what do we do with what we see?

When we encounter poverty, especially for the first time, something in us changes, something internal pulls, and something new stirs. For me that was probably some time in Mexico with Parkview Youth Group. Wow, they live here? People go to church here? Do they have other shoes?

When we encounter poverty, especially for the first time, there comes this realization of how blessed we are. And if we are honest we both hurt for the poor and becoming exceedingly thankful that we aren’t.

In these encounters, we also realize that God is with these people in some really special way. After all, we come to understand that he physically meets their daily needs. And so we become enlivened and excited to serve them and be with them because we know God is letting us do his work. And so we work. And then we leave.

And we leave and become confused. We come home and feel discontent, after all, our lives just had so much purpose. So we promise to change our lifestyle somehow. And perhaps we start giving more. I started sponsoring a World Vision girl.

And then life goes back to normal. And you occasionally remember a sight you saw, or you remember the lack of sanitation, and you say a quick prayer. But overall, you adjust well to your surroundings at home again and only become truly stirred the next time you get on a plane and decide to encounter poverty again.

So what happens- why do we care for awhile at all? And why does that fade?

In my encounters, my sympathy and guilt could only last so long. I felt a divide and sort of came to the understanding that this was just their plight, and what else could I do? If I was really honest I would tell you that I couldn’t’ relate to people who were so different. And so I made up narratives about the differences between us and them. Like, oh they are stronger so they can handle the heartbreak. Oh, this is all they’ve ever know, so they can’t long for what they havent’ seen. Or, it’s not like we could help where we were born. It’s not my fault my parents had money.

And I rationalized as I tried to make sense of it all. Because I, like you, only knew how to care so much. With every mission’s trip, that feeling came and went. And I just couldn’t figure out what all this poverty had to do with me.

That is, until the poor became my sisters and suddenly didn’t look so different than me. As we shared a home, I found out that they, like me, like to have warm showers. And they, like me, like to do other girl’s hair. They have stomach aches when they consume some parasitic bacteria. They get nervous trying to speak a new language. They really wanted to succeed in school. They liked playing, watching movies, they hated laundry and always wanted midnight snacks. And as they became we I found out that there were fewer differences than similarities between us as people. They were my sisters. And so poverty became ours.

Poverty is confusing. And it moves us and stirs us in strange ways. And at each taste of it, we feel pulled to partake in some way. But it’s too foreign, too vague, too unknown. And the taste goes away. And we stop caring simply because we don’t’ know what else to do.

When will we see that the lines between us and them are faded? When will we stop long enough to stand in poverty with our equals? When will we see them as our brothers and sisters?

Well, when we develop relationships.

We each know we were meant to love the poor. It's time we stop running from that. Make friends with your taxi driver to the airport, he has stories to share. Stop and talk to the foreigner, show her how to get a cart from Aldi. Get involved in someone's life and share a burden. You will be eternally changed. And you will ache for heaven. But you won't have to wonder what that tug is anymore. 

We must let poor into our lives. We must accept the foreign as family, we must do it together. Because all of that stirring inside of us, well, it’s a stirring that calls us to claim poverty as ours. It's a stirring for Shalom.

So what do we do about all of this?

On the state side of things, I have had time to think, to feel, to readjust. And yet there are parts of me that I pray never readjust. As I describe this journey between worlds, please understand that this isn't just my journey.

It's the journey of any Christian who lives in a secure neighborhood and reads the words, did you clothe me when I was naked? Did you feed me when I was hungry? Did you visit me in prison? (Matthew 25), and doesn't know what to do with them.

It's the journey of the girl who is cared for, who has money, and yet understands something about Jesus loving the poor and doesn't know where to start.

It's our journey to love Christ while surrounded by affluence.

It's our journey as we ask ourselves, "is there more?"

..........

When I was in Bolivia, I spent a lot of time looking out of windows. From the room where I stayed in the restoration home, I could see the whole neighborhood. I could see the dogfights, the tiny market outside, the beer glasses left on the table of the restaurant next door. I saw women with lines on their faces from worry and hard physical labor, walking down the street to buy more potatoes. With make-up and some computer training, they could look like the women I lived with, professional and well-rounded. But they would not have a moment of spare time to daydream of desk jobs. They would always have one reality to face.

I memorized what I saw without intending to. That’s what happens when sights, smells, and touches hold emotional weight. These sights represented my girls’ realities, the realities they were stuck with, the realities that I would get on a plane to leave behind.

And that is what I did. I left. I got home and I stopped writing. I felt numb, overwhelmed. I found myself curled up in corner in my college apartment looking out a similar window at the strange, white-washed world. I saw well-dressed college students stressing about the work for today, suburban moms with their kids secured in carseats. I saw people in pea coats with Starbucks mugs. And I cried. Not because I don’t like nice clothes or car seats or Starbucks. I have nice clothes, I drink Starbucks, and I will in fact use a carseat. Yet I was sobered.

Partially I faced culture shock, reentering into a pace I learned to live without for six months. Partially I faced the Chicago winter. But most of all, I cried because these people, my people, had so much time to daydream about other realities. About future jobs, future homes, hobbies, and hallmark moments to come, because they had the resources to. And I hurt, because their striving, working, and upgrading would keep them from meeting the people who could desperately use a friend. Especially a friend who could spare some time, some resources, some energy. It hurt to see these Starbucks drinkers and minivan chauffeurs, because part of me knew that they would keep on dreaming without ever teaching someone who desperately needed to dream again.

