The monotonous beeping of my alarm drones next to my ear. I rub my eyes, trying to erase yesterday’s troubled dreams and ready myself for another long day.
I melt beneath a fiery sun as I stand outside a classroom at the high school, giving an English reading quiz to a girl who stumbles over the unfamiliar words like a blind man on a rocky path.
“I’m going to count to 10,” I scream. “If you’re not out of the pool on 10, you’re not swimming tomorrow.” Kids start plowing through water like Michael Phelps on his way to a gold medal.
Tears trickle down his face as I carefully apply the baking soda paste to the welts on Enrique’s body. Enrique’s got chicken pox, but unfortunately for him, he´s 13, a lot older than most kids with pox.
Bertha drags the comb through my unruly hair. “I found one,” she exclaims. That makes four. I’m resigning myself to the fact that I will probably have lice on and off for the next six months.
An orange flies across the floor and a defiant Manuel glares at me from across the table. He´s angry because I punished him with only bread and water for breakfast.
I glance down at my legs. My feet are still dirty from playing soccer in the mud a few days ago and they´re covered in bug bites in various stages of healing. I`ve forgotten what a good hair day is like and what I look like with makeup on.
They´re simply out of control. It`s my first grade English class and I`m screaming at these hooligans at the top of my lungs. I drag three to the office.
“Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”
2 Corinthians 4:16-18
Some days are more difficult than others. Sometimes I wonder what I´m doing here.
This verse gives me strength and encouragement.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Too cool [cold] for school
The kids here are too cool for school, but it’s definitely not a snow day.
I peer down at the foaming water beneath the bridge. Sunlight sparkles through tiny breaks in the thick foliage. My ears fill with the sound of water; water under attack as delighted children fling themselves from vines into its cool depths. Expectant faces turn upward, waiting, watching, wondering. I have cliff jumped before, but this seems much higher. I’m nervous, determined and slightly worried, worried about falling on the rocks at the base of the small waterfall. Laurel and Pablo [one of the teachers from the high school who often hangs out with the kids from the Hogar] join me, as well as two Honduran guys. They’ve parked their blue truck right behind us on the bridge, but insist that there’s enough room to jump. As if to prove their point, they count to three and leap, clearing the rocks below and bobbing to the surface as the current begins to drag them toward the river. A few minutes pass and Pablo jumps. I can’t think about it anymore. Before my mind has a chance to catch up, I send my body over the edge. Seconds feel like minutes; the air binds me in a protective cocoon, but gravity’s greedy fingers wrench me free and my body hits the water with a definitive bang. I wriggle to the surface and wipe water droplets from my eyes, reaching for the rocks on the shore. I am satisfied.
Honduras doesn’t have snow days, they have political days. School is cancelled when a toque de queda [curfew] is issued. We didn’t have classes for two days because Zelaya made a stealthy return into Tegucigalpa on Monday and because of unrest there, a nationwide curfew was issued. In other news, the pool turned a slimy green and had to be drained, which meant that when the kids were stuck at the Hogar with nothing to do, we had to find somewhere to cool off. The river was the next best thing.
Why did the river suddenly become better than the pool? The answer is simple. The pool had gone a few days without chlorine. The heavy rains had washed in dirt and leaves and grimy children had forgotten to wash their feet before jumping in. The filters in the pool had become clogged. Algae began to grow, slowly at first, but then faster and faster. The pool was no longer refreshing, it had become stagnant and ugly. I think our minds are like the pool. If we don't constantly add new ideas and thoughts [chlorine], they become slimy and stagnant. If our filters stop working and we let leaves and bugs [bad thoughts, words, images, sounds] clog our pipes, the water [our life] will no longer be precious. The river's constant motion and influx of new water [ideas] keeps the water clean and pure. I want my life to be a river, not a stagnant, slimy pool.
And I'm definitely too cool for school. I'm counting down the weeks until vacation.
