The 4th Question

I should be writing other things right now. I should apologize to the people for whom I should be writing those things. I probably won’t.

I scribbled some of this down in my journal the week it happened. It’s been tucked in a bookshelf along with countless other stories in several unfinished journals for years since returning to my continent of residence. I don’t often finish journals. It feels a little like finishing the chapters of my life contained in them, and I never could quite pinpoint the end of chapters in life. But that’s a thought for another time.

I’ve never really gone any significant period of time without thinking, at least briefly, of this story. It wasn’t a big story. It’s not full of action or adventure. It’s a story of quite and tears and hugs and mosquitos. What makes this story important, I think, is that it seems to grow with me. Though the events are forever locked in place, the implications seem to change with each new season.

And so, for a reason I can’t quite put my finger on, tonight I’m writing it, not any of the other things. This one story, for now, is making its way off of a dusty bookshelf and out into a world where anywhere from no one to everyone can see it. Taking its place in type instead of scrawl and bringing up with it the new implications of my life as it is now, from as it was then.

"Fo dem?", Akili chimed, wondering where I was going at this hour of the night. I filled her in that my roommate and I would be heading down the street to use the phone, calling our families back home. We headed out into the night. I barely noticed the shouts floating up the staircase from the small, one room home below. I was more concerned about bats as we passed the tree they had been known to abide in. As we approached the bottom of the staircase and were shooing goats out of the way, a slammed door reminded me of the vague awareness that I’d had of the argument that must have been occurring below.

As we rounded the corner, we saw Juhudi, a wise-mouthed, funny, and beautiful 8-year-old from our compound, throwing herself onto a stone wall, sobbing. We paused for a moment, not knowing what to do. Crying like this was not common here. Sure, a little kid would cry and whine when they fell or didn't get their way, but usually the aim was to get attention. A child, already 8, and a girl especially, was just not found sitting in the dark crying her eyes out by herself. My roommate said the girl's name in a sympathetic sounding voice, not knowing much else in her language that would be appropriate. We walked over slowly, and I sat next to her. I put my arm around Juhudi, and thought about asking her what was wrong. My roommate sat off to the side quietly.

            Juhudi sat, perfectly still except for the sharp rising of her chest as she gasped for breath between the sobs and the tears that streamed down her cheeks. The three of us sat in silence for what seemed like ages. I decided against asking what had happened, realizing that it was likely to only make things worse for her to want to open up and talk, but have to deal with my limited language skills. I finally just leaned over and hugged her. I worried that this intimate hug would be too much, but my fears proved unfounded as the little girl desperately hugged back. I periodically loosened my grip slightly, inviting Juhudi to pull away if she so desired, but she only hugged tighter, her sobs now increasing and her tears flowing freely.

            After the hug had lasted several minutes, I half-wrestled her little arms from around my neck, and pulled her up onto my lap. I started singing. I don’t know why, but softly, and in a language Juhudi couldn't understand, I sang an old hymn. As we rocked gently, Juhudi's sobs subsided, and her tears slowed. I nodded at my roommate’s questioning face, hoping to give her permission to make her way on our errand without me, knowing that the time she has spent sitting humbly off to the side had been filled with hurt and desperation for this broken child.

Juhudi and I sat for what seemed like hours, as I did my best to cover her arms from the mosquitoes that had begun to swarm us. With a tight squeeze, I eventually broke the hug and turned the child around on my lap to face me. I gently pulled her downcast chin up towards my face, and wiped her tears aside with my thumbs.

I had been thinking of several options of what I would say to her. Piecing together what encouraging thoughts I could with my limited vocabulary in her language. I hadn’t consciously settled on any of them when I said, "Juhudi, don't cry.”

A slight nod showed that she followed my attempt at her language. "You are very smart. Do you know that?” I asked her. She looked down and I again pulled her chin up and looked in her eyes as I repeated, “Do you know that?”

She nodded quietly. “You are beautiful. Do you know that?" I continued. With a slight smile she nodded with a quiet “yes” this time.

“You are funny. Do you know that?” I asked yet again.

The answer was faster and more confident this time, “yes” she smiled.

