks were
necessary for his and others’ protection. I remind myself that I have no idea
what he has seen and encountered throughout his time on the streets. So for the
time being, I let it go. Nevertheless, Gentle boy knows: I don’t like the
rocks.<br />
<br />
We arrive—dog-less—at the path. I’ve already gotten up early enough to have
some time with the Lord in the Word and prayer. To prepare for my time with
Chandra. Every part of me is screaming to turn around. I, again, have no idea
what to say, what to ask, how to navigate our conversation... But I have just
enough faith—small as it feels right now—to step onto that path and to trust
that the Lord will make the way. As usual, he does.<br />
<br />
We walk without much talking for a while. We discuss the chill air, her
favorite color: blue, the sky. I wait for her to lead us into the next topic.
She asks me if I have any brothers and sisters. I tell her—one brother, one
sister. She, too, has one brother and one sister. But then she tells me, her
brother passed away. Twenty years ago. I can tell, this still affects her. A
lot.<br />
<br />
And then I remember: Lazarus. Chandra’s whole demeanor changed when she saw me
encounter Jesus as Martha. Wondering why he didn’t come for her brother. And
how Jesus, so graciously met her in her frustration. How Jesus reminded her
that if she believed she would see the glory of God… and she did. She believed,
and she saw. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No wonder Chandra invited me
to her house that day… She saw. Did she believe?<br />
<br />
</i>“I’m sorry about your brother,” I say. We walk in silence for a while.
Then, prompted, I add, “That is why I am so grateful for Jesus. The hope we
have in him.”<br />
<br />
She looks at me.<br />
<br />
“Through Jesus, no more death,” I tell her. “In Him, we have life forever.”<br />
<br />
Chandra looks at me as if she has never even considered the possibility of life
beyond this one. From the little I know about Hinduism this surprises me—since
they are constantly talking about being resurrected into new lives. But then I
realize, not only does this ‘belief’ have no hold because it isn’t rooted in
truth, but even if it were true, that means that we will never see each other <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">as each other</i> again. Who we are as we
know it is forever gone. And who others are as we know them are forever gone,
too. We will never see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our brother</i>
again. Where is the hope in that?<br />
<br />
And then I get it. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, Jesus, you really
are the only Way. Without you, we have no hope.</i><br />
<br />
But with Jesus? <br />
<br />
“Whoever believes in me, though he die yet shall he live. And whoever lives and
believes in me shall never die. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do you
believe this?”<br />
<br />
Oh, Lord, I pray for belief in you! Here in India, in Chandra, in all of us.
Not just so that people can have life </i>after<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> death, but also so that the people can have life </i>here<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">! True life, a life with hope. Praise be to
Jesus <3<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 16</b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
<br />
</i>There has been little laughter this week. Miss appears crankier than usual.
Well, maybe not (-er), but our upward trajectory has certainly disappeared. Or
so it seems.<br />
<br />
I can’t help but wonder if this is about me. Not to be conceited—I have
certainly been wrong before—but I also know how much we tend to shove away what
we are afraid will be taken from us. We always want to be the first one to call
a break up so our hearts won’t get broken before we do. <br />
<br />
This week started off with more than one allusion to my staying. “Don’t you
like it here? Da girls dey love you!” Point of desperation: trying to convince
me to have an arranged marriage with an Indian man. Though partially joking, if
I showed any interest I know Miss would be on it.<br />
<br />
But I’m not staying, and she knows that. Miss doesn’t want me to leave, but
she’s not so keen on facing me right now either. I get it, but I don’t know
what to do with that.<br />
<br />
I have been praying into John 16. Jesus told his disciples it was better that
he left so that the Holy Spirit would come. Jesus—the man—could only be in one
place at one time while in his earthly body, so why not pour out his Spirit so
that we can all experience Him all the time, anytime?! Better! If that is the
case with Jesus, then of course it would be better for them if imperfect me
left! If that means the Lord will send his Spirit behind me, that is. And I am
praying that He will. I want these kids, these people, this Miss to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know </i>Jesus. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, Lord, pour out your Spirit onto this place—into these people!</i><br />
<br />
Just as I am writing these very words, Miss calls me over. We chat—nothing
monumental, no big revelations. But as we do, her pout erases, her face
softens, her eyes brighten, her laugh returns.<br />
<br />
Pastor comes over to us and says to me, “Today—two school. Because you leave
Sunday.”<br />
<br />
“Yes, so sad,” I confirm (or think I am confirming, that is).<br />
<br />
“No, not sad,” Pastor waves his hand to dismiss my comment. “We are same in da
Spirit. Not sad. One in da Spirit wherever we go.”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gosh, I really don’t give these people
enough credit! Or, rather, I don’t give the Spirit enough credit—he’s working
in them, too.</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One in da Spirit.</i><br />
<br />
“You keep contac wid me while you gone,” Miss instructs me, then adds with a
smile. “Or else I weel leest you up.”<br />
<br />
“What?”<br />
<br />
“Leest you up,” she repeats then puppets a phone with her hand. “I call an say,
Kelseeee when you come here an bring da oder believers?”<br />
<br />
I laugh, delighted. She gets it. It isn’t me Miss needs—it’s Jesus. It’s the
Spirit. And she already knows. She’s ready for more of Him. More of His people…
And I can’t wait to bring them to her.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We are one in the Spirit; we are one in
the Lord. We are one in the Spirit; we are one in the Lord. And they’ll know we
are Christian by our love. By our love. And they’ll know we are Christians by
our love.<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
</i><b>ENTRY 17</b><br />
<br />
Miss and I sit in silence for a while post-lunch. I stare off, soaking
everything in. Miss is playing on her phone. Without looking up she asks me,
“So where eez your Adam bone?”<br />
<br />
Me, “What?”<br />
<br />
“Your Adam bone?” Miss grins and looks up at me as she raises her eyebrows … <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">suggestively.</i> “I find your Adam bone. He
eez <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">here</i>.”<br />
<br />
We both laugh. A lot.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Still hoping I will stay, huh? </i>I need
Pastor to come give her a refresher of our recent ‘One in the Spirit, wherever
we go’ lesson.<br />
<br />
Later today Miss and I are sitting in the car on our way back from the Widow’s
center. Breaking the silence, I cry out sharply, “OOOOOOOW!”<br />
<br />
Miss turns abruptly, “WHAT?!”<br />
<br />
“No bone,” I smirk. Then I laugh; Miss does not. She groans (but she’s
smiling).<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 18</b><br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, no not the rocks. </i>Gentle boy is
my morning accompaniment once again, and apparently this poor dog is on the
lowest totem pole of India’s cast system.<span style="font-family: "mingliu"; mso-bidi-font-family: MingLiU;"><br />
<br />
</span>“No. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No rocks</i>,” I say and look
the boy in the eye, my brow furrowed with concern. “This dog—not hurting us. Rocks
make dog afraid, then dog—mean. Be kind. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No
rocks.</i>”<span style="font-family: "mingliu"; mso-bidi-font-family: MingLiU;"><br />
</span><br />
Gentle boy sees in my face what he perceives as my disappointment with him<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>and hangs his head. He looks defeated.
