Dark Room

I have decided I dislike dreams.

They're either better than reality or fiercely distorted projections of our worst fears.

I suppose the mind is like a dark room. Not just a dark room, but a place for developing photos. Each day our senses intake an astounding amount of data: faces, smells, conversations. . . This data becomes a memory on the rolls of film inside our brain.

Night comes. We lay down, exhausted, and as we turn out the light and close our eyes, the dark room of our mind begins to develop the day's photos. Sometimes it goes back further, to rolls of film we'd forgotten about.

Digital. Instant gratification. We take a photo, and we see it. For those of you who have never fiddled in the dark with a canister of film, trying to pry it open and place it in a container without allowing light to spoil its dark secrets, you won't completely understand. The dark room is a magical place. It's a touchy process. There are specific instructions, specific amounts of chemicals, specific methods. Patience is mandatory. But finally, the moment of truth. Tiny pictures appear on the fragile roll, gleaming as they emerge from a rigorous bath of chemicals.

Now it's time to make them into photos.

Digital photography makes it much easier to be a photographer. There is not as much skill involved. Photoshop and other picture editing software allow anyone to create a decent photo.

The dark room is a distant memory.

Our dreams, are they necessary? No.

Yes.

I hate dreaming, yet I can't help myself. It is a part of our body's coping mechanism, a chance for sorting things out, for developing thoughts and ideas. It's amazing how often our dreams are filled with things that are dear to us. Sometimes they make little sense, and others, they are clearer than day.

Dreams.

The black curtain at my window blocks the vibrant sunlight from bathing my room with yellow shadows. The night of dreaming is over. I awake to make them a reality. Pull back the curtain, and live.

Reality Check

I'm thankful that God often uses people or experiences to remind us of what's really important in life. I had a reality check today about some of my priorities. I feel relieved. Things may not be as I would like them, but I am trusting and confident in His plans for my future.

Thank you Jesus.

Have courage for the great sorrows of life and patience for the small ones; and when you have laboriously accomplished your daily task, go to sleep in peace. God is awake.
-Victor Hugo

From the Inside Out

I want my way. I always do. I'm like an obstinate child. I have these ups and downs. The ups are when I'm not driving, when I've given Him the wheel and I'm letting Him lead and take control.

I am so blessed. I have so much to be thankful for, yet I'm often so unsatisfied. I want my way. I always do.

I love going to vespers. I may no longer be a student at Southern, but I've always enjoyed vespers. The praise songs, the message, the chance to breathe after a long week.

I'm sleepy. I'm eating kiwis I bought on sale last week and listening to the sound of my kitty's collar bell as she wanders around the apartment. Today was nice. I painted. I napped.

God you are so good to me. I want to surrender everything to you. My will, Yours. Not I, but You Lord. I want a certain job, a certain guy, a certain whatever, but every time I try to do things my way, I fail. I ask for you to give me patience.

Thank you for loving me when I don't deserve it.
Thank you for guiding me when I've lost my way.
Thank you for protecting me when I'm in harm's way.
Thank you for blessing me.

I'm going to bed with a song in my heart and a prayer on my lips. I will be patient. I will let YOU lead.

From the Inside Out -Hillsong-

A thousand times I've failed
Still your mercy remains
And should I stumble again
Still I'm caught in your grace

Everlasting, Your light will shine when all else fades
Never ending, Your glory goes beyond all fame

My heart and my soul, I give You control
Consume me from the inside out Lord
Let justice and praise, become my embrace
To love You from the inside out

Your will above all else, my purpose remains
The art of losing myself in bringing you praise

avocado faith

The sweat eases into the threads of my shirt as I stand in the sweltering kitchen. The stack of mismatched plastic cups and plates grows exponentially as Javier hurriedly rinses away bean and rice residue. I sigh. Once again about three people are missing from the after-lunch clean up crew. I hated having to track the kids down for their chores.

Suddenly I feel little arms wrap around me and an excited voice gushes, "Mami, venga a ver mi jardin. . . Tengo una sorpresa."

I walk into the blazing sun behind the kitchen. Water seeps out of a hose. His childish enthusiasm bubbles to the surface. He can hardly contain himself. His grimy finger proudly points toward a crudely arranged line of small avocado seeds. He has pulled away some of the grass around each one, and the seeds gleam post-artificial shower.

I slowly cut open the avocado. I'm standing in my air conditioned kitchen, thousands of miles away. My heart feels like the butchered piece of avocado on the counter. There are no tiny hands to wrap around me now. There is no tiny voice to plead for the seed for a garden that will never grow.

Elias. I miss you. I miss you more than words or tears can express. I miss being your 'Mami.' And now you're gone, wandering the streets again without food in your tiny belly or arms to hug you when it's time to say goodnight. I can't tell you a story or pray with you. I can't even see you, or hear you.

He replied, "Because you have so little faith. I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you."
-Matthew 17:20

Faith the size of a mustard seed? What about an avocado seed?


*Elias was taken by his mother from the Hogar last week. The staff are trying to bring him back, but the process is difficult as they have no legal claim for him. His mother is not in her right mind, and often leaves the children alone as she wanders the streets. Please pray.

Old Dream

I don't usually remember my dreams. Sometimes I do. Vividly.

There was a new family in town. What town, I couldn't tell you. One evening they came over to eat. I don't really remember what they looked like, because you see, I had this dream months ago while I was still in Honduras. I remember waking up and telling my roommate about it, but I never told anyone else. She was in the dream too.

