Homes & Hospitality (Part 2)

...  continued from Homes & Hospitality (Part 1)

All I remember from visiting Tahameena's home in 2011 was the rustic outdoor kitchen, how beautiful these people were, giving our meager offerings to them while surrounded by a crowd of relatives -- standing room only.

Tahameena's yard -- 2011

Although Ato Sam and Prince's homes were somewhat similar in both structure and placement, Tahameena's home seemed a little more rustic and rural, with mud walls and a handmade roof.  The cooking was done outdoors, and the well-kept yard was fenced to keep their small herd of goats from wandering and destroying crops.  Nearby, a crop of palm nuts were drying in the sun.

The tall coconut trees overhead offered welcomed shade as we sat together and began the social rituals.  I could have picked the yard of Tahameena's home in a photo lineup, even though I could barely pick her out of a group of girls just yesterday.  Seems somewhat cruel to have a heart for people and a calling to reach them, and have a photographic memory for places but not faces.  It certainly added an interesting element to my feelings of inadequacy and social awkwardness.

As the introductions began, I noticed a familiar face in the crowd -- but couldn't quite place him, until I saw his foot....  Ato Sam's father!  He had made his way here somehow as he did the last time we were at Tahameena's, and extended his visit with us by joining in.  Yes, I can pick out Ato Sam in a crowd with his back to me, but cannot recognize his father after having sat across from him for an hour....  a mere hour ago.  Keeping it real, folks, keeping it real.

In Akan culture, it is common for children to be given names based on the day of the week they were born, as well as birth order and family names.  For example, Ato means "male born on a Saturday", while Sam is a family name that nearly everyone in his family carries.  When Jillian introduced herself, she also shared that she had been given a Ghanian name shortly after arriving in Ghana.  "Ama" was her new Ghanaian name.  The group told Jillian that Ama means "Born on a Thursday".  I laughed and explained that Jillian was born on a Sunday, but that the person who had named Jillian "Ama" said it also meant "daughter of the queen", which meant that really, they named Jillian "Princess".  They wondered which days Will and I were born, so I shared that Will was also born on a Sunday, and they said his name might have ended up being Kwesi or other variants.  Mine, having been born on a Wednesday, would have likely been Akua or Akuba.

As our introductions wrapped up, once again with too many names and faces to memorize, we were served fresh coconuts from their yard, which we got to see them prepare for us.  They're quite skilled with machetes.

The coconut milk was so fresh and so refreshing in the rising heat, but given that we're used to eating hardened coconut back home, I couldn't quite get into the soft, almost rubbery coconut once I had finished the coconut milk.  The texture isn't anything like we're used to.  Given that our stomachs were still adjusting to the new foods and experiences, I didn't want to take a chance, especially without guaranteeing that my hands were clean enough.  I hope that wasn't yet another faux pax for the Canadian team.  The bananas, though, were absolutely perfect.  Just the right size for a sweet snack, and oh-so-fresh!

I felt a stronger connection to Tahameena's family on this visit, perhaps because we were following proper Akan social protocol, and the entire visit felt more relaxed and at ease.  Or was it more at ease and relaxed for me because I was distracted by the goats and cats (my own Ghanaian version of "Squirrel!!!") that were gallivanting about while we talked, which in hindsight isn't the most efficient way to maintain eye contact with the people we were there to spend time with...  have I mentioned.........  I did?  Ok.  Just didn't want you to get the wrong impression about my social grace.  #orlackthereof

Tahameena's family grew by one since we last saw her.  She is no longer the only girl in a family with 3 boys -- she now has a little sister, who is now 4, and is well surrounded by extended family, including Ato Sam's family.  Her older brothers really enjoyed getting to meet Jillian, and all insisted on having individual "selfies" taken with her as we prepared to leave.


We lingered over our goodbyes and a few more photos as we headed towards the van.  We must have hugged everyone at least once or twice.  Hadn't we just arrived?  Our goodbyes were eased knowing that we would see Tahameena again the next day in Accra.