I so badly want the boy to understand that I am not disappointed with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">him</i>—rock-throwing is what he knows. Fear
is how he has been trained. This boy has been caught up in the same system as
so many of these dogs. This boy may have started it with this poor puppy—one
who has never wanted anything but tag along—but somewhere along the line, this
boy learned fear and rock-throwing, too. But right now, I don’t have the
language or his attention enough to explain.<br />
<br />
And it is time to meet with Chandra.<br />
<br />
Chandra. I learn she used to be a nurse. We talk about the hospital, various
sicknesses she has seen—leading me to express the simple yet often ignored fact
of life: these bodies will fail us.<br />
<br />
“Thankfully, Jesus offers us new bodies,” I tell her.<br />
<br />
“New bodies…” Chandra mulls over these foreign yet hope-filled words.<br />
<br />
“Yes, new bodies,” I affirm. “But first we need a new heart. Our hearts are
sick, too, and they need the Good Doctor.”<br />
<br />
After our walk—Chandra left to process—I see that Gentle boy’s disposition has
not lifted. We walk back quietly. Just before entering the project, I see the scrawny
dog, sitting with his head bowed in similar sad form. I point him out and kneel
down to Gentle boy, intending to encourage him with a better explanation.<br />
<br />
“This dog is scared—afraid—because people are mean to him. Mean—afraid—mean,” I
do a little charades to help him understand. “But if we are kind to the dog and
he learns he can trust us, he will be kind, too. Kind—trust—kind.”<br />
<br />
Gentle boy still looks wounded. He is afraid I am mad at him. I smile and
reassure, “It’s okay. I am not mad at you. It’s okay, okay?” The boy nods,
unsure I mean it. I keep smiling and reinforce, “It’s okay. Okay?” He nods with
a little extra confidence. Smile brighter this time a playful laugh breaks
through, too, “Okay!?!” Gentle boy looks at me and nods. “Okay.”<br />
<br />
Fear. Mean. Fear.<br />
<br />
Kind. Trust. Kind.<br />
<br />
Is it really that simple?<br />
<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 19</b><br />
<br />
Final morning at the orphanage.<br />
<br />
I have been praying all week for the Lord to finish up this time well—for Him
to prepare the way and to strengthen me to walk in it. I want to see his
faithfulness, and I want to be able to share that with all of you—that somehow
you may also be blessed… but I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> His
strength to do that. I so often want to run away. To abandon the path. To turn
in early. At the end of a great day, I often am immediately met with the fear
that tomorrow won’t be. As if the Lord’s faithfulness had a limit. As if His
glorious light were just a flickering candle that I had the power to snuff out.
Oh, my faith is so weak. Thankfully, He is more faithful than I am faithless.
And so I pray, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord help me to keep faith,
to go the distance with you—all the way Home.</i><br />
<br />
And so I walk—with the Lord. And in this moment—with Chandra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I talk to her even more boldly about Jesus, and
the Spirit nudges me to include the warning:<br />
<br />
“If you follow Jesus, there is a cost,” I say. “He calls us to give him
everything… but he is worth it.”<br />
<br />
“Worth it…” Chandra repeats, thinking it over.<br />
<br />
“Yes, worth it.”<br />
<br />
Chandra invites me to come into her home for tea, but I decline since I will
soon have to leave for church and—whether I agree or not—I am still under
the authority of my hosts who have instructed me not to take "potentially poisoned" drink from
non-Christians. I tell her the next time I come, I would love to take her up on
that offer. Before I leave I give her a Bible. The next time we meet, I look
forward to tea in her home—as a Christian.<br />
<br />
I go back to the project and finish packing everything up, going in and out of
my unlocked room as I gather up my various items scattered all around the
property (typical me). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kids keep coming
up to me, sad that I have to leave. I remind them that any good they have seen
in me is the Lord’s Spirit in me, and that same Lord Jesus is available for
them to get to know all the time, any time. I point them to Jesus, but I also
tell them that I do hope to come back and see them again (on this side of
eternity). I think about so many of Paul’s letters—how he longs to be with the
people he loves, to see them again. I love how Jesus shares his love—how he
creates this longing in us not only for Him, but also for each other.<br />
<br />
I walk back into my room with a loving-and-loved-by-others high… which is
suddenly deflated when I discover: no phone. I knew I had it in my room,
because I had it on my walk. With my Bible, which is sitting unaccompanied on
my bed. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh no…</i><br />
<br />
I search my bags, hoping I had accidentally tucked it away in the midst of my
packing. Still no phone. I search the house, the bathroom, outside even. No
phone. <br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">They were just waiting until the very
end, waiting to pounce, </i>the thought creeps in my head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shove the thought out. Even if this is true for one of
them, it isn’t true for all of them. Besides, it still could just be misplaced.