I want my girls to dream again. Not of wealth, not of CEO jobs outside of their educational reach. I want them to dream of healthy marriages when men stay no matter how tight the budget gets, where birth control is within reach, and poor families are not stretched beyond what they can bear. I want them to dream of living in sanitary conditions, of working and investing in their children's education. I want them to dream of jobs where they can be home at night so their kids feel secure like they never did.

My parents helped me dream. They helped me train. They educated me and invested. 

My husband’s parents did the same for him. So, we know that in this crazy world, we will be okay. But for what purpose? So we can drink more Starbucks and buy cuter pea coats?

Something is wrong about the scenes outside my window. They are so far away from one another. And so I sat by the window in Wheaton, crying. And now I sit by the window in St. Louis, wondering:

If only we could have heard their cries, what we could have done. Julia may have had her own bedroom to keep her safe from a drunk father. Vanessa’s mom may have been diagnosed with depression before she commited suicide. Betti may have gone to school and learned about her rights to her body.

My friend's parents asked me, "so what do we do about all the inequality?" I said I didn’t know yet. But if I love my girls, then I will be brave enough to ask the question. And more so, if I believe that God loves people, then I will not dismiss it as too complicated, because dismissing it has huge implications for Vanessa. For Julia. For Betti. And they are in our family. And we will answer to God for them one day.

So what do we do about all this?

All our hopes and fears are met in him tonight.

My parents got to travel to Israel last year where they saw where the birth really happened. But truth be told, they were disappointed at how commercialism and tourism had altered the sanctity of the small town. They left with a sense of historical importance, but did not so much get to see what it looked like, or smelled like, or the kinds of people who were there.

This Christmas I am more in love with Jesus than ever, because I’ve gotten to see Bethlehem and I love the people there.

A few months ago, when I went with some of the girls who were heading back to visit their different tiny pueblos, I was struck by the lack of cell phone service, of any farming technology, and electricity. The hills were void of buildings, full of patches of trees, patches pasture, the people did not smell very good, as it was too cold to bathe outside- the only option. The children were attending to the herds and the flocks and would sometimes gather at the central market place, that usually contained a restaurant, one small type convenience store, and good space where people would bring fruits and vegetables to trade on Saturdays. Families were always in transit, someone leaving to go the nearest city for one reason or another, most used mules or donkeys for transportation. The dress is tranditional, the women with thier wool skirts and top hats, and men in farming clothes and straw hats.

I was a stranger, a city girl with jeans who looked pretty strange in the midst of the trading, but I had a connection, the girl by my side.

As I sat with Tomasa in the middle of her pueblo, she would point out the people she knew- that’s’ my uncle- she whispered in my ear. She was too shy and anxious to see her mom to say anything to him. A few more familiar faces passed by and finally she whispered- that’s my sister!

The shepherd girl, with a malnourished baby on her back.

That’s your sister?

Yes.

Are those your family’s sheep?

Yes, I used to take care of them before I started working.

Jesus, my Jesus, came to a town like Tomasa’s. And if he were born in Bolivia, she would have been invited to his birth.

Mary was just about 15 years old, they say, when Gabriel came to her. My Maria at the house is 15. She is sweet as can be, and she is just starting to accept the hard lot in life she’s been given. She loves her baby, we all do. And she’s in a foreign city, and she misses the country, and she is doing her best. We pray for her, because she is starting to open up to God.

I look at her and realize the miracle of Jesus’s birth. God came to be inside a little girl from a small town who had a pure heart, just like Maria. He let her feed him. She probably had her own ideas about remedies and maybe didn’t know how to take care of him as well as some other women in other parts of the world could have. But he didn’t care, she was worth it.

See, Jesus came in the most humble way, so the Bible says. And I love him so much for it. Because if he understood what hardship looked like, then he understands my most vulnerable friends in the world, and came to be vulnerable alongside them to show them that someone does care.

Because just when Estefany was going to give up on life, he reached out to her on the harsh streets of Cochabamba (thank you Mosoj Yan) and brought her in. He was willing to inhabit our home, which was harsh, sometimes cold and smelled bad, so Estafany can now have a home.

I love Estafany so much. She wanted me to video her giving me a goodbye message, telling me that she loves me and won’t forget me. And three months ago this jem was on the streets without enough to eat. But Jesus came to Bethlehem, so he could be the living God of the streets of Bolivia.

And yes, God loves me so much that he called me too. But what I love and is so exciting is that if I lived back then, Tomasa and Maria and Estafany, the lowly “shepherd girls” would have been the ones the angels spoke to.

My girls would have told me about Jesus.

This Christmas will be different for my girls in the house. Some of them know Jesus, some of them know peace this year. I think they some of them are finally getting that while others pass judgment on them and their babies, while others looked at them so ugly thinking of them as street rats, or “sinners”, Jesus didn’t. They, I pray, are starting to get that he just came right up next to them and said- she’s with me.