Climbing into the van once more, we made our way to a house I'd never been to before.  A young boy named Isaac lives there with his family, and he is sponsored by my co-worker named Nathan, a sweet bear of a man with a heart as big as Texas.  This was his first sponsored child, and he chose Isaac knowing Isaac lived in the same community as the library and that there would be a personal connection since we had been involved with this community for years.

I wasn't sure what to expect, since I did not know much about Isaac or his family, but I immediately felt welcomed when we arrived and made our way down the steep path to their shaded yard.  Waiting for us was Isaac and his family, including many uncles and grandchildren.  The grandchildren were quietly observing all of us "obrunis" from a distance, not quite sure what to think.  It's quite probable that we were the first obruni people they'd seen, or at least the first ones who had visited them at their home.

For the first few minutes, while we exchanged introductions and explained who we were and why we were there, Isaac sat quietly staring at the photos of Nathan I had brought for him, in awe and wonder.  His sponsor!!!  Yes, we were there, in person, on behalf of Nathan, but to young Isaac, the world stood still when he looked at the pictures of Nathan.  It was the first time he'd seen a photo of his sponsor, since it had only been a few months since Nathan began sponsoring Isaac.

Looking through Isaac's file, I was surprised to see he had been sponsored by someone else the month before Nathan began sponsoring him, and by yet another sponsor a few months prior to that.  It seemed as though Isaac had been chosen and let go several times, certainly causing confusion and disappointment for this precious boy.  I told them that Nathan was a very committed sponsor, that he loved Isaac very much, and that God willing, they'd have a long time to get to know each other.

Given how new this experience is for Nathan, and how common it is for people from North America to wonder if these kids are real, I wanted to get a video of Isaac so that Nathan could see him on a more personal level and in a whole new dimension.  It would also be sweet to have a video recording of his voice for Nathan to hear.

Since Isaac is still learning English, we had to help him a bit, but in just two takes, he was able to deliver his message to Nathan.

Isn't he sweet?  His entire family was watching intently.  I can't help but wonder what went through their minds.   It had to be somewhat surreal.  One day you get the news your child has been chosen for sponsorship, and before you get the chance to wonder if this sponsor will also "unchoose" this child, someone arrives representing that sponsor and carrying a message that this sponsor cares VERY much about this child and is committed to being the sponsor to this child.  It really was an honor to be there on Nathan's behalf, being a messenger of his love for this child and the family.

We asked Isaac's family to share their hopes and dreams for Isaac's future, and they shared their desire for him to get a full education.  They expressed their gratitude many times for our visit and encouragement, their demeanor so kind, gentle and good natured.

We had brought groceries and a soccer ball for them, much as we did for Prince and his family, and we presented these to them.  The ball was not inflated, since we needed to pack it for travel and had forgotten to bring along the pump, but we knew they'd find a pump easily and get the ball inflated and ready for the kids to play with.  The older kids used it as a hat in the meantime, making us all chuckle.

Isaac followed us as we made our way back to the van, and stood in wonder as we waved goodbye.

I'm sure that, like us, he's still trying to process the experience.  We wouldn't get the time to process much for a while, as we were about to leave Enyan Abaasa for the last time on this leg of the journey, en route to our 5th home visit.

Docile's Well

Docile Duguay

June 30th, 1949 - September 13th, 2014

Photo Credit - Sebastien Benoit (son)

As you may know, my beloved mama, Docile, lost her life in a drowning incident last September. Her death has been one of the most devastating losses we've ever experienced as a family, a loss that has also shaken her friends and co-workers to the core.

Just as too much water can lead to death... so can too little.  

Half a world away, in South Sudan, a group of people from the communities of Pacong and Mathiangkok are dying, not from drowning, but from the lack of clean water.

It hurts to know that my mama’s death could have been prevented, but while it is sadly too late for her, with a little help from her friends and family it won’t be too late for the people of Pacong and Mathiangkok.