Regardless, I don’t want a stolen phone to be the last taste of this journey—not
in my mouth, and especially not in theirs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><br />
Some girls come to tell me it is time for church. I know I have to tell them, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can’t find my phone. </i>Miss knows what
this means. She is not happy. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, no,
please let me find it for their sake… </i>Some of the girls come into my room
to help me look.<br />
<br />
We go through my bag on my bed once again. No phone. But then, one of the girls
lifts my bag. Underneath… there sits… the phone.<br />
<br />
I should be celebrating, but instead I think of the kids. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, I hope that they haven’t felt accused… May they know that they are
so much more valuable to me than a silly phone…</i><br />
<br />
I go out and find those who were not with me in my room to show them that I
have found it, and they are all sitting silently in front of Pastor and Miss. I
try to give a glad “See! No problem—it was my fault!” But the air of accusation
has not lifted. “We were jus yelleen at dem,” Miss says. “No, no! But I found it—see!”
I wave the phone in the air. Miss and Pastor have not shifted their mood. “But your money—dey still took
dat. We tell dem abou dat. How can dey—“<br />
<br />
“No, not they!” I say, pleading for grace. “It was just one of them who took
it, not all.”<br />
<br />
I look at the kids’ heartbroken, fear-filled expressions and say to them, “And
I pray forgiveness for whoever that was, anyway. I am not mad at you. None of
you.”<br />
<br />
Desperate for them to understand I look them all in the eye and use as many
charades as I can muster to make my point clear, “I want you to know that when I
think of you, I only think good things. I take you back in my heart and only
remember good. You make my heart smile. I love you all.”<br />
<br />
In case they don’t get it, I make one of the girls translate for me, “Tell
them! I LOVE YOU.”<br />
<br />
Their countenances have changed. They get it.<br />
<br />
At the end of the day, love washes over all of the wrongs. When the new day
comes, we will be received Home with grace.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 20<br />
</b><br />
I read in the Prophets—shepherds shut down for getting fat off the food they
should have used to feed the sheep. I feel convicted.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Am I a fat shepherd? </i>I wonder. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stuffing myself with words when there are so
many people who need only one? </i>The Word: Jesus.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i><br />
“I want to start a Christian college here in Chennai,” my latest pastor-host tells
me his life-dream on our way to an encore performance for his church friends. “When
I was studying at Wheaton, there were so many resources. Shelves of commentaries
and theology books… we don’t have any of that here.”<br />
<br />
So much harvest to be reaped in this country. Where are the laborers? Fighting over the scraps
in another? <br />
<br />
“I know of so many churches in the States who are over-employed and don’t have
the finances to keep everyone on—they just don’t want to let anyone go,” I
admit. “I pray that the Lord will send laborers to the harvest—maybe he will
call some of them here.”<br />
<br />
Here. To India. Where the absence of Jesus is constantly in your face.
Literally painted on the faces of almost everyone you meet—foreheads smeared red.
Like blood. A continual reminder. So many lives. So many lost… just waiting to
be found.<br />
<br />Here. Just waiting for a shepherd to feed them. <i>I have the words, Lord, just give me some ears.</i><br /><br />This pastor sets me up to perform at an arts college in town. He warns me in
advance, “This college is technically Christian, but the student body is very
secular. They have guest performances often—but never Gospel-focused. Nothing
like this.”<br />
<br />
Prepared, I walk into a large group of skeptical young adult girls. One of the
ladies’ dorm’s mandatory activities. Mandatory being the key word—I can read
the “I-have-to-be-here” all over their less-than-enthused faces.<br />
<br />And then... I perform. No music. No real set. No real props. Just the Word.<br />
<br />
And the Word is all they needed.<br />
<br />
Girl after girl approached me that night. Crying. Sharing. Asking for prayer. So
many girls. So many thirsty hearts just waiting for someone to give them a
drink, and here I am with access to the living water. I have a responsibility
to give that to them.<br />
<br />
The next day the college calls this pastor, asking if I can stay around one
more day. They want to host an all-campus performance for their 3000 thirsty
students.<br />
<br />
“This never happens,” the pastor tells me wide-eyed. “There are so many hoops
this college has to jump through to make any activity happen. But after last
night, the college is doing whatever they can to get you to come back.”<br />
<br />
Thirst is a powerful motivator. We will do just about anything for water.<br />
<br />
But I have a flight to catch. I have pointed them to where their thirst is to
be satisfied. Not in me, in Jesus. His Word is available to them, whether or
not I am the one speaking it.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, I assure them, “Lord-willing, I will come back.”<br />
<br /><i>Lord-willing, I will come back... </i>Quite honestly, I am far more comfortable leaving this land behind, but I know
I won’t be able to forever. If the sheep are starving, I can’t just close my
eyes and stuff myself with what should be their share.<br />
<br />
“Do you love me?” Jesus asks. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I do. </i>“Feed
my sheep.” Knowing that this will cost me, I answer, “I will.”</span></div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3147204253429865846.post-25027575025350984122018-02-20T04:45:00.000-06:002018-02-20T05:05:15.151-06:00India (Week 3)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 8</b><br />
<br />
“Goooodbyyy! Goooodbyyyy!” children are waving frantically as I leave one of
the many Danish Missionary schools in the area. I’m pretty sure my skin and eye
color is what has given me such celebrity status, but I hope what sticks is
what they have just seen and heard: Jesus.<br />
<br />
Pastor is taking me to various schools to perform sections of <i>The Gospel of John. </i>Once the passage is read (or summarized) in their native tongue, I then put the words to action. Somehow--by the grace of God--they are captivated. Language barrier and all.<br />
<br />
“I didn’t realize there were so many missionary schools,” I comment to Pastor
as we step into the car and ride to our next location. “There are more Christians
here than I thought.”<br />
<br />
“No, da children dey are not Christian,” the Pastor shakes his head. “Maybe
two, tree. Dat is all.”<br />
<br />
“Oh…” I say. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So that is why so many of
the students had the face markings.</i> “Why would their parents send them to
Christian schools then? The education?”<br />
<br />
“No, no,” Pastor shakes his head again. “Dat is da only school in da area.
Hundred years ago, Danish missionaries start da school and da children come.”<br />
<br />
“Oh…” I say baffled yet again. “Are the parents okay with them learning about
Jesus? Are they allowed to talk about him?”<br />
<br />
“No,” Pastor says. “But da teachers do a little anyway.”<br />
<br />
And so do I.<br />
<br />
At this moment I am thankful to have come into the country as a single.