I peer down at the foaming water beneath the bridge. Sunlight sparkles through tiny breaks in the thick foliage. My ears fill with the sound of water; water under attack as delighted children fling themselves from vines into its cool depths. Expectant faces turn upward, waiting, watching, wondering. I have cliff jumped before, but this seems much higher. I’m nervous, determined and slightly worried, worried about falling on the rocks at the base of the small waterfall. Laurel and Pablo [one of the teachers from the high school who often hangs out with the kids from the Hogar] join me, as well as two Honduran guys. They’ve parked their blue truck right behind us on the bridge, but insist that there’s enough room to jump. As if to prove their point, they count to three and leap, clearing the rocks below and bobbing to the surface as the current begins to drag them toward the river. A few minutes pass and Pablo jumps. I can’t think about it anymore. Before my mind has a chance to catch up, I send my body over the edge. Seconds feel like minutes; the air binds me in a protective cocoon, but gravity’s greedy fingers wrench me free and my body hits the water with a definitive bang. I wriggle to the surface and wipe water droplets from my eyes, reaching for the rocks on the shore. I am satisfied.
Honduras doesn’t have snow days, they have political days. School is cancelled when a toque de queda [curfew] is issued. We didn’t have classes for two days because Zelaya made a stealthy return into Tegucigalpa on Monday and because of unrest there, a nationwide curfew was issued. In other news, the pool turned a slimy green and had to be drained, which meant that when the kids were stuck at the Hogar with nothing to do, we had to find somewhere to cool off. The river was the next best thing.
Why did the river suddenly become better than the pool? The answer is simple. The pool had gone a few days without chlorine. The heavy rains had washed in dirt and leaves and grimy children had forgotten to wash their feet before jumping in. The filters in the pool had become clogged. Algae began to grow, slowly at first, but then faster and faster. The pool was no longer refreshing, it had become stagnant and ugly. I think our minds are like the pool. If we don't constantly add new ideas and thoughts [chlorine], they become slimy and stagnant. If our filters stop working and we let leaves and bugs [bad thoughts, words, images, sounds] clog our pipes, the water [our life] will no longer be precious. The river's constant motion and influx of new water [ideas] keeps the water clean and pure. I want my life to be a river, not a stagnant, slimy pool.
And I'm definitely too cool for school. I'm counting down the weeks until vacation.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Loco for Coco
Coconuts falling, children calling, the sights and sounds are quite appalling.
It’s coconut season. Children migrate to the coconut palm-lined driveway with machetes and kitchen knives. Coconut husks fly as skilled hands hack away the useless skin. The afternoon sun’s lazy rays filter through the trees, cloning shadows of the lofty palms on the stark gray of the driveway. Heads tip back, allowing sweet juice to quench parched throats. Eager hands pry apart tough skin, revealing tasty meat that satisfies hunger.
The kids here are like coconuts. Many of them have a tough outer skin and sometimes getting them to open up takes a lot of work. I like to think that my time and patience act as a knife. I hack away at their tough exterior for awhile until they let me see who they really are. Life's rains and storms have hardened their skin and soured their flavor, but inside there is a heart waiting to be reached, waiting to be told it has value.
I've become close friends with one of the older girls. She's 15 years old and has lived at the Hogar for almost a year. Sometimes we joke around. Sometimes we sit and look at the stars. Sometimes we talk about boys. Sometimes she tells me what's on her heart. Today she came to my room to talk. She told me she wanted to leave the Hogar, that she wasn't happy here. I told her how special she is and that she can't let her painful past stop her from fighting for a bright future. I told her over and over that God has amazing plans for her and reminded her how special and unique she is. By the time I was done talking to her, she'd begun to cry.I asked her if she wanted to pray with me and she didn't answer. I sent up a silent plea that God would help me say something right. When I opened my eyes, tears were sliding down her cheeks and pooling in her lap. I felt my own eyes beginning to water as I put my arms around her. My knife had done it's work well. She had shed her tough outer skin and let me see her heart. I realized something though. God can use us to reach others, but sometimes we have to let him do the rest. My knife can peel away the exterior, but it takes the Master Carver to carefully extract the meat that's inside and make it edible again.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Precious Lucy Kuntz
I was 3 years old when we brought her home. There was an ad in the paper for free kittens and my parents took my brothers and me to choose one. Precious and her sister Sunshine both needed a home, but we could only take one. I can’t remember why, but the decision was easy and during the next 19 years, I never regretted choosing her. Precious Lucy Kuntz immediately settled into her place in our family. She was so energetic that she would tear around our two-story house at night until the early hours of the morning. What she enjoyed most was touring her vast estate, our 80-acre West Virginia property. Her chief responsibility was to catch mice, but that was just to keep my dad off her back. She spent most of her time catching mice outdoors rather than indoors and sleeping. She was so loyal. After she was spayed, we brought her home feeble and groggy and put her at the bottom of the stairs in a basket. In the morning we found she had dragged herself all the way up the stairs to sleep in my room with me.