As a monument to her precious, generous life, 

a water well will be drilled in her honor

and named after her...  "Docile's Well" 

Docile’s Well will supply crucial living water to two neighboring tribes who until now, had been at war with one another as is common between tribes desperate for water and survival.  Read their remarkable story and see their photos in the link below, and just imagine Docile as one of the two women who stood up and spoke up, breaking the vicious cycle of revenge, war and killing...  and bringing forth the gift of peace and education.  In being the voice of hope, these women changed the lives of those around them and the future of their villages for generations to come.

Mama was a teacher and a peacemaker ... and Docile's Well will not only uphold the peace amongst these people, but it will sustain a primary school full of children much like the ones she taught over the years.

Time is of the essence... the well must be drilled before the rainy season begins in May - can't imagine a better way to honor her on this bittersweet Mother's Day..  


Will you join us through this link, give in her honor towards this well, and share?

https://obakkifoundation.org/donations/dociles-well/

Thank you...

Merci...

Jeya's Jar

It seems so fitting that this small jar would typically be used for preserves -- something to contain and protect food that sustains and gives life.

Right now, this one contains only small change...  but there's nothing small about the change it will make.

This is Jeya's Jar - a small jar our women's Bible Study group uses to collect spare change for Jeya.  Jeya is a widow who  takes part in the Family Support program through the His Hands for India ministry.  As an elderly widow who is raising her grandsons, Jeya struggles to make ends meet.  She is willing to do hard labor whenever she can, but between her aging body, meager wages, and scarce work, there seems to always be a gap between poverty and her basic needs being met.  This places her in a high risk situation for trafficking and bonded labor.

She didn't need to earn much to make ends meet.  A mere $20 would comfortably cover her basic needs of food, shelter, and transportation for the month.

When we started gathering as a Bible Study group, it was suggested that anyone willing to share their blessings with Jeya could bring a bit of spare change each week for Jeya's Jar.  At the end of each month, we would send what we had gathered to Jeya, knowing that even if it didn't quite reach a month's support, it would still be a blessing.

It seems unthinkable -- that $20 a month would sustain her financially and keep poverty from clawing at her heels.

Small change when you have over a dozen people, and a month to gather it...
... big change when it's placed in God's hands for those in need.

The jar holds exactly one cup...  a cup of water in His name?  We counted April's blessings this week...  we had enough to cover exactly one month, plus a spare bit of change to begin our new month with.

As our lives are transformed by God through our Bible Study group...  Jeya's life is transformed by God through our group too.

Do you have a small group?  Can we challenge your Small Group to create a change jar too?  Our Bible Study group will only be meeting until the end of June.  In the meantime, we would like to see more groups join us in Jeya's Jar initiative so that her sponsorship fund can grow to support her long past the next few months.  

For more information, or to join Jeya's Jar -- please contact Info@HisHandsForIndia.org


Thank you...

Ghana 2014: Art Auction #1

Our family is raising funds to build a library in Enyan Abaasa, Ghana, the African village in which two of our sponsored children live. This project is being done in partnership with Compassion Canada, through whom we have been sponsors since 2005. 

My 12 year old daughter Jillian is a budding artist who loves to experiment with all kinds of art. The idea was tossed around to do an Art Auction as part of our Ghana Library fundraiser. Since it's a great way for her to contribute to the fundraising, we are giving it a try. We will auction off a few paintings at a time, and hope to have several auctions throughout the year.  I've enjoyed watching her paint so much that I gave it a try too.  It was a little frightening!  :p

The paintings will be offered auction style. The starting bid will be listed in the photo description, along with the painting size. If you wish to bid on an individual painting, please do so in the comment section of that particular painting(on the Facebook Auction album. Be aware that you may be outbid, so check back often.

This auction set will be on the auction block until May 11th, 2014 at 11pm AST, at which time the winners will be announced. 