Apparently the group that just arrived from Illinois was obligated to sign a
contract saying that they wouldn’t preach. I’m under no such mandate. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bring it on.</i><br />
<br />
As we make our way through the busy streets Pastor points to large crowd ahead
of us. “Sahtahn festival,” he says. “Dey are drest as da gods.” I look at the
various people--decked from head to toe in colorful makeup and outlandish
costumes, parading next to various statues that they are pushing alongside them
on tacky wheeled mounts. <br />
<br />
We turn onto another street where Pastor points out Tiruvannamalai’s most
famous Ashram (temple), and I am taken aback. Since there aren’t really
mirrors here, I am not used to seeing white people anymore. But here, on what I
know refer to as ‘White People Row’, the street is lined with other
fair-skinned folk.<br />
<br />
“Hundred years ago, foreigners dey come here to preach Gospel,” Pastor sneers.
“Now dey come to worship Hindu gods!”<br />
<br />
I look around at all my fellow foreigners--foreginers who are seeking
spirituality, who are embracing a call to ‘go to the nations’ (to do drugs and
yoga, that is), and I wonder where all my fellow Christians are. Why aren’t we
the ones coming?<br />
<br />
“So many missionaries dey come and dey want big convention,” Pastor tells me.
“Afterward dey have big sign—'we baptize TWO TOUSAN'! But dese people dat dey
baptize—dey <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">already </i>Christian!”
Pastor shakes his head and groans. “We need da missionaries to come and talk to
da people who don’t know Jesus. All da missionaries go to da big cities: Chennai,
Bangalore… We need dem in da small towns like dis—in Tiruvannamalai.”<br />
<br />
I smile to myself as I peer out the window, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Those
who are faithful with little will be faithful with much—</i>this has been the
very lesson the Lord has been teaching me day after day as I pour into the
orphans and wonder when I will have my time to <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘go’. And now—in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">His </i>perfect timing—the Lord has blessed that small faithfulness
with a big day like today. In da small town like dis—in Tiruvannamalai.<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 9</b><br />
<br />
I suppose after the day you feel like Super-Missionary, it’s probably healthy
to follow it up with one where you feel like you suck. Today is that day.<br />
<br />
Sleepless night. The previous day’s wonderful Indian hospitality also meant
that I was graciously treated to coffee/tea at each of the schools. Needless to
say, I am caffeinated and wired. My mind won’t shut off, and my body feels like
it is on fire. From the mosquitos or itchy sheets or just my “thorn in the
flesh”, I don’t know. Either way, I realize: crap, I had such a great day--I’m
in for it, aren’t I? Yup.<br />
<br />
School tour: day 2.<br />
<br />
As we wait for the rest of the classes to filter in, I shake hands of the kids
who are waiting politely for the program to begin. One by one we exchange
names… but then I realize, now I have started something. I have to do this with
every class. And the kids… keep… coming. I notice the snickers and the dead
silence as everyone watches me go down each row, but I feel like I can’t stop
now.<br />
<br />
At the second school, I am thrilled to see familiar faces. It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our k</i>ids’ school! They wave at me
excitedly; I wave back. Then they ask. In front of their friends. “WHAT’S MY
NAME!?!”<br />
<br />
Apparently, I didn’t learn <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all </i>their
names.<br />
<br />
I ignore the question. Except for one—which I get wrong anyway. <br />
<br />
I had such a wonderful idea to pray regularly for the kids by name, which I
did… for a while. And there are even a few names that I, admittedly, let slide.
Too bad I didn’t use my countless non-sleeping hours the night prior for a
refresher. And now, I feel awful. I can’t stop thinking about the names I
missed as another large flock of kids comes to me and asks me theirs. Which I
know. All of them. But these aren’t in front of their other friends. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh God, please work this for good… somehow.</i><span style="font-family: "mingliu"; mso-bidi-font-family: MingLiU;"><br />
<br />
</span>When we get back, Pastor picks up on my sleepiness. I confirm that I
didn’t really sleep the night before. “Mosquitos?” his friend asks. “Well yes…”
There are definitely those, but that wasn’t last night’s issue. Doesn’t seem to
matter, though, because these guys are on it. Pastor’s American guests who flew
in for the sister’s funeral have now left (hence the start of the tour), and so
they call children to go and fetch one of their beds for me. (Apparently being a
foot off the ground means less mosquitos?). Anyhow, I am embarrassed. Right
outside my room are people sleeping on the floor of the dining hall and here they
are bringing in a large frame and cozy mattress pad for me. I am not sure how
to respond. I don’t have any language to try and convince the girls that I am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>demanding this. I already feel
pampered enough with a room all to myself. I try a weird mix of
this-is-really-not-necessary but I-am-so-grateful since I am unsure how most
appropriately to respond. Overwhelmed by not knowing ‘the right answer’ in how
to maneuver Christ-likeness to all the various types of people packed into my
now-princess chamber, the Spirit’s conviction to focus on honoring <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Him</i> brings focus to my concern over how
to address the potentially gargantuan range of others’ opinions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I know,
I know, Lord—you want me to just receive… doesn’t mean I like it!<br />
</i><br />
<br />
Pastor then instructs me to nap the rest of the day (good luck), but that I must
eat lunch first. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No, no not lunch… </i>I
am already full from an oversized, late second breakfast. Pastor bought me
“special bread” to eat since he heard I have been having stomach issues. Unfortunately,
ants quickly invited themselves over to the feast they heard I was having, so I
ate a protein bar instead. I told Pastor, but he cooked me another meal anyway.