Somehow it came to light that the woman of the family was a witch. She seemed polite and normal on the outside, but we found out there was a sinister battle raging within. In my dream, I found myself in a room that resembled my room at home where my parents live. There were windows on all sides without curtains. It was night time, and I was about to fall asleep when I heard noises. There were noises on the roof, at the windows. I soon realized someone was trying to get in, to penetrate the glass. All of a sudden the family appeared in front of the window next to my bed, yet they were not touching the ground. As they levitated in front of me, they began to talk to me through the glass. Now, normally if I saw something like that, I would probably run screaming in the other direction, with my blanket thrown over my head. Yet, in the dream, I sat calmly, staring into the face of the woman. And I said, I am not afraid. I am not afraid of you or your witchcraft. Jesus Christ resides here, and you cannot touch me. A peace radiated out of my heart that seemed to sear through the evil designs they had for me.

I woke up from the dream confused, but thankful. I hadn't thought much of it until I told a friend about it tonight. She said she wondered if someone had tried to hurt me through witchcraft during my time in Honduras. I won't know until I get to heaven, but I do know God protected me many times while I was there.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

Ephesian 6:12


God is so powerful. It's comforting to know that when our trust and loyalty resides in Him, He will protect us. Satan and his angels tremble at the name of Jesus. We have nothing to fear.

The Aftermath

My thoughts begin to unravel in the dark. When the day is done and I pull the covers around my neck, I let sleep drag me into an unconscious dance of slumber and dreams.
Tonight I cannot sleep. Tears slowly sink into my sheets. I try to squeeze the pain away, the loneliness that threatens to suffocate me. It sounds dramatic.

This is the aftermath.

Its not the aftermath of a bomb, an earthquake, or a tornado. No, this is the aftermath of separation. Miles between me and them, miles between my arms and theirs, miles. . .

People don't quite understand. They don't understand when they tell me my shirt is backwards and I don't care. . . I tell them there are more important things to worry about. They don't understand when my eyes well up during a normal conversation. They don't. . . They just don't.

Tonight I tried to bridge the distance. After some difficulty, I finally found a number I could call the kids at. When I first called they were in the evening devotional. I could hear the singing in the background. Oh how I miss devotions. I miss the sound of Manuel's loud, off-tune singing. I miss sitting by Elias with his tiny arms draped around my shoulder. I miss Mainor's hugs during prayer.

More tears. They won't stop now.

When I called back I talked to Elias. He didn't say much. I spent most of the time telling him how much I missed him. Suddenly Manuel had the phone and was asking me when I was coming to visit. . . Next it was Enrique who wanted to make sure I would bring him cleats for his graduation. Tania was supposed to get the phone next. Somehow it never made it to her. I was online. She sent me a chat. She told me not to bother calling her back because she didn't want to talk to me anymore. Things are different now she said. A few minutes passed. Karla sent me a message saying Tania wanted me to call her. I did, and just as they passed her the phone, my card ran out of minutes.

Don't they care? Don't they understand? The card company that is. Tania doesn't understand either. She doesn't believe me when I tell her how much I miss her. As I type, salty tears drench my face. She can't see me. She has no idea. I want to scream at her, to shake her, to reach through the computer and make her see how much she hurts me with her cold words.


I crawl into bed. Miserable. Sad. Lonely. I beg God to take away these feelings of separation. Thousands of miles away kids are going to bed unaware of how I feel. They do not see my tears or feel the anguish in my soul. Could this be how He feels?

Every night I climb into bed, often drifting to sleep in the middle of my prayer. He's thousands of miles away. Do I see the anguish in His soul or understand how He feels? Do I know His love? Those kids may forget me, may never understand how much I care about them, but I will never stop loving them.

He never stops loving me.

What's the aftermath? Is it the tears? Or the fact that His love covers me, soothes me?

Lord give me strength, courage, and love. Love is the greatest of these. . . and He first loved us.

Holier Than Thou

I hear her first. I think everyone hears her, even if they’re seated too far away to see her arm flail sporadically from side to side. Her loud ’Amens’ and grated clapping sear through Mark Finley’s steady sermon at what seem to be the most inopportune moments. I cringe a little. The long red sleeve of her suit coat looks like a beacon of disaster as she thrusts her arm heavenward. She’s the type who makes conservative Adventists squirm in their seats as they clutch for their Bibles, sure it is their duty to quote a verse or two to silence her irreverence. But here she is . . . near the front of the Sabbath church service at the 2010 ASI Convention. The sermon is amazing. We follow Finley through Matthew 25 and the story of the 10 virgins. He starts calmly, but as time ticks, he builds to a soul searching crescendo. I grab a donation envelope and scribble down a few notes, including a quote, There’s a difference between having the Word of God in your hand to DEFEND the truth and having it in your heart to LIVE the truth.

Powerful.

Why is it that we often find ourselves critical of others, certain it is our appointed duty to point out their flaws to them, or worse, to others? Instead of saturating our hearts and insides with Gods truth, we clothe our outsides with the appearance of truth. We are like sheep in wolves clothing. I find myself looking around with a snide smirk as the woman continues to voice her convictions. Even the camera person throws occasional mocking smiles toward his associates.

The sermon draws to a close and we kneel to pray. And then I hear her again. She’s loudly sobbing, gasping out Oh dear Lord, over and over again. I try to mentally drown her out and focus on the prayer, yet her passionate pleas coat my ears. I’m exasperated for a few more moments, and then I let it all sink in. I feel like the pompous Pharisee in Luke 18 who looks down on the tax collector and his simple prayer.

I need truth in my heart. She’s crying out for it, yearning for it, and she doesn’t care who sees or hears. May we follow her example.