Click here to see open the auction album:  Ghana 2014: Art Auction #1

(Sneak Peak...)

If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to let us know.

100% of funds raised will be allocated to the library fund. For more information on our project, please check out our BLOG POST or our FUNDRAISING PAGE

Thank you for your prayers and your support... please share this auction album amongst your family and friends! 

♥

Ghana 2014: Building With Books

Do you have a childhood memory so strong that to this day, by simply concentrating, you can remember the exact smell of that environment? 

Do you remember the smell of a library?  I vividly remember going to libraries with my mom when I was little, ones with thousands of books, wooden index card boxes, children’s corners with soft seating and bright colors, and the distinct smell of paper mixed with the smell of the clear tape they used to affix the white Dewey system labels to the backs of the books.  You could go to different libraries – the school library, the public library, even a library in a different town, and the scent of books was still so familiar.

I couldn’t wait to learn to read.  What an amazing key to the world:  opportunities to learn about the world around me, about people, adventures, faraway places... endless stories to be discovered.   My mom was a school teacher, so trips to her school or the library, or access to books were abundant.   I had my own collection of books at home, and when I needed something different to read, I’d venture into newspapers, travel brochures, catalogues, and old Reader’s Digests from the 1960’s from the bookshelves at my grandfather’s house.  There was never a shortage of textbooks in our schools, we even had used ones at home to use and play 'school' with.

The hardest thing for me wasn’t learning to read, or picking out a book...  it was simply the limit of books I was allowed to check out at a time.   I had one friend in elementary school who didn’t share my love of reading.  We made a deal – I would sign out my maximum of 4 books, and she would sign out another 4 for me under her name.  I’d be all set until we went back to the library a week later.

It was something that I took for granted as a child growing up in Canada.  I don’t think it ever dawned on me until I became an adult that reading isn’t always a part of childhood, and neither is access to books.

In 2011, one of the 17 children I sponsor, a boy from Ghana named Ato Sam, shared with me through one of his letters that his Ghanian village, Enyan Abaasa, struggled with the scarcity of books.  He explained that he had a thirst for knowledge, dreamed of becoming an engineer, but without access to books, it was difficult to learn English and to learn to read, much less to find the vast amount of knowledge he sought to learn.    In my response, I told him that every town and every school in Canada had its own library, that even our church had a library. 

Our church library is as big as Ato Sam’s house. 

Astounded, he struggled to imagine this.  

I had made efforts to send a book to Ato Sam with every letter I wrote to him... within mere months, he had more books than his entire village combined.  I told him that someday, perhaps he could open his own library and bookstore, and be the manager of such a tremendous resource for his village.

The boy who once had very little hope, was beginning to boldly dream.

So was I.

I continued to ensure that with every letter I wrote to him, I also sent an educational book that he could read and share.  In a subsequent letter, Ato Sam boldly told me that since I help so many people around the world, would I consider helping the children of his own country?  Knowing me well enough to know that I wouldn’t let him down, he boldly asked me when I was coming.

Although my initial thought was to help only his family or his village, I wanted to demonstrate my love for him by first doing something for his country.  After some research, I learned of the thousands of kids enslaved in the Lake Volta region of Ghana.  After carefully studying the options, a plan was formed to raise funds to increase the resources available so that more children can be rescued.  By November of 2011, our tiny team had not only successfully raised the $30,000 required, plus the travel costs, but we traveled to Ghana and took part in the rescue of two more Lake Volta children.  (Read about our project *here* and about our trip *here*)

It was during this trip that I also traveled to Ato Sam’s village for the first time and met this amazing boy in person.  

(Photo credit:  Tia Kollar)

Being in his village and meeting him fueled our dream to provide book resources to his village, to help the entire village community increase not only their literacy, but their ability to lift themselves out of poverty.

(Photo credit:  Tia Kollar)

And yes, we brought many books with us to give to them during our time in Ghana.