Definitely a man-sized portion. I have been slightly resentful all day for
yesterday’s conviction to eat whatever they put before me (thanks a lot, Luke
10).<br />
<br />
Now it’s lunch, and I find Pastor and his friend eating some sort of spicy rice
concoction in the kitchen. I sit down to join and Pastor tries to stop me—“you,
omelet--this spicy, bad for your stohmach.” Spices aren’t the issue, though,
and in an attempt to keep true to yesterday’s conviction (and selfishly because
this actually looks pretty tasty) I assure him that I am fine, and I join in. I
even think I can muster up the strength for a little more and reach for the
serving spoon. “No, no” Pastor says “Your omelet comeen.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh no</i>… Sure enough, Miss brings over <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>meal. Oops. I force the eggs down—thinking well of myself that I
kept my commitment, until Miss comes over and asks, “Why you not eat dat?” and
points to a small chunk of gee (homemade Indian “butter”).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She and the Pastor both read from my face
that I’m not thrilled with the idea of stomaching straight-up gee and, even
though I can read their disappointment, they tell me not to eat it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Miss then walks back to the stove to make herself a plate
(seeing her in this serving role is strange to me), and then she goes to sit at
the floor by the door. I realize I am in her chair and offer her my seat. The
men look at me funny, “No no! Dat eez her place.” Come to think of it, I am a
woman, too. I think I may have unintentionally crashed man-lunch. This class
thing drives me nuts, but it would certainly help if I at least understood the
rules that I don’t like keeping.<br />
<br />
Pastor tells me to go nap, but first I go sit briefly with Miss. Soon after,
Pastor comes over to her, too, and stoops down to sit with Miss at “her place.”
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just when I thought I was starting to
catch on.</i> I finally go back to my room and lay down on the bed that I’m not
sure if I feel guilty or grateful for. I catch myself with a fleeting wish that
I could just turn off my time here like a bad movie, but I remember yesterday
and remind myself that God is, in fact, at work. As I drift off, I sense the
Spirit speaking into my unspoken concern: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I
was with you today.</i><br />
<br />
I definitely needed to hear that.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I wonder if these sorts of days—the kind that feel most unfruitful—are
really the ones where God is up to some of his finest work. He’s just waiting
until we get Home to tell us about it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 10<br />
<br />
</b>I go to bed early—telling Miss in case they are looking for me to try and
feed me. Miss is yelling at the girls for something. I don’t want anything to
do with it.<br />
<br />
I wake praying into my day’s interaction with Miss. My mind starts up with the
old tricks—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Are you sure she’s following
the Lord? I mean reaaaaally where’s the fruit? Patience, kindness... come on!<br />
<br />
(</i>As Miss says, “Satan, he get in da mind you know.”)<br />
<br />
It is Satan who wants to divide us, Jesus to unify. Even though I know this, I
am still bothered, and so I pray for conviction for Miss. For the Spirit to do
his thing... He does. In both of us.<br />
<br />
Someone comes to find me after I get back from my back-and-forth run behind the
house. “Miss is looking for you!”<br />
<br />
I bet this is about skipping dinner. <br />
<br />
“Why you not eat?”<br />
<br />
Yup, it’s about skipping dinner. <br />
<br />
“I go to look for you but your room eet was dark,” Miss scolds me.<br />
<br />
“Sorry, I—“ I start to say, but then Miss interrupts. “It’s okay, it’s okay—you
tol me you were goeen to bed early.”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Phew, close call!<br />
<br />
</i>“Sorry about las night,” Miss says sincerely. “How I get angry.”<br />
<br />
I have to keep my mouth from dropping, I have never heard an apology—for
something that isn’t some sort of cultural faux paux or misunderstanding that
is.<br />
<br />
“Da girls had phone—boys at school gave,” Miss informs me. “Dey have been useen
it to talk to da boys at night. Pastor catch dem.”<br />
<br />
Another reminder (how many do I need?) of how much I judge with the little I
understand.<br />
<br />
“So much dat would jus shock you eef you knew bout dese girls,” Miss shakes her
head and sighs. “We had dis one girl. I see her talkeen wid da boys, and I tink
okay okay no problem, eet ees justa leetle talk. But den—she pregnant!
Fourteen.”<br />
<br />
At some point Miss had to learn to catch the little foxes, too.<br />
<br />
After breakfast Miss asks if I will be accompanying her and Pastor to the
dentist. She wants me to, so I go. As is custom we kick off our sandals at the
front entrance before entering to sit silently in the waiting room. I can’t
help but notice how quietly and orderly everyone seems to be. Except, well,
Miss. We sit with Pastor across from his dental chair until the doctor politely
motions us back to the waiting room. Miss sits and the cushion isn’t right so
she switches chairs. She fully rotates her body to the side and cranes her neck
to get a glimpse through the darkened window of what they are doing to Pastor’s
mouth. Miss talks; the others just sit. And maybe nod a little. I can’t help
but chuckle to myself—you can’t help but notice ‘the one who is not like the
other’. The non-marked forehead not being the only distinguishing factor.<br />
<br />
It seems to me that God often calls unruly people. Stubborn people. Frustrating
people. A real comfort to a punk like me. And then, somehow, he does something
marvelous in them. And through them. The girl waiting on us? “My old student,”
Miss tells me. Were it not for Miss? Who knows if this girl would even be alive
right now. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alright God, you win—I’ll quit
playing judge</i>.<br />
<br />
After the appointment Miss tells me she is getting us all ice cream. I tell
her, “I think I am your Ruth.” Miss laughs, “Where you go I’ll go?” Me,
“Exactly.”<br />
<br />
When Miss and I get back to the orphanage we pull out our purchased treats to
enjoy at what Miss just called “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i>
place” (the balcony Miss sat on for lunch the day before). I stare at the large
milk and sugar packed popsicle that all my natural instinct is screaming at me
to avoid. Miss notices. “Dis ees helty,” she points to the packaging. “No
salt.” I sense the Spirit’s whisper, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Eat
it all. </i>I do. Miss even spoons some of her chocolate waffle cone (uninvited)
into my mouth. I know in that moment that the Lord is teaching me how to
receive at the same time he is teaching her how to give.<br />
<br />
At post-ice-cream lunch Miss laughs as we slurp up the salty soup smothering
our rice. “I not like dis wid uder people,” she tells me with a big grin. “Jus
angry.”<br />
<br />
I suddenly feel the honor they keep trying to bestow upon me. The Lord has has
been using Miss to teach me how to sit, but He has also been using me to teach
Miss how to dance.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 11</b><br />
<br />
<br />
This evening Miss takes me to Tiruvannamalai’s famous Ashram (temple). “To
pray,” she tells me. Then clarifies, “Een your mind.”<br />
<br />
We pull up to White People Row. As usual, the street is littered with foreigners.