           

I am nervous, anxious, excited, and at peace with going home. I am heartbroken to leave Albergue. They are all so playful right now. We decorated the Christmas tree, danced around, and made Christmas cookies.  And I know Christmas will be a hard day for them, as they miss family, miss what was, or long for a place of their own.

But I am not leaving them alone with all their hopes and fears. I am putting them in Jesus’ hands. The one who lived their life. The one who came to bring us all hope.

Thank you Jesus.

All our hopes and fears are met in Thee tonight.

If you want to make a difference and change another Maria’s life, change an Estafany’s life, consider giving a priceless Christmas gift and giving a donation to Mosoj Yan this Christmas. They need the funds, yes, but more so what they are doing is bringing the most lowly and vulnerable home to know the Jesus who came to be with them. Let me know, I will make it happen.

Thanks family. Thanks for following, for praying, for supporting, for giving the clothes for the girls that we wrapped up for Christmas (they will LOVE them), and for loving Bolivia with me.

I am bringing home a beautiful Bolivian sister of mine to Chicago (who will be staying, working, and speaks perfect English)- look for us at church and I will definitely bring her to Wheaton in January. Thanks ahead of time for her warm welcome.

Love to you all.

I’ll be home Thursday.

God Bless.

yeah, that's the way this wheel keeps turnin now.

Have you ever experienced that moment where all the sudden you think – Shoot. This is really ending.

It’s that feeling that first came during the last concert, that came the night before I left for college. It came during rides to the airport, and after the break-up I never expected.  It came during the last check-outs after a great RA year, and it came when Rachel left for her honeymoon.

And that feeling, well, it came today. We were at a pool, I wanted to do something fun with the girls for my last weekend with them. We were playing, I was holding baby Susanna. The girls were telling me about the boys who were bothering them. And someone behind me said- what is today?

December third.

In two weeks, I will not be swimming outside, I thought.

And suddenly I hurt all over.

I am excited to go home. I want to see Tommy, my family, my friends, snow at Christmas.

But it’s just confusing and emotional trying to figure out what I am leaving and what I am returning to. It’s confusing trying to make sense of what home is-and why, when I feel it, does it get torn away? Home is there. Home is here. I feel at home with my girls. I feel at home with Abi and Daniel and Ruth and David. I feel at home when I eat a big lunch.

My home is in Wheaton. My home is in the south suburbs. My home is at Parkview. My home is in Cochabamba.

All of these places are home and yet none of them fully is. It’s frustrating. 

But as I come to understand this cycle deeper, I am learning to make peace with it.

Each goodbye is really a humbling reminder that I am so not home, but every goodbye is a reminder that I got glimpses of home, at least for a time.

Because God’s kingdom is the ultimate home I think I long for. And God's kingdom is present here, especially in form relationships.

So the fact that I ever felt at home in Cochabamba, or in Chicago or Wheaton means that I got to experience the beauty of being apart of God's kingdom on earth.

Entonces I go, I love, I experience home because I experience God’s kingdom. And I leave. And part of home stays with them. And part of it goes with me.

And it aches.

And it’s always worth it.

Shoot, this is really ending.

I leave here December 14^th. Pray for us as a little bit of home gets torn away.

13 going on 30…. Or 14 going on 40.

You know the movie 13 going on 30?

A little innocent 13 year old is in a hurry to grow up, and she wishes herself into her future. The 13 year old finds herself as a 30 year old woman with a profession and a boyfriend. She tries to navigate her new life with the perspective of a little girl who thinks sex is gross, people should just always be really nice, and peanut butter and jelly is the way to go.

In the movie, the girl missed all that happened in between year 13 and 30 and the redeeming point in the movie is that although the girl lacks maturity, she hasn’t lost her perspective. She lacks the bitterness and harshness life can bring, and makes good decisions based on her childlike spirit. She falls in love with the right guy and lives a great Jennifer Gardner life. It’s definitely a chick flick.

I wish one of my girls couldn’t so easily relate to premise of the movie.

I sat with my Teresa (a name change) before she left Albergue. And her body is 14 years old. But her eyes really had seen what a 40 year old might know of life’s heartbreaks. It's like she was taken away from a little girls' life and put in the middle of harsh reality. She didn’t wish herself into, and she is too hardened to say that she would wish herself backwards.

Suicide took her mom. She lived on a farm without much money. Her dad worked all day. Her sister ran away. She started cooking when she was 8.

I asked her what she learned as a kid. She said she learned to hide. To lie. To escape. That her favorite things in life will go away.

I know, she needs lots of psychological healing. She also needs Jesus.

But she wouldn’t stay long enough to get the first, and I pray one day she’ll get the second.

This 14 year old and I were talking about her plans now that she decided she was leaving the house. She would work, she would go to school at night, she would make sure to buy fruits and vegetables.

Will you go party? I asked.

No, how could you say that?

Because I love you, I thought, and you are 14. You lack the maturity and the perspective but you are living a 40 year old’s life.

She very seriously told me that she would take care of herself.

And I told her the most mature thing she could do is ask us for help when she needs it.

She said ok.

She tied a friendship bracelet on my wrist. I asked her again if she would stay.

No, she would go live with her sister. (who is 16.)

