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!!!!!