All of which have a foggy, vacant look in their eyes, long unwashed hair, and
flowy clothes. (This is a description, not an intentional stereotype). Miss
points to a group of them sitting outside before we enter. “Dey come here to do
da crack.” Accurate.<br />
<br />
Immediately upon entering, I am struck by the ratio of white tourists to native
Indians worshipping in the temple. It seems like at least half, if not more,
are white people, most of which have applied the red/white face markings. Many
of them are seated Indian style doing some sort of meditation while they look
towards the city’s big mountain—the one the Hindus worship as a god.<br />
<br />
“I am worried about dese people,” Miss looks at them and shakes her head. “So
many foreigners dey come—an look at what we are giveen dem.” Miss points to a
mother with her two just over toddler-aged daughters. “And der children.”<br />
<br />
A strange, low-note chanting song fills the air along with a potent, smoky
incense. Miss has me peer inside the room that the stench is protruding from. I
see people seated all over the floor, facing toward the back where a statue sits
draped with a yellow-flowered garland. A separate group of people lines up
around that statue, each taking a turn to dip something into a fire pit. I
don’t ask questions; I get the general idea: creepy.<br />
<br />
Miss and I walk toward an open courtyard where a few people are seated. Though they
are conversing here, there is still a weird, quiet haziness to people’s
interactions. Except for when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Miss </i>runs
into a few friends. Her lively, genuine greeting feels like a light piercing
through the falsely reverent fog. It strikes me how clearly Miss loves the
individual people alongside her hatred for their religious system. <br />
<br />
After her friends depart, Miss points out a few behind-bars statues. One of which
being a cow draped with a yellow garland. Miss groans.<br />
<br />
As I start to sing a hymn to myself, a man sitting off in a corner by himself
notices us. He comes up to meet us and there is something so… off. The hazy look
in his eyes, the vague manufactured friendliness in his speech… But for some
reason he is talking about knowing Miss has a church and wanting to come.
Nevertheless, something feels… not right. Eventually Miss asks if he is a Christian.
He says, “I believe Jesus is one of the many saints, yes.” “Saint no,” Miss
responds, “Son of da liveen God.” “The One True God,” I chime in. The man looks
flustered quickly after scurries off. I wonder if he’s going to tell Satan
about us and do some sort of weird voodoo. Miss, on the other hand, confidently
asserts that a seed has been planted for him to think about later. I’m thankful
that at least she cares about this man that I, for one, was ready to get away
from. Convicted, I realize I should probably say a prayer for him. So I
do--just a teeny one though.<br />
<br />
Miss takes me to another barred up little shack. “Go look at da man’s teengs,”
she instructs me. An older man near us turns and rebukes, “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Teengs</i>, NO! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Relics.</i>” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yeah, yeah, yeah. </i>I go look at ‘da
teengs.’ Behind bars a framed photograph of whatever man these people are
apparently worshipping is being showcased. A black and white image of some
skinny old guy laying out like a playboy model wearing a teeny white loin
cloth, which is draped in a yellow garland, of course.<br />
<br />
“Dat man—my father knew him,” Miss tells me as we walk away. “Used to play
togeder in da mountains. Good man. He would never say he was god. It’s da
people—dey say dat.”<br />
<br />
“So why do the people worship him then?” I ask.<br />
<br />
Miss gives an I-dunno-shrug and suggests, “Fooleesh people.”<br />
<br />
I laugh; then Miss does, too—the vibrant sound piercing through the somber
silence. I feel like the kid in the crowd who just told everyone the Emperor
has no clothes. Later in the car Miss brings this up. “Your laugh—God like
dat.” Then she turns on the sarcasm, “Doooon you know Kaltee, diiiiis eeeeez a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">teeeemple</i>.” We laugh again.<br />
<br />
As we drive along, I start to hear Miss softly singing to what sounds like the
tune of the eerie chant from before. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh
no! They’ve gotten in her head!<br />
<br />
</i>“Under da feeeet, under da feeeeet,” I start to make out the words. “All of
dem idols--UNDER DA FEET!”<br />
<br />
I burst into giggles. So does she. Then we sing her song together, until the
tune changes.<br />
<br />
“I cry all da time,” Miss tells me. “For da peoples. I feel so sorry for dem.
Poor peoples.”<br />
<br />
“Doesn’t anyone ever ask questions? I mean, it doesn’t make sense.” I say.<br />
<br />
“I try to talk do dem about it,” Miss says. “But dey don want to hear it. So I
jus keep liveen da life an prayeen--all dat. Planteen seeds.”<br />
<br />
We make a stop to buy some flour, and Miss points out another smaller temple.
“Where dey worship da monkey god.” I get out to take a quick peek before
getting back in the car.<br />
<br />
“You see da monkey?” Miss asks.<br />
<br />
“It’s ridiculous,” I answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t
help it--I laugh again. So does she.<br />
<br />
Miss translates our interaction for our driver. He chuckles and Miss interprets,
“He say—dey worshipping <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stones</i>!”<br />
<br />
Yes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">stone</i>s—that’s exactly what these
Hindu gods are: stones. Laughable.<br />
<br />
The people, though--trapped by the laughable lies--they make Miss cry. “Da
peoples” --she loves da peoples.<br />
<br />
I think maybe just maybe, I’ve just seen a glimpse of the Lord’s heart tonight.
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 12</b><br />
<br />
Yesterday—Sunday, a day of rest. Fervent prayers “not to become weary of doing
good.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pour your Spirit into me, Jesus,
so that I will be able to pour out into others. Oh Jesus, may I faint not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Keep me going until the end!</i><br />
<br />
Today--I wake refreshed. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thank you,
Jesus!<br />
<br />
</i>After a short time in the Psalms, I sense the Spirit’s subtle prompting to
switch up my routine. Run first today. I lace up my sneakers and walk with one
of the orphan boys to a small strip of road behind the orphanage that is used
as a walking path by the people who live nearby. I wonder if I will run into
Chandra.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chandra.</i> I remembered her name. <br />
<br />
On one of my first morning runs, I met this woman—middle-aged, quiet, forehead
bearing a simple red dot.<br />
<br />
A few days later, I see her again. “Chandra?” I say. She smiles--I remembered
her name. How? A miracle, truly. Her name flew out of my mouth, having never
been rehearsed in my mind. I know this is the Lord’s favor. I make note of
this.<br />
<br />
That day, we walk. We talk. Very limited English, but just enough for us to discuss
food. A welcome subject.<br />
<br />
Since this day, Chandra occasionally surfaces to mind in prayer. I wonder if I
will ever have the opportunity to tell her about the true food: the Bread of
Life.<br />
<br />
Today is that day.<br />
<br />
Chandra is walking. I intend to give her a simple ‘hello’ as I go about my run.