Teresa, 14 years old is living like a 40 year old. She’ll try to navigate life without a profession, without thinking sex is gross, and maybe never knowing the comfort of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

When Jesus said he came not for the healthy but the sick, he meant it. He is here to be with her. The fact that he ever willing to enter into this world, where little girls live like this, is just really astounding to me. I guess that’s why we call him Savior.

Thank you Jesus for taking care of Teresa as she goes. Thank you for one day giving her the love that can transform her. Thanks for one day restoring her to the place where she can know the comfort of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

(watch over her please.)

Amen.

the she's and He.

She’s singing and dancing by herself downstairs. It’s her job to make dinner, and tonight we just eat bread and have tea, so while she’s waiting for the water to boil, she hears her favorite song come on and runs outside by the speaker.

Eres todo, poderoso                                                            You are all powerful

Eres grande, majestoso                                                You are great, majestic

Eres fuerte, invincible,                                                You are strong, invincible

no hay nadie como tu            ,                                                 There is no one like you

She’s dancing to it and yelling the words, and I am upstairs laughing.

She trusts now, in spite of the 8 years of abuse. And I bet her dancing is better than David’s.

Then there’s the other she. She tells me God is her best friend, that he always was. I asked her who told her about God.

No one, she said. God would talk to her when she was alone and crying… after bad things happened to her. Since then, she’s always trusted him.

Yet another she says that God, well, she never wanted to know him. And I assure her that he already knows and loves her, but she doesn’t care.

And I am weighed down by the last she. Until I remember that not too long ago the first she I mentioned, well, she told me God was bad.

And now she’s practically yelling the opposite.

And so I remember to keep praying, because he is todo, poderoso, he is grande, majestoso, he is fuerte, invincible, and there is no one like our God.

Turkey Day

None of the girls have ever eaten turkey before. They sell it in Bolivia, but it’s so expensive that I think if I lived here I would just buy chicken and tell my friends that’s what we do in the states.

But mom and dad were here- they arrived on Monday- and they weren’t going to miss the opportunity to give the girls their first Thanksgiving meal ever.

The three of us went to the supermarket with Hermana Tomy, and we set out to find all the ingredients we could possibly need- minus pumpkin filling… they don’t have that here. (can someone save me some pumpkin pie please?)

On Thursday morning we got to the house early to start the cooking. Dad peeled all kinds of vegetables and worked the microwave while my mom was busy directing some of the girls in the kitchen with charades. Occasionally I would hear one of the girls yell, “Lauren, what is your mom saying?”

Everything was ready and cooked to perfection by 12:30, and the girls were excited. As tradition, we went around the table and each person had to say 2 things they were thankful for.

As the girls started, I was shocked to hear them say things they’ve just never said so articulately before.

“I’m thankful that I am here.”

“I’m thankful for these people who love me.”

“I am thankful because I learned to read.”

“I’m thankful because I am here and have a place to sleep.”

“I’m thankful for this family.”

When we got almost around the whole table, one of the girls who is just very hardened from deep wounds- a girl who probably learned it’s just best not to cry when she was 10 years old- started sharing.

“I’m thankful that there are people who help me. I’m thankful that you wanted to share this with me. I’m thankful to taste my first turkey. I’m thankful…” and she started crying “that I could be here.”

Her hard shell cracked, and it wasn’t because of the tryptophan.

That, my friends, is called Thanksgiving.

Thank you Jesus.

THANKS to all of you who sent my parents with gifts for the girls and the house. I was shocked- we all were- at the gifts my parents brought from you all.

Hermana Tomy, caretaker who teaches them to do jewelry was far beyond overwhelmed. So from us to you, thanks a million.

You made their Christmas, and they don’t even know it yet, and you, in a very bold way said "we believe in this ministry."

 Here's a shot of us giving the gifts:

Moments that won’t make you cry

“Ximena, I want a baby that looks like yours!”

I said to one of our moms as I was playing with her beautiful oriental 5 month old, smiling baby.

“Hermana Lorena, that’s easy!” she said with a big grin.

Ronal is a year and a half. He and his mom are new at the house. I was watching him yesterday, I gave him his little foam ball and walked away. I came back and he had bitten of the foam and was trying to eat it. I removed the foam from his mouth and gave him some crackers.

Everyone asks if the dog ate the ball… no it was Ronal.

We went to a park on Saturday. One gringa, three babies, two cholitas (girls whose culture is traditionally from the countryside who dress in the traditional Quechan dress), and 8 other random teenage girls… there we were, playing, riding the train, and posing for pictures. I would love to be inside of people’s minds when they see us together.

I often mix up the verbs for “to fight” and “to peel.” Often I end up saying how I am going to fight with various vegetables. The girls, almost always on cue, start doing karate moves on the tomatoes.

Yesterday, we celebrated the birthdays of all the girls who had birthdays in the last six months. While we were setting up, the girls wanted to know what we were doing. I said it was a surprise. They promised they wouldn’t tell anyone. So I whispered, “we are celebrating you beautiful births!” In english… and then walked away.

They tried getting out the dictionary, but didn’t have much luck.

Sometimes Beati doesn’t want to practice reading, so then I look at her book and I say “no wonder you don’t’ want to read, look it’s in English!” and she looks at it and says- “wait! “ Then she reads it… and exclaims, “No it’s in Spanish! You are wrong!”