When I returned home, I couldn’t shake the dream of seeing Enyan Abaasa have the resource of books accessible to everyone.  I began collecting books, knowing I would see that dream come to life in time.

Imagine how hard it is for a child or an adult to be encouraged to learn how to read and write when reading materials aren’t readily available?  It’s also hard for people to find work, for teachers to teach, for business owners to write receipts or understand the laws, for students to continue their education... for people to know their rights...  illiteracy has a much greater impact than I can wrap my mind around.  Above all, it enters into a vicious circle with poverty – they feed each other.

A library would help break that cycle for one village and for the generations that will follow...

(Photo Credits, Tia Kollar)

After much planning, research and prayer, I knew it was time to turn this dream into a reality.  In January of 2014, I reached out to the Enyan Abaasa community through Compassion Canada, asking them how they felt about the possibility of a library in their community.  It was important to me that this was their dream too, that their community was truly interested in this and would benefit from it.  The response was very positive.  Not only did they respond that yes, a library would greatly benefit their community, that it would help increase the level of literacy and help people break the cycle of poverty, but they were prepared to provide the land and the logistics of building it. 

I asked them to provide to me a plan of what they had in mind, and how much it would cost to build.  They responded with a very thorough, thoughtfully drafted plan for a library that includes a small bookstore, an office, and even a restroom – a welcomed luxury in rural Ghana.  True to these humble, gracious people, the plans weren’t flashy or excessive; rather, the library/bookstore plans are very functional, methodical and well thought through...  And much better than I could have dreamt on my own.

The detailed material list I received from them included the quantity of and price of everything, including boxes of the nails they’d need, cement bags, lumber, tiles, measurements, labor, etc...  even the water barrels and the truckloads of sand are accounted for.  The land has been secured by the local church, the management team is in place, sustainability has been thought through long-term.  The community, from the children to the elderly, will benefit as a whole and are engaged and ready to invest into this invaluable resource. 

This is no longer my dreams, but theirs.   In fact, it is no longer a dream, but becoming a reality. 

A fundraising team has been established to raise funds to build the Greater Grace Library & Bookstore for the village of Enyan Abaasa, in partnership with Compassion Canada, who will oversee the project logistics in Ghana. 

I’m experiencing strong feelings of déjà vu – just as we did in 2011, we are starting empty handed with the finished project estimated to cost $23,000US, ($16,000 for the construction, with the rest for the books, resources and furnishings).  This includes a contingency buffer in the event that construction costs increase or something unforeseen happens during the construction phase.  Once again, our only plan is to step forward in faith, one certain step at a time, believing in what we set forth to do.  It’s a sacrificial dream, it will take everything we have to make it happen, and God’s only plan for this project is His people.  He has promised this to us, and He will provide.

We cannot stop at only the construction costs; once the constructions costs are raised, while the library is being built, we will shift our focus to stocking the shelves with educational books and resources.

My son Brandon and his girlfriend Maddie will be raising funds at their high school, while my other son Joshua and my daughter Jillian will be raising funds at each of their schools.  My husband and I will be raising funds together through family, friends, work, church, social networking and the community at large.  

Once the library project is completed, we hope to accompany Ato Sam and his family to the opening ceremony.

As we did in 2011, we start empty handed.  I don’t have $23,000, and it’s likely that neither of us have $23,000.  To you and I, building this library may seem like an insurmountable challenge.  What matters is that we serve a God for Whom nothing is impossible, a God who has gathered us together to make a difference in this community.  Every penny counts, every bake sale and yard sale important, every donation precious and life changing. 

What an amazing opportunity to make a difference.

Alone, we can’t.  Together, we can.  

Please join us!

_____________________________________________

Donations can be made by Paypal using this email:  

Africa@beyondmeasure.me

OR:

Donations in Canada can also be made 
easily through Interac Funds Transfer: 
Africa@beyondmeasure.me

Tax receipts will be provided for donations exceeding $20, in both Canada and in the U.S.  
(We will need your full name and address for the receipts).

