Last Day

This is how I want to decorate my windowsills.

Beautiful Mommy

Awe

My heart is full, just as they say theirs' is empty. How God could be so gracious, I can't fathom. Tonight was my going away service, my last church service in our church, that I've been with from the beginning. I remember coming into this country and saying, "I can't wait until this language is familiar to my ears, and wonderful to my thinking." And not just the language, but the nation, the people, this way of life... It has all become attached to my heart strings somehow.  As the believers in the church spoke about me, and spoke to me my eyes filled with tears and my heart with joy. I'm so in awe that I've gotten the chance to minister to these people, and see their hearts. I'm humbled every time they speak to me. Our worship leader spoke to me with his wife translating and blessed me with the words glory to glory, victory to victory. I keep thinking, there is no way Arizona will impact me the way this country has, no way that I will see this much of God's glory in that podunk town.  And God just said, "Yes there is a way."  Because He is God, and through God all things are possible.  As I leaned forward to see an old woman's face better as she was speaking, I saw that all people are the same no matter the nationality. They all have hurts and scars; those are the things that show me God's glory. The pain and the beauty in a black face and wrinkles. The sadness and joy in a person before and after I pray with them. 

The Malagasy people love speeches and presentations and they presented me with a box of gifts...  When I came home, I opened them all and just sat there in wonder. What they bought me may look small, but I know the price range of it all and it probably cost half a month's salary. Words can not express my heart for these people and the way they have shown me God.

Duplicity of Heart

It's odd to be moving.

I'm going to a place I've known before, people I'm close to, and sites that I call home... And yet.
This place has become my home, these people have become the ones I'm close to and these sites... They are the ones that pull at my heart strings.

I'm climbing a hill and I can see the distance, I can see the sky.
I'm pulling at rocks, branches and asking why....

Millions of birds over my head, create a shadow, and I lose myself in the fall.
This is summer, though, so I ought to be finding my true soul.

I'm so sick of saying goodbyes. But I love going to new places. So I think I'm a bit mixed up. I'm excited though. To see faces that are in my heart, deep down, in the core. To trace places that are painted by my hands and in my head. I'm going home. And leaving home. And I'm happy. And I'm sad.
Contentment...... There is nothing else to say. But goodbye. And Hello.

Goodbye.

Hello.

Beauty in Pain

It was nearing the end of the church service, with my dad just making some closing statements to encourage the people when a drunk started bellowing out something or other. He had come to the church before, multiple times, and even sober. I had thought that he was a man trying to live right and constantly failing. Alcohol can do that to a man, I'm told. His daughter was my friend, and I was hers. Her name is Ruth* and her father was still bellowing. At that time we didn't really have ushers, and so it was my dad, who was still on stage, trying to calm him down and hush him up by talking to him. After a couple of minutes, Ruth ran out of the building; I waited for a bit, then followed her.
            I wish I could describe the emotional pain I saw being portrayed in her physical body. The Malagasy people do not show emotion very often. They laugh, they smile, but it has to be something serious for them to cry. At least that has been my experience. And to see her crying, practically sobbing, leaning on the wall with a bare bulb shining down on her.... It broke my heart. I took her in my arms and tried to sooth her, and all I heard was, "I'm so ashamed." To have a drunk dad, yes, that would cause shame but not as much as having him belligerently bellow in a church service. Especially to that family, they were very pious. I think that was half of her shame. He was a hypocrite. And all I could do was hold her and wipe at her tears and tell her that we needed to pray for him, and her, and her mom.. I told her that God could take care of them, He could convict, He could deliver, and He loved her. He wanted to do miracles in her life. He still does, I'm sure, but that is just what I said.  She was nodding and agreeing, and so we prayed. I don't remember what we prayed, we were both too broken. I was crying with her, and I remember feeling so much of God's presence in that little alley leading to the bathrooms. Dirty cement, the orange wall of the building, and that lone light bulb lighting up her agony.

Didene, me and Alice

           We dried our tears and went back inside. Her dad had been led out by some men and her mom was gathering their things up to walk home. That night was when I knew, when God made me realize that this, this is what I was made for. To comfort, to be selfless, to pray with, to encourage, to serve, to pour my life out for people. And to above all, act as Jesus would in their lives. If Jesus were still in human form, I'm positive that He would have done more to show how much He loves and cares for her.. Even so, I know He gave me His own love and comfort, to give to her. I was His medium, and as long as He'll have me, I'll continue doing what He asks.

*Names changed to protect the innocent

I want a cabin in the forest, a cottage by the sea.

I wonder how many of us feel truly useful. Not that we are useless, but how often do you look at your life and say, "Wow, do I ever do anything productive?" And if it's just me, then whatever. But still... Are we all just watching tv, filling our stomachs, and wearing cool clothes? Listening to good music, hanging out with friends, and never doing something creative, or good for someone else? How about for one day, we put others' best interests in front of our own... It might be life changing. Living in this country has changed my perspective so drastically that I'm almost afraid of the Western mindset. I'm afraid to lose the raw reality of hunger, and sadness, survival and death. For those of us who have dealt with real life and not just the California Dreamin' kind of life, the experiences don't always stick. We deal with things and move on. But how about a lasting impact? How about using those things that touched your core to help some one else? I've seen things, that I'm not likely to forget. But if I do, then I'll look back, and read old journals, talk to old friends, look at pictures. And remember.


If all we ever did was dream, we'd be nowhere. In the end all the little things don't really matter. My dreams for a cabin, or a cottage, have no lasting meaning. My life poured out for others' use, for God's purposes... That is the one thing that will make my life useful, productive and worthwhile. What about you?

I love this country and this people. 

Clinic

I wish I could capture all that I saw and felt. 

A hundred shacks race past my sight
Tall walls and brick views.
The sound of tires on wet streets,
Lakes pelted by rain
and huddled bodies. 

Huddles bodies make living look hard.
Black skin glistens.
Bare feet and only rags to cover the
Most private parts of their souls.
Lightning shatters my nerves.

"What's your name?"
"What's your number?"
"Please don't throw your baby in the dumpster."

"Where's the dad?"
"You've got bare feet,"
"Let's get you off of this wet street."

Come to us first, let's go to God.

Well, I captured it pretty well.