I hesitated now. Not sure if I should ask this but simultaneously knowing that I would anyway. “Jesus loves you…. Do you know that?”

I couldn’t have realistically expected anything else. That name wasn’t well known here. In fact, if she were to repeat this conversation to her mother, we may not be welcome to stay in that compound anymore. My mind knew to be careful with my timing, but I’m not sure exactly sure how much say my mind had in this conversation.

“Who?” was the word that went along with the puzzled look Juhudi gave me. I repeated it once more and was met with a pleasantly confused look paired with a slight head tilt.

The devastation was a bit unwarranted, I’ll admit, given my known location and situation, but I felt it all the same. I felt as though I carried the weight of the entire village that night, the entire country really. All the while knowing that this was just the tip of the iceberg of things that would break my heart in this world. And for just a moment, I had just the tiniest glimpse of the heartbreak that we inflict upon our father with the implementation of the free will that he gave us. Just a fraction of the weight that he carried when we placed that burden upon him. I longed to be able to repair here and now what had taken centuries to break. More than so many other times in my sometimes monotonous life did I desperately want his will to be done on earth as it is in heaven.

But there I sat, with a confused child on my lap and with a landslide of implications behind the utterance of a single name. I sighed and asked her one last question, “I love you. Do you know that?”

This time she hugged me once more with her “yes” and I hugged back just a little tighter than I had before. 

I think about Juhudi a lot. I wonder if our paths will ever cross again. I wonder if I’ll recognize her if they do. And I think I’ll always wonder if I said the right thing. I think I’ll always wonder if she’s ever been able to answer that 4^th question.

Part of the Family

I sat near the front of a crowded bus in Africa about a month ago. Six of us squeezed into a row made for four. A little boy with autism sat next to me, chattering away in a language I knew little of, presumably about the day's adventures. An even smaller girl sat on my lap, snuggled close to my chest and tight in my arms, lulled to sleep by the bounce of the bus.

As my chattering friend leaned on me, his fingers playing with the beads on my skirt as he continued his tale, I wondered if he didn't understand our language barrier, or if he just didn't care. I kept a small smile on my face and my gaze in his direction, hoping to communicate that, though I had no chance of catching it, I was interested in his story. Occasionally, I looked down at the sleeper in my arms, feeling a responsibility to make sure she rested comfortably.

Looking around the bus that afternoon, I couldn't help but marvel at the family that surrounded these two kids. The staff that knew each child by name and story, the older children that looked after the younger, the family members of the children who still had a biological family, walking side by side with the organization set on raising these children to their full potential.

The sweet girl in my arms knew so little about her family that day. She didn't know that these were her brothers and sisters, aunties and uncles. She couldn't anticipate that, somewhere, her mother and father sat, already caring for other little ones in her family. She had no way of understanding, not really understanding the love that surrounded her, because she did not yet have language to tell her so. She hadn't had time to wipe away the abuse and neglect that clouded her vision.

This sweet little girl was born deaf. Raised to be feared, neglected, and hated, she had no chance of even guessing what love could lie before her. She had only come into this family a few short months before we arrived. And, though I knew it would take time, my heart leaps at the idea of her learning, little by little, that she would never again be bound for hours at a time. She would never spend another night in the graveyard she was so often found in. Hunger wouldn't haunt her waking hours. If anyone ever called her cursed or useless again, she could not yet imagine the throngs of family members she now had to defend her as a perfectly created child of the King.

And part of that family... is me. That is an honor that is bestowed upon us when we walk alongside our brothers and sisters that are doing His work. Sure, we may be the relatives that live far away and only get to visit once a year, but on that visit, we are family none the less. Family that brings hugs and games and silly faces and so much love.

On this trip, I was introduced as "Auntie" for the first time. Unless you've been there, I don't know that I can describe to you the joy and weight that that name carries. These kids and the ones that take care of them are my family, not because I've earned it or because I deserve it, but because of the love He has built into us. Because of the way He has knit us together to be a family. This is why I go back, again and again.

We reached our destination that day and I had to hand that beautiful sleeping child over to her teacher. She doesn't know all of these things yet, but as they continue, day in and day out, to give her words while I'm gone, she will hear it and she will feel it and she will love it!