Thank you...   merci...  meda ase.

India 2013: Poverty's Prison

I've been staring at a blank screen all week, an empty slate, a white canvas...  I have been praying for the words only He can lend me that can paint the picture that I want to share with you.... the picture that my camera, my skills, my gifts can't capture on their own.  I have been broken silent and yet my heart is crying out loud for what my eyes have seen, my ears of heart, my arms have held...

The words have brewed all week, all month...  when He gives me something to write, He gives the words to me as He gives the earth snowflakes, seemingly random and haphazard yet you know they grow heavy and hurl fast to the ground and you can't catch them all, know them all...  they increase in intensity as the storm brews near, falling closer and closer together in a blizzard of thoughts and emotions and memories and right now, as they form on the ground, settling into first sentences, then paragraphs...  I will interpret the scenery before me, so that it will stand before you, unheard until now, from God's paintbrush and inkwell, through my hands, to your screen...

I have no idea how He will share this, what it will look like when it's done... much less how to hold my heart together long enough to put it to life, please bear with me, and gently stay a while...  we need you.  He needs you.



We arrived, unannounced as there is no way to communicate our arrival other than to simply come, as we are, to meet them there, as they are, where they are.  We walked down a beaten path, far from the road, through groundnut fields.  The sun beat down harshly on our backs as we walked single file towards the simple house.

We had heard of this woman, Amutha, from Pastor Michael, hearts broken over her story.  Her husband had run away from their marriage, left her for another woman.  Leaving Amutha to care for their two disabled children, a boy and a girl.  I had met both children briefly, but I wanted to do more than meet them, I wanted to see them, hear them, understand their situation and partake in their suffering.


I thought she was perhaps 10, with her bright green dress and her wild hair pulled back, scarred legs fidgeting restlessly, impish grin shining of innocence.  Her hands flapped as she fretted back and forth, pacing excitement and perhaps anxiety, she couldn't say, and we didn't know...

She was like a bright butterfly of a girl, one minute exploring, the next squatting quietly by the front door, studying us, it seemed.

We waited by the door to come in, and if I had not been watching at that very moment, I would have missed Amutha's embarrassed face as she swooped low with a dirty rag to wipe the trickle on the floor that had been left behind, before humbly and quietly ushering us into her home.

It was at that very moment that I connected with Amutha, even though she may never know the depth of my understanding and compassion.

Eleven and a half years ago, I gave birth to a precious little girl with a hint of red hair to go along with her more-than-subtle hint of intensity.  By the time she was a few years old, I knew something was different about her... but having had two boys, and both boys being different from each other as well... I simply pushed aside the gnawing feeling and told myself "boys are different from each other and girls are different from boys... she's just intense in a way her brothers weren't, and she's just her own quirky, unique self..."   That would explain her lack of fear, her inability to answer a question, her hyper-sensitivity to sensory input, her delayed development, her inexplicably late toilet training... her selective mutism... her thirst for spinning around and around and around and around...  her intense energy and spirit...  right?  

By the time she started school, I could no longer accept that "girls are just... different like that".  She was the one child rocking under a desk, self-soothing to cope with her inability to function and integrate herself in the world around her.  She couldn't speak most of the time, had no bladder control, could not brush her teeth, comb her hair, had no impulse control...  and the list went on.

As a mother, I needed help, I cried out to Him, overwhelmed...  and God provided, in abundance.  Specialists began to reveal after months of testing, that my daughter, Jillian, was on the autism spectrum, and that would come to explain so much about her intensity, her quirkiness, her hardships.  Her teacher came alongside of me that year, and taught us both how to cope, how to embrace the differences and work with them, how to help her reach her best potential, how to draw her back out of her shell and into a world made safer for her.  