She hasn’t figured out that every book we read is, yes folks, in Spanish.

Parents, if you are looking for a creative means of punishment, we’ve got one. Have your kids write “ I should not arrive late to the table” one THOUSAND times. They will not be late again.

News on "Maria"(from the last blog)- her mom called us, she wants to see her daughter. In January, we said.

Praise God. Praise God.

Pray for my parents' travels please! And for their luggage to arrive with them on time. They are coming on MONDAY!!!!! 

(always) (just) getting there.

            Last Thursday we took our trusty scooby-doo van and left at 4am fully prepared with a chicken and rice lunch that Tomasina, the amazing “mom”, cooked at 3 am, and we set out for a little town that I could not remember the name of for the life of me. Tino, the supervisor and resident wise father of Albergue, warned me with a mischievous smile that this would be a long trip. I now know that “a long trip” means driving eight hours through winding pebbled and dust roads where you occasionally honk at the mountain goats or wild pigs that get in the road.

            Goats or no goats, paved roads or not, we had a destination to reach and Tino and Tomasina were willing to do anything to get there. The three of us were going with one of the girls to a town near her hometown, where she would hopefully see her mother for the first time since she had her baby.  The meeting, we prayed, would start a crucial healing process.

            Maria, (her name is not Maria, but I felt like this story called for a name change) was dressed in her beautiful traditional Quechan dress and her baby girl was ready with little dress and yellow-flowered headband, which would no doubt help win the affection of grandma.

            For most of the trip Maria was wide-eyed, perched against the window, admiring the beauty of the mountains we were driving through. Her emotions were as unsteady as pebbled roads but she kept them as quite as the surrounding countryside. I watched her eyes. Excitement. Anxiety. Fear. Anticipation.

            “How do you feel Maria?” Tomasina asked.

            “A little bit sad.”

            Despite the roads and the anxiety of the situation, I was able to sleep on and off for the first 3 hours of our journey, thanks to some genetic miracle passed down from my mom’s side of the family. Each time I woke up, Maria would yell to me, smiling, “it’s the hour to wake up Hermana!” Her 8 month old daughter, sound asleep on the seat between us, was undisturbed by mom’s mischievous enthusiasm. I would yell back, “I don’t understand Spanish this early- I don’t know what you are saying!” and would go back to sleep.

            After I had really woken up, we passed the next 5 hours sitting together on the bench seat, admiring together the mountains, cows, sheep, shepherd girls, horses, donkeys, and the quaint towns we passed. Our bathroom stops often were on mountainsides somewhere. We had no toilets- but the view was fantastic. One of our stops Maria and I got out and were walking to find privacy somewhere in the woods. I asked her what kind of animals lived in this part. She answered matter-of-factly “cows and mountain lions.” And then walked away smiling to go find her bathroom.

            “Pasorapa” the sign read. At last we reached the little town that I couldn’t remember the name of for the life of me! We pulled up in front of the office of the Defensoria, the governmental child defense agency. And everything about Maria  began to change- her eyes filled with some replayed memory, her shoulders slouched with some kind of defeat, and she looked at Tomasina and said, “I’m not getting out.” 

            “It’s ok, Hermano Tino is going to go into the office, and we will wait here.” Tino went in. And we sat with Maria and the baby, who was now awake and fussing. She started sharing bits of the memories behind her eyes.

            “Over there-“ she pointed to a bench in the plaza where we were parked, “is where my mom had to leave me. I was just two months pregnant. We were both crying. Llorando grave. Crying hard.

            “She left me there. And then they took me on a big bus to the city. I was so scared.” Her memories were sharp, “ I didn’t speak Spanish, I had never left my town before, I felt sick on the bus, and I couldn’t sleep. For days, I just wanted my mom.” She was 14 when this happened.

            We were quiet. All we could do was hug her. Then the baby started fussing, so I took her out and walked her around the plaza, leaving her mom in peace with Tomasina.

            The small garden/sitting area in the plaza was beautiful. The sun was shining, brightening up the bright-blue fences that kept the lush green plants from growing out into the stoned walk way.  In the center of this squared central garden was a circular stoned patio with benches. Here in the middle of the patio, where this baby’s life started, is where I started to sing the Michael Gungor song:

 http://youtu.be/uumI-PdeZzY  (here is a link to the song.)

You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of the dust.

Why was I singing? I don’t know. Maybe more out of desperation than faith.

You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of us.

Yes I was playing with a beautiful baby girl, but I still had so many questions- … what exactly about this will be beautiful?

You make me new, you are making me new.

I stood baby girl up on a bench and made her dance. She started giggling.

            Tino came out with a woman from the office. They went over to the van with concerned and disappointed looks on their faces. I watched as they explained something to Maria. Then her head fell into her hands, her chest into her lap. She began to sob. Tino’s face hurt for her, he kept telling her something. He turned to talk to the woman who was apparently a lawyer and they gave Maria some space. She fell into Tomasina’s arms, weeping. And I grasped the baby, who, with a smile wrapped her chubby little arms around my neck.

And I stubbornly kept singing.

All this pain. I wonder if I’ll ever find my way.