I found in her a friend and playmate; a companion to keep away the scary dreams and shadows in my room at night and someone to talk to when no one else seemed to understand. I dressed her up in scarves and hats and carried her around in baskets, but she never complained, other than an occasional scratch. During the next few years we moved a few times and had a few dogs die, but Precious kept going strong. One time she disappeared for a few days and we thought she had been killed by a wild animal on one of her hunting sprees. Tears were shed and prayers were said but I’d given up hope. On the fourth day, she came back. A neighbor told us they’d seen her get hit by a semi-truck, but somehow she’d survived and after recovering enough to walk, had come home.
We grew older together. She played less and ate more. My mom spoiled her with every kind of special cat food available. . . So much for catching mice. She loved to sit in windows and watch what was going on outside. She adored sleeping in baskets and on warm beds and fresh laundry. The years seemed to fly by. When I was 7, my best friend and I threw our pets birthday parties. For Precious’ birthday, we invited our friends and planned games and activities. While we were all outside playing, Precious snuck onto the table and devoured her birthday cake [a whole can of cat food]. Through the years she was given many nicknames: Preshie, Poohbears, Stinkerpoo, Roo Poo, Presh Poo, Stinkerbums [my personal favorite].
I supposed we all knew it was coming. She was 19 after all, which is pretty old for a cat. She was having trouble with her kidneys and had an infection in her teeth, but the vet seemed to think she still had some pep left. I mean, cats have nine lives right? Unfortunately her aging body wasn’t able to sustain her fiery spirit any longer. When I called my parents today, my dad broke the news.
No one truly understands the loss of a loved one except those who loved.
I don’t like cats, but I loved Precious.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Lemon[s ][from] Heaven
A tiny drop of blood formed on my right index finger as I let the branch snap back into place. What does blood have to do with lemons? I’m a journalist. If it bleeds, it leads.
The kids have vacation this week. Vacation might generally imply a time of rest, relaxation, fun and excitement, but the Hogar kids began theirs with a punishment. They had to clear a huge portion of field between the Hogar and the school, with machetes, by hand.
On Monday, Laurel [the latest volunteer at the Hogar and friend from Southern] and I decided to make lemonade to take to the kids working outside. Unfortunately one does not simply open a cupboard and take out a mix here. Due to the unlucky circumstance that there were no lemons in the kitchen, we were forced to walk down to the school to see if there were any on the trees there. Let me clarify that the lemons on these trees are large and in charge. Not only are they obnoxiously big, the branches are thorny. Of course all of the ripe lemons were near the top of the tree. Laurel was able to knock a few down with rocks and I picked a few by hand, which is how I cut myself. By the time we decided we’d gotten all we could, we were sweaty, tired and defeated. We gathered our meager harvest into a box and began trudging back up the hill to the Hogar. I lamented to Laurel that I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough lemons. Half-jokingly I told her it would be awesome if we had a loaves and fishes experience. I kid you not, but two second later, Nelson, who was standing in front of Txus’ [one of the staff who lives between the school and the Hogar], house talking with someone, stopped us. He looked at our box and then reached down and picked up two bags full of small lemons. I told him we were going to make lemonade for the kids, but he just nodded and kept on talking like he'd known all along.
I know it wasn’t a coincidence. I know God had those lemons waiting for us. We were able to make more than enough lemonade. We squeezed the juice by hand and I mixed it with water, sugar and orange juice. It tasted really good and the kids were so happy for a treat later that afternoon.
And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.
2 Corinthians 9:8
The kids have vacation this week. Vacation might generally imply a time of rest, relaxation, fun and excitement, but the Hogar kids began theirs with a punishment. They had to clear a huge portion of field between the Hogar and the school, with machetes, by hand.