Back in India, I stood before this woman that was me... me years ago, except Amutha had not one but two special needs children, both profoundly disabled, and she was completely on her own.  Her little girl is not ten, nor is she a little girl...  she is 21, trapped inside the broken body and mind of a young child.

Their government housing was miles from anywhere, specialists were not at Amutha's disposal for her daughter or her son, she had no award-winning teacher blessing her with guidance and solidarity, her mother does not live nearby, she had no spouse to bring her relief...  no neighborhood mom's group to rally support from.  No Small Group.

There was no one but her, God, and this precious shepherd -- Pastor Michael.

My heart convulsed.  I felt sick, not understanding how mercy and grace alone can have two women in such an eerily similar situation, and yet have such profoundly different outcomes.

Years of therapy and intervention, of specialists and provisions at our fingertips...  and now?  Last Friday morning, Jillian, now eleven, got herself dressed, made her lunch, confidently did her hair and chit-chatted as she prepared herself for school.  Skipping out to to the bus stop, I called her back to the door so that I could kiss her on the nose and wish her a great day at school.  She grinned and said in a singsong voice "Oh mommyboo...  I love you!" 

There are days with Jillian that I had to choose which battle to fight -- but this woman before my eyes, this woman's daily choice made my own battle seem like child's play.

Every day, Amutha chooses whether or not provisions are worth poverty's prison.

Amutha is strong and healthy enough to work, has experience with agriculture and brick work, wants so much to be able to provide for her family, and can scrape together a meager existence for herself and her two children when she does work.  She's not seeking wealth and abundance, she's simply seeking enough -- enough food to out on the tabble, enough provisions for the children's needs and hers... nothing more, nothing less...

...  but in order to do so, she must do the unthinkable...

...  in order to work when her children are not attending class, she must lock them alone in the house to keep them safe from predators, safe from wandering, safe from themselves.  The lock that dangles the front door keeps the predators out, and keeps the children in.

After a hard day's meager wages, Amutha comes home to a ransacked house every single time, as the kids, left to themselves, destroy their few household belongings.  Furthermore, the children, left for hours at a time, can not relieve themselves outside, so they must relieve themselves in the house.  No one to swoop down and patiently wipe the floor with a dirty rag.  There are no bathroom facilities, no running water.  No nearby stream.  Miles by foot for the nearest water source -- beyond a locked door.

Barely a way for her children to communicate with her when she is home -- never mind when she's nowhere near the house and working to provide for them.

One must wonder if a day's wages is worth the discouragement of coming home to heartbreaking conditions, heartbroken children, and a mother's breaking point...  but is starving a better choice?

There is a yoke of oppression and burden weighing heavier on this woman than her thick cotton clothing under the sweltering Indian sun....  there is a shackle of poverty that can be loosened and broken...


Poverty is a prison.


We were given the keys.

And the command to use them.

Feed My sheep, He said.  

  

Loosen the chains...

Undo heavy burdens...

Set the oppressed free...

Break every yoke...

The key is simple...  

A sponsorship of only twenty dollars a month provides for Amutha and her household so that she no longer has to make that heartbreaking choice until a better option is available to her and her children -- until she is able to work from home or begin a business.


Help unlock poverty's prison...


So that she won't go hungry and can tend to the needs of her children without resorting to locking them up.

So that she can pour her strength into her children's well being.

So that she experience God's provision like never before, and share of Him with all who have ears.


So that the hopelessness of poverty's prison will no longer hold her and her children captive.

To be that key, please consider a Family Support sponsorship of $20/month, or a general donation in any amount (indicate "Family Support" in the notes).  One time donations earmarked will be equally divided amongst Family Support program families who do not yet have a sponsorship. Tax receipts available (U.S. only).

Please note that one hundred percent of funds provided towards the Family Support program goes directly to the families in need.

To learn more about the Family Support program, see also this post.