I wonder if my life could really change at all.

You make beautiful things. You make beautiful things out of the dust…

            Maria would not see her mommy. Her mom didn’t want to see her, what were we suppose to say? I went to the lawyer’s office with Tino and listened. It could be that the men in the community didn’t want her mom to leave, explained the lawyer. They have their own rule of law there, afterall, and are afraid that she might say something to put even more of the men in jail. …Or maybe, they both said, Maria’s mom really doesn’t want to see her daughter. With eyes looking down to the ground we all knew this was possible.

The baby, after all, is not just her daughter’s baby. It’s her husband’s baby too.

            Mary Oliver once said, “ There are things you can’t reach, but you can reach out to them all day long.”

            This is something we could not reach. All we could do is reach out. All we could do is send gifts to the mom from her daughter, all we could do is call her aunts and uncles and try to let her see someone in her family. All we could do is keep reaching, keep driving a little further so she could feel some sense of family. All we could do is hold the baby and pray over her- God bless the despised, the innocent. All we could do is promise to help her make a new home somewhere else, because this little girl, this little innocent mom, would not be welcome in her own town ever again. And she knew it.

            After  we did manage to find  her aunt and uncle. We got to visit their house that night and we saw them loving Maria and playing with her baby. They were very poor, but bought a coke to offer us, their guests. We took turns drinking, sharing the only two cups they had. We joyfully sat in their home and played with their kittens, that they kept trying to sell me.  (I finally said I had allergies.) And before we left Maria’s uncle brought us at 10 pm to a dried up riverbed where his tomato plants grow. And he gave us a box of tomatoes to bring home.

            The drive the next day was long. There was a roadblock on the highway, so the three-hour tour turned into 10 hours. We ventured through some sketchy “off roads” in the Scooby van, we pushed the car through an old potato farm, and we laughed at our misfortunes. Maria was still deeply disappointed. After all, we could not reach in that far.

            But as we made the effort to see her uncle and aunt, as we showed her we were her family and would stick together through potato fields, as I held her baby when she couldn’t, we silently promised her we would keep reaching out.

            By the end of the day on Friday, Maria, full of scars, very protectively embraced her sleeping baby. We laughed a bit about our adventures and she told me, “I think God really helped us back there. For a while I didn’t think we’d ever get out of that farm.” But we did. We made it home paved roads or not, goats or no goats. And one day hopefully, we will make the journey again.

PRAY.

Pray that one day Maria’s mom will love her and that they can reunite. Pray that mom and granddaughter will embrace- because this is not outside of God’s power. Pray that Maria can move forward planning her work and life, accepting that she will not have her mom’s help.

Pray that we can keep reaching out, even though we can’t fully reach in.

And when our prayers become still, pray that we can dance in gardens with babies who were never suppose to exist and sing:

All around, life is springing up from this old ground,

Out of chaos life is being found, in you.

You make beautiful things out of the dust. 

a big painful question mark.

I am not a mom. I have had mom-like feelings, however, for certain people in my life. And whether it’s the beautiful kids in Guatemala, the beautiful gringos I babysit for in Wheaton, or the girls at the house right now, I can’t even start to imagine what sending any of them away (because I couldn’t take care of them) would feel like, especially if I didn’t know if I would ever see them again.  And yet that is what Her mom did. She was 12, her mom and dad couldn’t feed her. She would go work.

Later this mom and dad would ask about their daughter and all they would find out was that she was missing. After a year, they would assume she was dead.

After 3 years, they would be contacted by a girls’ home in the big city (us) and find out that she was indeed alive and her previous employer in jail for what he did to her.

On a Saturday in October a gringa from Chicago would get up early to leave with this daughter, the supervisor, caretaker, and a van full of food to try and find the family after 3 years.

On this day, the gringa, the least important in the story, would see what poor looks likes. She would see what a nervous girl anxious to find her mom looks like. And she would see a mom without much affection, a mom with a lot of fear, stare into her child’s face only to offer a hello after 3 years. She would see a younger brother with a face is aged by the stress of hunger, and she would see him asking his sister to take him with her.

This gringa would then see what little boys left alone for days looks like. She would see a two year old boy who is cold and hungry stare instead of cry. She would see him void of something… she would look away afraid to find out.  She would see the two brick “rooms” , one 7 by 3ft where the 11 would sleep with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. She would a sixteen year old shepherd girl, her sister, with her own baby tied on her back. She would find out the baby was 3 years old.

Then the gringa would see the mom of 8 begin to cry and hug her daughter when she said goodbye. And this gringa would cry. Because she would know that something went terribly wrong.

This couple would be left with food sufficient for a time. And their daughter would be relieved that she would not stay there.

And the gringa would look back as they left and wonder what it feels like to be a mom. And the daughter would take this gringa’s hand to hold it tightly as they walked back to their van.

Sunshine.

Life is poetry. It’s a dance. It’s a song. It’s sunshine highlighting what was there all along. Life is stopping to look at what the sun illuminates. It’s the moments when the banana and milk juice tastes spicy because someone didn’t wash the blender after blending a hot pepper. It’s when snack time turns into a contest to see who can drink the juice.

Life is the moments when I say “I want a baby that looks like yours!” and she answers, “oh that’s easy!”

