When it's not about capable.

I really like being prepared.
I love it actually.
There is just something so comforting about knowing what you are getting into and feeling ready to face it. And yet, here I am in Cochabamba. Speaking, sometimes stuttering through, a second language and the beautiful and talented psychologist Gladys is taking her maternity leave. She is very pregnant.
And I am going to take over some of the projects that she is leaving me wiht.
I am not going pretend to be her, I do not have the training. But I am going to step in a fill some spots. And I am looking at this situation, and I am freaking out.
I have to talk to 10 (well, soon to be 14) girls in spanish, in a way they understand, about life. About God. About boys.
If you would have asked me why I wanted to go work at Mosoj Yan, I would have told you that I wanted to go so I could have the chance to have these conversations with them.  So I could listen, affirm and love.
Suddenly I am realizing that I am not prepared. It's hard enough to talk about sensitive topics in english, and well I don't get that luxury. My understanding of their problems, sometimes disorders is inadequate. My experience with them is limited.
But Paul said, boast in your weaknesses. So, here I am. Exclaiming the fact that I am not prepared. And God won't let that be an excuse.
So, pray for me please, I am very aware that I am in a battle here. The things that I say have great wieght for these girls, they don't have many people giving them wisdom. I am one of four right now.
Pray for boldness. For health. And for us.
Gladys will continue giving me wisdom, but for now, I need to step up.

Update on my health- I'm not operating at 100% but I am eating more or less as normal. I went to work everyday this week and have been resting too. I have 5 more days on meds, and I pray I will be fully functional at that point.
Thanks for your love and prayers!

Live.

Thanks all for cheering me on with many English prayers to a God who helps calms nerves and helps me speaka da Spanish.

The radio interview went well, I was calm and really enjoyed talking about the work I’m doing.

My grammar was not all there all the time, and he asked me off-script questions, but I got the points across. And the questions really gave me a chance to think about what I’m doing, and why. I take for granted the fact that most people who I talk to understand why I am here.

To vocalize it more explicitly over the radio meant that I got to say that the whole point of me being here was to get to know the girls at Albergue, and my hope was that they would know the love of God, and that the love of God could transform their lives.

Thanks for your prayers on that.

In regards to my life since then, well I have to say that I love Bolivia, but not its amebas. I’ve been in bed/ in the bathroom since Tuesday. The doctor told me yesterday I have a bacteria and amebas. I have medicine now and should be fully back to normal in 10 days. Let’s just say my clothes fit looser now.

My body is starting to feel better as of today, but I would welcome prayer for my stomach and head.

I was reading a devotional on God being the healer and it mentioned 1 Cor 12:9 (My grace is sufficient for you, my power is made perfect in weakness. ) This is God’s response to Paul after Paul pleaded with God for him to take away the “thorn in his flesh.”

Don’t tell my theology profs at Wheaton, but I’m thinking Paul had amebas.

Love to you all as you are changing seasons, changing states, starting crucial school years, starting crucial stages of life, and going with what God is doing at home.

May God bless with you with the grace he promises in our weaknesses. And may he protect you from amebas and bacteria. 

Umm... I'm going to be on the radio tomorrow.

Hi world.
There have been many moments in my time here where I have stopped, laughed, and wondered "where am I... and what is my life??"
Tuesday a man from a Cochabambian radio station asked me if I would do an interview about the social work I am doing and why I decided to come to Bolivia. I tried to explain that my spanish probably isn't sufficient, but he wasn't convinced.
After finding out if he was legit, I agreed. What the heck, right? Why not talk in Spanish on live radio after only being here a month and a half?

So the interview is tomorrow, and I freaked out and asked him to send me the questions so I can prepare. And he did, thank Jesus. But I am asking for PRAYER. Because I know myself and I might say things off the cuff, but hopefully he does not... because with nerves I probably won't  understand!!!
This is crazy...
But it is also a chance to share about Mosoj Yan and to witness, so pray that God uses me somehow.
Ok. Tomorrow. 4:30pm. Radio Oro in case you are local.

(and oh yeah, please pray for me... did I mention I am nervous?)
Chow,
Lorena

Afternoons with Beati (Betty)

Her name is Beatris. She is 14 years old and she cannot read or write. She giggles all the time, mumbles a lot , makes up words and her Spanish isn’t very good. Sometimes she needs a heck of a lot of attention, sometimes she just needs a hug, and all the time she surprises me.