On Monday, Laurel [the latest volunteer at the Hogar and friend from Southern] and I decided to make lemonade to take to the kids working outside. Unfortunately one does not simply open a cupboard and take out a mix here. Due to the unlucky circumstance that there were no lemons in the kitchen, we were forced to walk down to the school to see if there were any on the trees there. Let me clarify that the lemons on these trees are large and in charge. Not only are they obnoxiously big, the branches are thorny. Of course all of the ripe lemons were near the top of the tree. Laurel was able to knock a few down with rocks and I picked a few by hand, which is how I cut myself. By the time we decided we’d gotten all we could, we were sweaty, tired and defeated. We gathered our meager harvest into a box and began trudging back up the hill to the Hogar. I lamented to Laurel that I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough lemons. Half-jokingly I told her it would be awesome if we had a loaves and fishes experience. I kid you not, but two second later, Nelson, who was standing in front of Txus’ [one of the staff who lives between the school and the Hogar], house talking with someone, stopped us. He looked at our box and then reached down and picked up two bags full of small lemons. I told him we were going to make lemonade for the kids, but he just nodded and kept on talking like he'd known all along.
I know it wasn’t a coincidence. I know God had those lemons waiting for us. We were able to make more than enough lemonade. We squeezed the juice by hand and I mixed it with water, sugar and orange juice. It tasted really good and the kids were so happy for a treat later that afternoon.
And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.
2 Corinthians 9:8
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Sweaty Betty
Monster balls of sweat coagulate on my nose and neck. The merciless Honduran sun pierces my eyes and ravages my skin. It’s been 20 minutes and I’ve only cleared a small section of grass. Sweat is pooling in my thick, over sized rubber boots. I desperately grasp the slippery handle of my machete and take another swing. Voices float above the tall grass, tangling with each hearty blade. I wipe my eyes on my shirt and they begin to sting. My nose, inspired by my sweat glands, is running Olympic-style down my face. I feel the sun’s sinister fingers reaching for my delicate skin. Secretly I am glad that soon I must leave to open the pool. I methodically launch the blade of my machete into the insubordinate grass. This grass isn’t the innocent, velvety golf course variety; this is juvenile detention center material, the don’t-mess-with-me-or-I’ll-pop-you-one kind. I grit my teeth with each swing, grabbing the handle now with both hands. My pitiful contribution is laughable, but no one says anything. The kids have been out here all morning, all week, all month. They’ve probably cleared more grass by hand than I’ve mowed on my dad’s riding mower. They come to me for Band-Aids, to cover their blisters and calluses, their hands worn raw from hours of hard labor. Even Elias, who is 7 years old, helps clear land every afternoon. Not only is this machete business hard work, it’s dangerous.
Today a scary thing happened. Cindy, one of the girls at the Hogar, was clearing brush with her machete and cut her knee. I didn’t see it happen or see the initial cut. When I walked out of my room for lunch I was shocked at the crowd gathered around a few seated figures. Nelson, the man who started the Hogar in 1996, was bent over Cindy. I didn’t hear her cry or scream, even though he’d just injected a strong dose of pain killers and was stitching the cut closed with a needle and thread. After lunch she was back in the kitchen washing dishes. Please show me an American girl who would be back at work less than an hour after her leg was sliced open. This afternoon I gingerly peeled away her bloody bandages to put on fresh gauze. Course, black thread zigzagged across her knee like the trail of a runaway horse. No tears, just a face scrunched in pain and discomfort. I wanted so badly to make her feel better, but there was not much I could do.
While her accident frightened a few, they had no choice but to continue to clear the field after lunch, and that’s when I joined them for a measly 20 minutes. I returned to my room plastered in sweat and sporting an ugly sunburn. I hated every second of it, but I am determined to do it again soon.
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
-Matthew 11:28
Today a scary thing happened. Cindy, one of the girls at the Hogar, was clearing brush with her machete and cut her knee. I didn’t see it happen or see the initial cut. When I walked out of my room for lunch I was shocked at the crowd gathered around a few seated figures. Nelson, the man who started the Hogar in 1996, was bent over Cindy. I didn’t hear her cry or scream, even though he’d just injected a strong dose of pain killers and was stitching the cut closed with a needle and thread. After lunch she was back in the kitchen washing dishes. Please show me an American girl who would be back at work less than an hour after her leg was sliced open. This afternoon I gingerly peeled away her bloody bandages to put on fresh gauze. Course, black thread zigzagged across her knee like the trail of a runaway horse. No tears, just a face scrunched in pain and discomfort. I wanted so badly to make her feel better, but there was not much I could do.