It’s moments when my aunt has me guessing what different china dishes she has are for.

Life is needing help and getting it, because God said ask and it will be given.

It’s sharing everything- even really bad colds. It’s teacher and student sniffling miserably over a Children’s Bible and realizing that She is actually learning to read.

Life is sitting with her and hearing her say- I want to tell you that I am really starting to get to know God. I pray to him and then wait for him to answer. And he does.

It’s listening to her explain that she knows one day she will teach other people the bible and she will tell them all what happened to her. And she’ll tell them that God used all that to bring her to Albergue- where she could learn who he was.

Life is hearing: Yes, I was left behind. But it’s because God wanted me here.

It’s is learning to forgive because someone you love was strong enough to do it.

Life is hearing “are you embarrassed of your faith?” and answering “No, my faith in God is my whole life.” Life is seeing her smile and answer “I’m not embarrassed either.”

Life is talking about how she aborted the baby, and it’s promising her that her baby is safe in heaven. And that when she gets there, he will know her and he will know that she loves him. Life is her eventually deciding that God is good because he is caring for her baby.

Life is wondering at the sunshine, and it’s stopping to think- how did I get here?

Life is poetry. It’s baby Susanna dancing. It’s Beati singing Dios es Poderoso, it’s Ximena laughing and admitting that she likes the other girls.

Sunshine.

Thanks.

So raising teenage girls who go to school, need uniforms, clothes, school supplies, medical care and food costs money. Therefore, there is no money for recreation. No money for playing, no special outings unless they are free. I think back on how many amazing memories I have- either special lunch dates with dad, great family vacations, summer nights walking to get ice cream and I am so thankful for the love and attention and sacrifices my parents gave me. These girls just don't have that. They have love (now, anyways), and Tomasina, the caretaker, works so hard to make special snacks within the budget, and we get creative with money- but the girls still do not have the same opportunities that other people with good parents have. So guess what Parkview (church family) - we did what their parents never got to do. We took the whole house- the babies, staff, and girls- to the pool.  

At 4 in the afternoon I was sitting with the two babies on a lawn chair while the girls were all playing some game in the pool. They all started laughing so hard- I had no idea at what. Tomasina, the caretaker, walked over and sat down in the chair next to me. She smiled and looked at me and said, "Look at them. They've forgotten everything. Thank you."

Parkview, thank you for giving joyfully and for letting me receive your support here. 

Thank you.

From the bottom of our hearts.

Love to you all,

Lauren

Willi Great.

This is a blog about Bolivia.

And yet, I want to take the time to say a little something about a long lost home I am missing.

A Tribute to Williston.

W is for, well, willi great bonding time. And it is for, well the willi wonderful uses of the word  “willi”, as inspired by Karen Bergman.

I is for ice cold. Which we never were. (no need to explain that one.)

L is for like it or not we are a family. So get along Botta and Hogan! Or should I say Maggie and Wes. (hehe:) ) We might be scattered, but the love continues.  

L is for ladies. Ladies who may appear to be like a normal stock of Wheaties. But oh no. There is nothing ordinary about you ladies. (facetious planning, dancing on the…, hammocking, the occasional good cry, Chinese food, patiently enduring stomping above) Oh how I admire the Ladies of Williston.

I is for impact. Now you are in the full swing of the semester,  Jrs and leaders in every which department, and I am so sure that if you take seriously your gifts and offer yourselves as living sacrifices, well, Wheaton will be changed by you. 

S is for SANTA! Or Poppa Jens. Cheers to great Christmas memories.

T is for time, which you all thankfully didn’t take too seriously. We stayed up late, mafia-ed, played, (some smashed) and worshiped. And then sometimes we did homework. 

O is for ominous. This would not be a tribute to Williston if I did not mention its creepy charm. We lived through the creeks, leaks, and even the stomping noises in the middle of the night. (Then, of course, we found out it was just Botta.)

N is for NO MORE fire alarms! Except for Kelsi, Sean, and Maggie…

N is also for now I want you to know that just because I am in Bolivia doesn’t mean that I have stopped thinking about all of you. I pray for you often. I miss you all, and you better take your time left at Wheaton so seriously. Because you are all capable of carrying on the legacy you created.  Thanks for being great.

Love you UCCS. RAs. sorts of UCCs and sort of RAs... and my girls on 2. ALL OF YOU.

Chow for now.

We are at war. And we have to win. (please read this one)

Last weekend I stayed with the girls. On Saturday night we went to church with Tino (coordinator of Albergue.) And on Saturday night the new girl who had only been there 3 days ran away. She had nothing- no money, no cell phone, and no knowledge of the city of Cochabamba. We took the car and drove around looking for her, but saw nothing. Nirvana. I don’t know what will happen to you, but I know what happens to a girl on the streets here. Nirvana, why don’t you understand that the thief has come to kill and steal and destroy?

Sunday morning we had an unexpected visit from Mari. Mari had left Albergue 3 weeks earlier to live with her mom. The staff knew she wasn’t ready, but she threatened to escape, so we let her go. It’s her choice. After 2 weeks of living with her mom, she decided she didn’t like living there, so she left her moms house to live on the streets. Last week she broke into Albergue and stole some of the girl’s clothes.