But my bun is driving me nuts. I stop to fix my hair, putting my Spanish New
Testament between my legs as I rework my tangles. “Hair—mess,” I say. “Me too,”
she replies. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not true, but okay.</i>
Chandra watches me awkwardly try to rearrange my frizz while simultaneously
balancing the Bible between my bowed knees. Saving me, she takes the book to
hold onto for me.<br />
<br />
“Bible--Spanish,” I tell her. “About Jesus.”<br />
<br />
Already quite reserved, I notice an added guard go up. Even so, she is looking
at the cover. As I finish the last loop of my hair tie, she reads,
“Tes-ta-ment-o… What is testamento?”<br />
<br />
“Spanish—testament,” I say. She doesn’t understand. “Uhh, testament.. witness,
account…” Still not registering. “History… true story.”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">True--</i>she gets that, but doesn’t seem
to like it so much.<br />
<br />
“Jesus loves the people,” I say with motions. “Us—God, separate. We—turn from
God. God loves the people. He came—man, Jesus. Died, rose. So God and people—together.”<br />
<br />
“All are gods,” she says to me with more English than I thought her capable.
“Adults, not sinners. Only children-- sinners.”<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
Well that explains a lot. </i>I didn’t realize how much I take for granted how
revolutionary our affected-by-the-Gospel cultural values are. Jesus’s heart for
children, his honoring of women, his acknowledgement of sin…<br />
<br />
“Sin… well, I see sin in me all the time,” I say. “Greed, jealousy, anger…”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Not to mention all the wars, violence,
corruption caused by adults all over the world, but let’s keep this personal…<br />
<br />
</i>“But God, he understands,” I search for the right words as we walk. “He has
compassion on the people.” <br />
<br />
“Cahm-pa-chun?” she asks. “What eez cahmpachun?”<br />
<br />
“Uhh… love? Mercy, grace, forgiveness…” I answer. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">How am I supposed to describe compassion? </i>“Love that understands…
and forgives.”<br />
<br />
All of this doesn’t make sense without the sin piece. His extraordinary
forgiveness and love need the right backdrop.<br />
<br />
“But the sin—I think all that comes from us not trusting him,” I tell her as we
walk. “So God showed us that we could trust him. Before Jesus died he said to
his disciples, ‘I will not leave you as orphans, I will come for you.’ Then
when Jesus rose and they saw him, they knew they could trust him when he said
he was coming back.”<br />
<br />
I point to the Bible—this is those disciple’s ‘testament.’<br />
<br />
“God has compassion on the people,” I keep going, unsure how many of these
words she is even catching. “He knows this world is hard.”<br />
<br />
Suddenly a friend of Chandra’s comes to join her on the path. They start to
chat and I sense the Lord wanting me to do a scene for them--from John (I’ve
already told her about why I am called to India). I shove out the thought. It
comes back, nagging. Finally I ask her and her friend, “You want to see? From
John?”<br />
<br />
She hesitates but agrees.<br />
<br />
I start the Lazarus scene. I know they are catching almost none of the words,
and their expressions are certainly not pleasant. They appear anxious,
restless. I keep going, anyway. From a distant field I start to hear, “Kalseee!
Kalseeeee!” A man I met briefly on the path a few days prior has remembered my
name. He wants me to come over. But I keep going with the scene. Since he can’t
get me to come to him, he comes to join us instead. Just in time to see the
tail end of Mary and Martha’s interaction with Jesus—which has finally
captivated everyone’s attention. They are hooked.<br />
<br />
“Jesus said, ‘Unbind him and let him go!’” I finish strong; it feels glorious!<br />
<br />
But now I have no idea what to say. So I nervously kill the moment with:
“Me—actress. Me—actress.”<br />
<br />
They nod. After an awkward silence, Chandra motions for me to keep running,
“You—go.”<br />
<br />
I wonder if I should have said something else. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Altar call?</i> But the Lord reassures me with Miss’s words from a few
days prior: “Someteen to tink about. Planteen seeds. Planteen seeds.”<br />
<br />
As I turn around for another lap, I see Chandra—now alone--walking back to her
house. Before stepping inside, she calls me over and says with an added warmth,
“Tomorrow, you come—my house.” I’m shocked. “What time?” I ask. “Seven—tirty?”
she offers. I put my hands together and bow my head, “It would be an honor.”<br />
<br />
Not only have I planted some seeds, but maybe just maybe, the Lord will let me
in on a little of the harvest, too.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">ENTRY 13<br />
<br />
</b>I am not allowed to eat in a Hindu’s home while I am here—my hosts are
afraid they will poison my tea or something. Thankfully, I am given this rule<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> after</i> I already have. After Chandra.<br />
<br />
Once I have finished up my morning devotions, I head to the walking path—praying
as I go. I do not see Chandra—she must have already finished her morning laps.
I knock on one of the two houses I remember her walking into. At the first, a
boy brings over his English-speaking mother to speak with me. She does not know
Chandra. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She is literally a few feet away
from you—how do you not know her?! </i>I knock at the gate of the second house.
A young woman about my age peers down from the balcony. I ask for Chandra; she
has no idea who I am talking about. She calls down to a woman walking; they
discuss. Then she points me to a red house down the way. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hmm, that doesn’t seem right… </i>But I go look anyway. By this time, a
couple boys from the orphanage—my usual run-accompaniments—have joined me. We
ask around. Nobody knows Chandra.<br />
<br />
Except—the young woman on the balcony. She now has an adult man standing on the
balcony with her… and Chandra. She calls me over. “So sorry,” the young woman
said. “You said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sandra</i>”—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no, I didn’t, but okay</i>—“This is
CH-andra.” Then they invite me in; the boys wait outside.<br />
<br />
The man keeps laughing. Probably over the whole misunderstanding. Chandra is in
the kitchen preparing bowls of fruit for me. I attempt conversation with Mr.