One Drop at a Time

 One drop of calcium carbonate. One drop into a dark, flat, stony expanse. It's just an exceptionally slick puddle. But if you count up all of those drops, into the same slimy puddle, one after another, you'd find something extravagant, something beautiful.

If I were to be honest, I would tell you that life sometime seems like one slimy drop after another. Dreams fade, marriages fall apart, children fight battles they should never have to see. And we walk through it all, one step after another and we wonder; did that step even matter? Did that phone call make a difference? Did it help that all I could do is listen? Why couldn't I fix this? Because, right now, it just feels like a drop. Just one drop into a dark cave that could never be anything more than what it is.

Sometimes, if I were to be honest, I need just a glimpse of what that drop could be. I need to know that someone can make that puddle on the ground into a foundation. That the God of the universe is taking the steady drip of life and building caverns of magnitude and beauty. That, someday, someone will gaze with awe at what was once nothing and fail to comprehend how the drops could ever have felt insignificant.

If I were to really look at life honestly, I do think I would find myself in a puddle sometimes. But, sometimes, if I were to really look, I think I'd find myself mid stalagmite. I think, if I really looked around, I'd see that my view is not so close to the ground as I'd imagined. And then I'd wonder; who's drops formed the puddle beneath me, and who's will continue to reach towards the towering ceilings when I'm gone?







And, though I'd wonder, if I were to be honest, I may never know. But I would know that the only thing to do is to carry on, one drop at a time.

Ireland 2015

Be thou my vision O King of my heart

None other is aught but the King of the seven heavens.

Be thou my meditation by day and night.

May it be thou that I behold even in my sleep.

 

Be thou my speech, be thou my understanding.

Be thou with me, be I with thee

 

Be thou my father, be I thy son.

Mayst thou be mine, may I be thine.

 

Be thou my battle-shield, be thou my sword.

Be thou my dignity, be thou my delight.

 

Be thou my shelter, be thou my stronghold.

Mayst thou raise me up to the company of the angels.

 

Be thou every good to my body and soul.

Be thou my kingdom in heaven and on earth.

 

Be thou solely chief love of my heart.

Let there be none other, O high King of Heaven.

 

Till I am able to pass into thy hands,

My treasure, my beloved through the greatness of thy love

 

Be thou alone my noble and wondrous estate.

I seek not men nor lifeless wealth.

 

Be thou the constant guardian of every possession and every life.

For our corrupt desires are dead at the mere sight of thee.

 

Thy love in my soul and in my heart --

Grant this to me, O King of the seven heavens.

 

O King of the seven heavens grant me this --

Thy love to be in my heart and in my soul.

 

With the King of all, with him after victory won by piety,

May I be in the kingdom of heaven O brightness of the son.

 

Beloved Father, hear, hear my lamentations.

Timely is the cry of woe of this miserable wretch.

 

O heart of my heart, whatever befall me,

O ruler of all, be thou my vision.

 

Let All Things Their Creator Bless

All creatures...

Wyoming

Lift up your voice and with us sing

Wyoming

Thou burning sun with golden beam
Thou silver moon with softer gleam











Thou rushing wind that art so strong
Ye clouds that sail in heav'n along

Wyoming

Giant's Causeway

Northern Ireland

Thou rising moon in praise rejoice
Ye lights of evening find a voice

Northern Ireland

Let all things their creator bless
And worship Him in humbleness

Ireland

 Praise the Father praise the Son
And praise the Spirit three in one

Ireland

Praise, praise the Father praise the Son
And praise the Spirit three in one
 

Cliffs of Moher, Ireland

These kids

These kids are His children.

These kids were made for unique and important purposes.




These kids were born into lives with immense challenges that many of us will never encounter.


These kids smile. Everyday. And laugh and dance and sing. Not despite the struggles their stories contain, but in the midst of them.

These kids also cry. Some shout, some act out, some want to give up sometimes.



But, oh these kids... He loves them, I love them, and HE has a plan. He holds each of them. Everyday.