And suddenly she shows up Sunday morning looking for help for a friend. Me and one other girl went out to talk to her, stalling her so she could stay long enough for Tino to come. I hugged her, I asked her where she’d been, where she’d been living, how she was doing.

Mari, you told me you were doing bad, that you don’t eat some days, you know your life is dangerous, the streets are cold in everyway and alcohol costs you money and years of your life that you don’t have. Why don’t you get- the thief comes to kill and steal and destroy?

Mari was told she was welcome back at the house when she was with her mom, until then we would call the police if we saw her because we can no longer trust her.

On Sunday night the power went out. We had fun with it. But Beati, well she was really preoccupied with the dark. It was unnerving. She is very much in between two worlds of darkness and light. And they both want her. Which world does she understand better? Darkness.

On Wednesday Beati and I were reading the Bible. She asked me why God was bad, why he didn’t like Satan. She told me Satan was good.

As we talked I found out that the whole story was just really messed up in her head. She asked me who Jesus’ parents were, who God’s parents were, why Jesus had to die , what sin meant, and why couldn’t God be with us.

Suddenly I found myself with a limited vocabulary and a few props on the table to explain Immaculate Conception, eternity, the fall of Satan from Heaven, the fall of man and holiness of God, and the sacrifice of love of Jesus on the cross.

She listened, she was very confused by God letting his son be adopted, why he let him die, the whole concept of Jesus coming back to life didn’t click, and she told me she didn’t think this could be because God is bad.

After speaking very gently through all of this, I changed my tone. In an extrememly firm and indignant way I told her that this book is the most true book in the world and if she didn’t believe the most true book then she was believing lies.

I told her I didn’t want to hear her say that God was bad again because I don’t want to hear saying really bad lies like this, and I told her it hurts me because I love God and God loves me. So she can’t do that.

She can ask me lots of quesitons about God and  she can tell me hows she feels, but she shouldn’t lie like that.

With a marker (God), an eraser (Beati), and a pencil (Satan) I showed her and told her that Satan wants to kill her. He wants her to die. He is not good, he likes it when she’s hurt.

And I hit the eraser with the pencil.  

And then I took the marker (God) and I wacked the pencil. It fell to the floor. And I put the marker in front of the eraser and told her God wants her to let him protect her.

God wants her safe. God loves her. He loves her laugh. He made all the good and pretty things in this world.

He wants to get rid of all the bad stuff.

Because he loves her.

She told me that couldn’t be because he was bad.

But Beati, I love you.

            Si hermanita (with a smile) Yo se. Yes, I know.

Am I bad?

            No!

Tomi loves you.

            Si, (with a smile) yo se. Yes, I know

Is she bad?

            No!

Tino loves you.

            Si, (more serious) yo se. Yes, I know.

Is he bad?

            No!

God loves you.

            Si?

Yes. And so is he bad?

            (she pauses, her brow scruffed) No se. I don’t know.

There’s a war going on. And we can’t afford to loose. Sometimes I feel extremely discouraged emotionally, tired, sad, and paralyzed. And I understand that I am in a war and the enemy wants me down.

It’s heavy.

It’s also urgent. Not in the sense that we need to act now, but in the sense that we need to put on the armor now. We need to be praying.

This is a real plea from me to you, please fight this war with me here. Will you consider fasting with me and some others on Thursdays?

Please ask for God to win their souls. For God’s power to be displayed in weakness. For his love to win for  Beati. For Vaneza. For Alejandra who just moved out with her baby. For Julia and her daughter as she misses Alejandra. For Jhoselin who cries when she prays for her parents on the streets. For Delia. For Tomasa. For Wilma. For Paola.

Thanks. 

Much love from here.

And happy 50th to my old man.:)

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.

When the Jews Partied

We were reading the book of Esther together at Albergue. When the Jews finally get vengeance on their enemies at the end of the book, they celebrated God’s faithfulness. They feasted, and there is one line where it says “and they took care of the poor.”

There are a lot of aspects of the culture here that stretch me.  But one of the most important aspects of life in Bolivia is the collectivism. In this very communal culture, you don’t eat or drink alone. You always invite, especially those in your family. 

So we were out with all the girls, about to leave and there was two little kids hanging by the van who looked pretty raggedy. We had 2 packs of cookies. Tino, who has worked with these girls for about 15 years, asked the girls if we could give them cookies. They cut open the pack, I thought to give them each a few. And then they gave one open pack (open because it was easier to eat) to the girl, and the other pack to the boy.

When the Jews, the underdogs, experienced victory they celebrated with thanksgiving. Which means they celebrated by inviting in those on the outside. It was way cool to watch the girls figure out how to do the same. And even though Bolivia is extremely hospitable, I knew the reason they gave those cookies had nothing to do with cultural trends and it had everything to do with partying with purpose.

Prayer pleas-

For wisdom and creativity to appropriately spur on community in the house (I have pent up RA in me screaming to get out…)

For my heart, and yours. I am going to start translating my girls stories. Looking sexual abuse in the face while hugging the victim is not something I pretend to be capable of.

Praise- My stomach is getting much better!

Praise- My host family is amazing.

Praise- I get to see 2 beautiful faces of friends from Wheaton this week!