I started teaching her how to read and write last week. (Yes, I am teaching her Spanish. Don’t worry family, spelling in Spanish is way easier … I promise I won’t teach her how to spell in English.)

When I told Tino that I was doing lessons with Beati, he started laughing and asked me slyly if I was being punished for something. 

After learning the alphebet and our vowels, we started thinking of words that started with each letter of the alphebet. I had a hard time knowing if the words Beati said existed or not. Like I said, she gets confused. I tried to use the words she thought of, the words that I was sure existed, as much as possible.  The kinds of words she came up with cracked me up. P- the word for boobs in Spanish starts with P. Good. C- a word for a dance move that I don’t know starts with C.. Ok, good Beati.

After a week we started reading two-syllable words, but Beati was pronouncing her R’s with an accent that sounded like she was from Argentina, and not from Cochabamba. I was curious as to why she was doing this, so I asked her where she was from. With a very straight face she said “China.”

Beati, like all the girls, loves Justin Beiber. After class is over, we usually dance to Baby. She’s got some crazy moves. I started crying I was laughing so hard yesterday.
This girl is definitely dealing with a lot of delayed development. But she is here now, she is learning and she will be just fine. And I hope as she grows that her dance moves don't change.

I’ve gotten some good questions from this girl, and as you read this, please pray for her to continue to heal and understand more everyday:

Questions from Beati-

If I go to church drunk, will God punish me?

Who is God?

Are the men in your country good? Here they are bad.

What is love?

Who loves me then?

What does sexual mean?

And then there is –

When do you have  your time of the month when you are crazy?

What does “blU on de denz flo” mean?... blood on the dance floor… thanks popculture

Would you marry Micheal Jackson?

Don’t you think I would look good fat?

I’m from China, where are you from?

And finally, the other day Beati showed me a drawing she did of Jesus. I had to pretend to cough because, well, I couldn't help but laugh! This may seem insensitive, but it was the most unique picture of Jesus I have ever seen, and it caught me so offguard…

He has twirly eyebrows, extremely long eyelashes, pursed lips, quite the hairdo… Oh Beati. As the other girls in the house say "there are not words."

I love this girl. And I guess in all practicality, she is showing me a new side of Jesus.

She hugs me (a difficult story of me asking hard questions while embracing soft hugs)

The hands, the dirty hands, grab at my heart and pull.
I feel like pulling away, like smacking the dirty hands away and running.
But then I make eye contact with the eyes that belong to the dirty hands
And it's my sister.
She tells me nothing, she just hugs me.

But I cannot breath.
Because my sister's hug, her dance, her cooking, and her nervous laugh
tell two stories.
One is the story of a little ballerina, free to pick the flowers, free to jump into her dad's arms.
Another is a story of her left alone in the field, where even the trees scream "WHORE!"

My sister's hug, with her dirty hands, is suffocating.
Her hands pull at my heart
and it hurts.
But if I smack her hands away and run, in order to breathe as easily as I did before,
then I reject her hug.
And I will have to run forever to forget her tears.

If I stay in her soft embrace,
Then I have to accept her two stories. Two stories that don't make sense.

If I continue to love the one I see as the precious dancer in the pink dress,
then I have to accept that the dirty hands who touched her
will pull me apart too.

Can I stand in the field with her, with my ballerina, while the trees scream
"WHORE!"?
Even if I never forget her tears? Even if I forever here the accusations?
Even if my heart never beats quiet the same again?

Heavy, I look again at the field,
But this time I see someone. Someone else standing in the field.
At him, the trees are screaming, "WHORE!"
but he is silent.
"WORTHLESS, WRETCH!" they cry.
But he doesn't answer.
instead, he cries.

Confused, I look at my sister,
But she cannot see him in the field.
And she cannot see the hands.
Because the hands, the dirty hands, that are pulling me into the field
are not hers.
They are his.

And these hands, these dirty hands bidding me into the field,
they plead with me:
If you stay, if you endure the loneliness of the field with her,
then she will see.
Then she will see me here.

The hands promise me it will hurt.
The hands promise to embrace us both.

I gasp for air.

I go with her.

And I see that the hands are not dirty.
They are scarred.



how marvelous, how wonderful, as my song will ever be
how marvelous, how wonderful is my savior's love for me.