While her accident frightened a few, they had no choice but to continue to clear the field after lunch, and that’s when I joined them for a measly 20 minutes. I returned to my room plastered in sweat and sporting an ugly sunburn. I hated every second of it, but I am determined to do it again soon.
Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
-Matthew 11:28
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
J-o-y
Joy is not in things; it is in us.
-Richard Wagner
Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy.
-Thich Nhat Hanh
Malformed Thoughts
- Written Monday 9/7/09 -
His eyes dart back and forth, searching for a place to rest his anxious gaze. Tiny, malformed legs dangle beneath the table like discarded Twizzlers and a pair of greedy hands scours the plate for food. I firmly nudge them back onto his lap and scoop another mouthful of rice and beans into his mouth. Con cuchara, I tell him. Just then, from across the table, another pair of hands has lost hold of a cup, and dark red juice is splattering everywhere. I drop the spoon and run for a towel, but it’s too late. Christian is wetter than a soggy muffin and meanwhile Luis is eagerly devouring the remainder of his food with his grubby hands. Two seats down, Elias is reaching for the pitcher of juice and Javier is asking for more bread, while Enrique proceeds to touch every piece of watermelon on the table. Kids are filtering out of the comedor on their way to school and dishes are clattering in the kitchen and my mind is desperately rejecting the sights and sounds around me. Why do I get stuck with them? I selfishly ask myself.
They’d been here all weekend, three brothers who showed up at the Hogar with nothing more than a pile of clothes. When I walked into the boys’ room on Friday afternoon to help finish cleaning, I was surprised to find it full of strange faces. I was told that Oswaldo, Luis and Christian were to stay with us all weekend. I already have my hands full with 10 boys, and now there were three more. That wasn’t all, two of them couldn’t walk properly and all of them seemed slightly slow. So, for the rest of the weekend, we all took turns carrying them, feeding them, washing them and putting them to bed. I had Sunday off and even though I fed them a few times on Sabbath and this morning, I hadn’t done much else. Yet I was still bothered. I was still afraid their family had left them here for good and wouldn’t be returning for them. I still feigned busyness when I saw kids coming my way with them.
Luis’ sneeze brings my attention back to the table. He wipes a glob of green mucous away from his nose with the back of his hand and stares at me intently, awaiting help. I sigh and go back to the kitchen again for another cloth. After the table is finally cleared, I head into the kitchen to help Andrea before I have to teach. It’s Green Bean Monday, and I glance occasionally at the clock on the wall to make sure I won't be late for class. The sound of wailing grates on my ears and before I can escape or decline, Luis is back in the kitchen on the floor. Andrea is talking cheerily to him, and all I can do is glare. Where are his parents? I secretly gripe. Why aren't they coming? I glance down at his ugly legs, my mind churning with exasperation.
Once again I'd failed to love as I should. My thoughts were more useless and ugly than his malformed legs.
Lord, give me strength to love.
"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames,but have not love, I gain nothing."
[1 Cor 13:1-3]
His eyes dart back and forth, searching for a place to rest his anxious gaze. Tiny, malformed legs dangle beneath the table like discarded Twizzlers and a pair of greedy hands scours the plate for food. I firmly nudge them back onto his lap and scoop another mouthful of rice and beans into his mouth. Con cuchara, I tell him. Just then, from across the table, another pair of hands has lost hold of a cup, and dark red juice is splattering everywhere. I drop the spoon and run for a towel, but it’s too late. Christian is wetter than a soggy muffin and meanwhile Luis is eagerly devouring the remainder of his food with his grubby hands. Two seats down, Elias is reaching for the pitcher of juice and Javier is asking for more bread, while Enrique proceeds to touch every piece of watermelon on the table. Kids are filtering out of the comedor on their way to school and dishes are clattering in the kitchen and my mind is desperately rejecting the sights and sounds around me. Why do I get stuck with them? I selfishly ask myself.
They’d been here all weekend, three brothers who showed up at the Hogar with nothing more than a pile of clothes. When I walked into the boys’ room on Friday afternoon to help finish cleaning, I was surprised to find it full of strange faces. I was told that Oswaldo, Luis and Christian were to stay with us all weekend. I already have my hands full with 10 boys, and now there were three more. That wasn’t all, two of them couldn’t walk properly and all of them seemed slightly slow. So, for the rest of the weekend, we all took turns carrying them, feeding them, washing them and putting them to bed. I had Sunday off and even though I fed them a few times on Sabbath and this morning, I hadn’t done much else. Yet I was still bothered. I was still afraid their family had left them here for good and wouldn’t be returning for them. I still feigned busyness when I saw kids coming my way with them.