 
These kids still need sponsors. These kids need access to education, medical care, shoes, soap, food, His story. 







YOU can help these kids. Contact me; facebook, email, text. Let me know if you are able and willing to join these kids in support of their life and their future. I can tell you exactly how it all works, exactly what it entails, where your support goes, and more about the beautiful face and story you pick. A message isn't a commitment; just a desire to know more.

 These kids have captured my heart. The time I spend with my sponsor child in Malawi is priceless. And the faces of the kids when they see your picture and read about the person that sponsors them are priceless; I've seen them. This DOES make a difference.

The Tree Keeper

Sitting on the floor in a classroom in Malawi, I took a deep breath before the puppet show started. This was it; after almost a year working on this project, the special needs children of Malawi were about to hear the story written just for them. As we started, I couldn’t see much around the edge of the sheet we knelt behind with our puppets. Two of the few people were Felix and his father. Felix

is 4 and was born with albinism, which is considered a special need in Malawi. At 4 years old, his attention span is understandably short, but I could see Felix’s dad making sure Felix saw the entire story. Between nodding along in agreement and re-directing his son’s attention, Felix’s dad’s eyes were locked on the puppet show as my teammate and the book’s editor, L, read The Tree Keeper out loud. It struck me how quiet it was. With 25+ special needs kids and their caregivers, it’s
rarely quiet at our camp.

 After we finished, L and I stood in front of the group to give a brief summary of what the book contained and why we wrote it. The quiet continued as the group watched us with rapt attention. I got to the sentence telling them that we had brought a book for each of the kids to take home with them and stopped, waiting for the translator to catch up. As he finished his sentence in their native language, the hushed room burst into applause. I had a moment of silent relief as I waited, smiling, for the applause to stop; any worries or doubts I had had about the reception of the book washed away with that round of applause. That was the beginning of an amazing week of learning how much He has been and is still working in the lives of these awesome kids who have so much potential. 

After writing this book with M, B, and L, we had one goal; to bring the Tree Keeper to these kids. We wanted 30 books, written specifically for children in Malawi, to help teach the kids at our camp about special needs and His love for them. But He had more in mind. As our opportunities grew, so did our support from friends and family. Our reservoir of books grew to more than 140 and I don’t believe we had one more or less than was needed in Malawi.

The first batch left early this summer with M as she served as a teaching consultant for 6 weeks in Malawi. Not knowing exactly what her time there would look like, she was excited to see where the books would be used during her stay. She ended up having a great experience doing a special needs workshop with many teachers and was able to give a book to each teacher to use in their classrooms as well as for personal reference. Another unexpected stop for The Tree Keeper was in one of Malawi's special needs classes. Malawi has very few classes for special needs kids, about 3 of which are near where we were working. The books that we had left over from each of our projects went to a sweet special needs teacher who read the story with her class and had a special time with one of her students who has Downs Syndrome. The student identified with one of the characters in the book and was able to talk with her teacher specifically about her special need and read about the great plan He has for her life. This encouraged us that our “extra” books were in no way there by mistake!

The second batch traveled to Malawi in July with B and the teach team. Primary and secondary school teachers from all over the city left the seminar with a copy. New ideas of inclusion were presented and some tough questions were brought up. The team was able to start some conversations about changes in education and acceptance of children who learn differently. Despite the small number of special needs classes in Malawi, I don’t believe it was in any way a coincidence when another one of those teachers arrived at their seminar. He had already asked for more time to spend reading the book when he found out that the team had brought one for him to keep as a resource for him and his class!

The last set of books arrived in August with the special needs team. I could tell you stories of children seeing a character that looked like them for the first time, teenagers expressing the need they have seen for this information, caregivers’ stories of how their children have changed and thrived with the knowledge of their worth, questions about common myths relating to special needs in the book, and understanding on the faces of kids who are learning about their differences. 

 

 

But, for time sake, it will have to suffice to say Thank you. Thank you to my friends and family for taking an interest in a population many of you have never met. Thank you for loving these kids who are so precious to me. Thank you for believing in the people of Malawi who, I believe, are on the path towards making a difference in the lives of these very special children. Thank you.