Nervous-chuckles. It’s not working so well (I suck at small talk even when it’s
in English).<br />
<br />
“Uhhh…” I stare at the grapes I’ve just been given by Chandra, who has just
gone back in the kitchen to fix me a drink. “What is… your favorite fruit?”<br />
<br />
“Fay-vrit?” the man looks puzzled. “I don understand.”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Great</i>. “Umm… like, what you like
most? A fruit you like a lot?”<br />
<br />
“[Insert name of fruit that I’ve never heard of here.]”<br />
<br />
“Oh, we don’t have that in the States…”<br />
<br />
Awkward silence. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dear Lord, please give
me what to say!<br />
<br />
</i>“So, ummm… What is your favorite thing about this country? About India?”<br />
<br />
“The Ashram,” he says. Then clarifies, “The temple.”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bingo…</i> Except, now I have no idea
what to say again.<br />
<br />
“Uh huh...” I pause and quick-pray again. “So what is your favorite thing about
the temple?”<br />
<br />
“The statues,” he replies.<br />
<br />
“So why do you like the statues?” I ask.<br />
<br />
He doesn’t really have an answer. He says he worships them but doesn’t tell me
why, how he feels, what they do…When I am out of question ideas he asks me, “Do
you like da statues?”<br />
<br />
“No,” I say<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. Gotta be honest.</i> “I
understand why you would, though. Our hearts are made to worship God. We need
something to fill that space. But these statues, they can’t .talk, they can’t
feel or think.”<br />
<br />
I fidget. I look around. I squirm. I have no idea what I’m doing.<br />
<br />
“A person wants to know and be known,” I tell him. “That’s why God came as a
person—Jesus—so we could know him.”<br />
<br />
The man stares at me. Not laughing anymore, “There is One God of all.”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes!<br />
<br />
</i>“Muslim, Hindu, Christian—one God.”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No… Well, technically yes. Not in the way
you mean right now—we aren’t worshipping the same God--but that’s not what you
said, so let’s go with it!<br />
<br />
</i>“One God, yes! There is only one God,” I respond. “God is over and made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> the people—Muslim, Hindu, Christian,
everyone. And he made one way for us to know him: Jesus.”<br />
<br />
By this time, Chandra has invited the boys waiting outside to join us. She
feeds them cookies and tea. They are watching this, too. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, Lord Jesus, come!</i><br />
<br />
I know there must be something from these people’s own religion that points to
Christ, so I ask him about his religion. Looking for an entry point.<br />
<br />
“Tell me about your gods,” I say.<br />
<br />
His daughter has entered the conversation at this point. They both look each
other; neither has an answer.<br />
<br />
“We worship them,” the daughter says. “They are who the Hindus believe in—that
is who we worship.”<br />
<br />
“Tell me about them,” I say, genuinely interested. No response. “What are they
like? What do they do?”<br />
<br />
No response.<br />
<br />
“What about Shiva?” I suggest. “Tell me a bit about Shiva.”<br />
<br />
Nada.<br />
<br />
“What is Shiva like? Personality? What do you know about him?”<br />
<br />
The daughter looks like I am speaking a foreign language (well, I guess I am) but answers as best
she can, “Well it is just what we worship. That is all.”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So you don’t know what you worship… and
you say it’s your favorite thing about your country?<br />
<br />
</i>Oh how I long for these people to know the knowable God—through Jesus!<br />
<br />
“Would you like to see a little bit of the performance I am doing?” I suggest.
Chapter 3—the interaction with Nicodemus which leads into the ever famous
God-so-loved-the-world section—has been on my heart this whole time.<br />
<br />
I ask for a stick. They long for one. We make jokes about it and laugh as I
dance with it pre-show. I perform. The daughter is loving it—she even has her
camera out. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good, she can rewatch this
later and really get the English! </i>I look to Chandra. She is reserved, per usual, but she is taking this in. Something has struck her heart, I know it.<br />
<br />
Like yesterday, I awkwardly follow up with “Me—actress; me—actress.” But
this time I add, “Would you mind if I pray for all of you before I go?” They
don’t (or at least they say that they don’t), so I pray. That they would come
to know Jesus.<br />
<br />
As we leave, I ask the boys if they know why I wanted to talk to Chandra about
Jesus. They don’t understand my question. One of them is throwing rocks at a
dog or something. The other, always intrigued by me, says yes and places my
hand on his head. I am reminded of when this boy asked me to pray a blessing
over him my first week here. Such a sweet boy (in the midst of a wolf pack). I
smile and hope he understands <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i>
of what I am saying, “We all need the love of God.” I point to my heart. “We
all need Jesus.”<br />
<br />
As we reenter the orphanage, I remember my last entry. I suppose I won’t get
that glimpse of the harvest like I was hoping for.<br />
<br />
As I am about to walk inside, the sweet boy turns to me, “Auntie!” He points
behind us. “Chandra house.”<br />
<br />
<i>
Yes, Chandra’s house. </i>I may not ever go back… but I am not the one always here.
I kneel down and look the boy in the eye, “Every day, when you see Chandra’s house,
I want you to pray, ok?”<br />
<br />
He nods.<br />
<br />
I point to his heart, “Your job: you pray. For Chandra. You pray--Chandra, okay?”<br />
<br />
He nods again, “Yes! Yes!”<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Okay.</i><br />
<br />
You know, maybe I have seen some of the harvest, after all. Maybe it’s right
here. In this little boy. In these children. These disciples. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don’t let anyone look down on you because
you are young</i>, someone once said<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>My
time here is running short, but these children have many years ahead. Besides,
it’s not me who Chandra or anyone here needs, anyway—it’s Jesus. And who is to
say that she won’t come to know Him as the Lord listens to the prayers of one
little boy. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oh, Lord, send laborers into
the harvest! Bring your people Home!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br /></div>
Kelsey (Cratty) Bullockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17402066044558642972noreply@blogger.com0