Luis’ sneeze brings my attention back to the table. He wipes a glob of green mucous away from his nose with the back of his hand and stares at me intently, awaiting help. I sigh and go back to the kitchen again for another cloth. After the table is finally cleared, I head into the kitchen to help Andrea before I have to teach. It’s Green Bean Monday, and I glance occasionally at the clock on the wall to make sure I won't be late for class. The sound of wailing grates on my ears and before I can escape or decline, Luis is back in the kitchen on the floor. Andrea is talking cheerily to him, and all I can do is glare. Where are his parents? I secretly gripe. Why aren't they coming? I glance down at his ugly legs, my mind churning with exasperation.
Once again I'd failed to love as I should. My thoughts were more useless and ugly than his malformed legs.
Lord, give me strength to love.
"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames,but have not love, I gain nothing."
[1 Cor 13:1-3]
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Unsalted Rice
My throat is a sore loser. That's right, I'm sick again. I've been trying to think of an interesting blog all week, but unfortunately my thoughts aren't flowing as well as the mucous in my nose. I suppose I will just list a few of the most recent developments at the Hogar.
#1 Two volunteers arrived on Wednesday from PUC. We are expecting at least one more volunteer in the next week or so.
#2 I have moved back into my old room. Goodbye dark and sweltering cave, hello fresh air and windows.
#3 I have passed the 7th week mark.
#4 I have figured out how to take a hot shower.
Today is Sabbath. Even though I am very grateful for Sabbath, it's not the same here. I don't actually get to rest. I still have to wake up the kids, help with meals, do an afternoon ministry, and put the kids to bed. The church service is as bland as a bowl of unsalted rice, and this Sabbath I'm sick, which makes everything slightly less enjoyable. Unsalted rice. . .
"You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled under foot by men."
-Matthew 5:13
Today I feel like I've lost my flavor, but it's not just today. This week there were so many times when I felt inadequate and flavorless. I see the need around me and I tremble with shame at my minuscule contribution. Life is like a giant pot of rice. Hundreds of tiny grains represent people, blending together as their troubles burn beneath them. We have been called to flavor the pot, but I think we have forgotten to let the Cook measure the salt. Christ's love is the salt that brings the flavor. I myself am not capable of bringing flavor or taste to those around me, but if I allow Christ to fill me with His love, then I regain my flavor. Right now I'm tasteless and can't help these kids or people on my own. The lesson I'm learning this year is to let Christ/the Cook handle my shortcomings and turn my small contribution into something flavorful and useful.
I'm going to take a nap now and hope I wake up cured. . . Dream on, and I will.
#1 Two volunteers arrived on Wednesday from PUC. We are expecting at least one more volunteer in the next week or so.
#2 I have moved back into my old room. Goodbye dark and sweltering cave, hello fresh air and windows.
#3 I have passed the 7th week mark.
#4 I have figured out how to take a hot shower.
Today is Sabbath. Even though I am very grateful for Sabbath, it's not the same here. I don't actually get to rest. I still have to wake up the kids, help with meals, do an afternoon ministry, and put the kids to bed. The church service is as bland as a bowl of unsalted rice, and this Sabbath I'm sick, which makes everything slightly less enjoyable. Unsalted rice. . .
"You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled under foot by men."
-Matthew 5:13
Today I feel like I've lost my flavor, but it's not just today. This week there were so many times when I felt inadequate and flavorless. I see the need around me and I tremble with shame at my minuscule contribution. Life is like a giant pot of rice. Hundreds of tiny grains represent people, blending together as their troubles burn beneath them. We have been called to flavor the pot, but I think we have forgotten to let the Cook measure the salt. Christ's love is the salt that brings the flavor. I myself am not capable of bringing flavor or taste to those around me, but if I allow Christ to fill me with His love, then I regain my flavor. Right now I'm tasteless and can't help these kids or people on my own. The lesson I'm learning this year is to let Christ/the Cook handle my shortcomings and turn my small contribution into something flavorful and useful.
I'm going to take a nap now and hope I wake up cured. . . Dream on, and I will.
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