India 2013: Feed My Sheep

Each day, as the afternoon tutoring program went on in full swing, we would individually call the children into the pastor’s kitchen, where they would be interviewed and assessed in order to update the sponsorship reports.  We only had a few days in which to make sure we had updates on all the children.  With so many children to assess and a program to run, it had to be done in such a way as to minimize the children’s time out of the program, and maximize productivity. 

As the children came into the kitchen, their name would be written on a small whiteboard, which they would then take with them as they climbed the backstairs to the open roof.  It was on the roof that they would have their sponsorship photos taken, after which they’d head back downstairs to be interviewed. 

The roof was a perfect spot for photos, as it would draw less attention to the children, and the soft glow of the late afternoon light would be ideal for photos.  A handful of older children from the program helped us by escorting the children back and forth and translating for us. 

 Six year old Vimal

A few evenings into this routine, I had just finished taking photos of a child when I heard a mother’s distressed voice speaking in Tamil.  I turned around to see a mother with her daughter, next in line to take photos -- but something was clearly wrong.  Thinking perhaps she was upset with me, I approached her gently and asked in English what was happening, hoping someone could tell me.  The mother grabbed my arm in a fierce grip that can only be described as desperation, and her words tumbled out as tears ran down her cheeks and despair etched itself deeper into her beautiful life-weathered face. 

 

It took everything I had to hold back my own tears.  Then, and now. 

I began to piece the story together – she was in pain; her hips, shoulders and back were hurting... but beyond that, she seemed life-worn.  One moment she would wring her hands in concern, the next she would place them together in broken prayer and praise, her pleas to God and to us breaking my heart.  

Then, she began to put her hands to her mouth, pleading with her eyes…  the message transcended all language barriers -- she was not talking about food, she was talking about hunger.  

Wanting to understand the situation, I turned to the older children, and asked them to help me understand this woman’s situation. 

By this point, the mother was sobbing loudly in my arms, shoulders shaking, hands clinging to me, while forcing the rest of her story out in rapid-fire Tamil in between sobs.  My heart was pierced for her long before the words in English could follow.

Through bits and pieces of broken English, I learned that this woman’s youngest daughter was disabled and took part in the sponsorship program.  Her older children had grown up and gotten married, and now that they were no longer living at home and helping to support her, she struggled to feed herself and provide for her daughter’s needs.  She moved slowly, her body wracked with pain, and kept asking for healing and for help.  She had reached the end of herself… 

… but not the end of God’s provisions and possibilities.

Not the end of hope.

As I wrapped my arms around her, the children surrounded us while I prayed with her as she prayed in Tamil.  I don’t know all that was said, but I know God heard us both and that something would be made new from all these broken pieces.

As we finished praying, I took her face gently into my hands, held her worried gaze with my eyes, and told her hope was here… God had heard her cries and He would provide healing for her body, and He would satisfy her hunger…  this was the beginning, not the end...  I thanked her for trusting me enough to share, and told her once again to hang on to hope.  God would come through.  His mercies would come.

Long after the photos of her daughter were taken…  long after the sobbing silenced...  long after she had begun her trek back home with her daughter…  my heart was raw with ache for this woman who had wept in my arms.

Having poured so much of my life into breaking the cycle of poverty and slavery, I knew that this mother and her child were at risk, and the thought of it made me sick.  In desperation for food or finances, would she end up making a deal with a brick factory, where she and her daughter would spend the rest of their lives in bonded labor?  Would her daughter be at risk for child trafficking? 

Unthinkable.

The raw ache pressed into my heart uncomfortably until I spoke with Jamie later that night.  After much prayer, the idea was born to approach Pastor Michael about the possibility of a Family Sponsorship program for families in a vulnerable situation like this. 

He was very open to the idea.  He explained that families with single moms or grandmothers as the sole caretaker, especially when the children are disabled, suffer above and beyond the usual hardships of extreme poverty.  Unable to work full time because of the child care demands, or due to age and health, the financial strain of providing for their families often brings these women to the breaking point.   It often leads to the women having to pull a child out of school in order to send him or her to work, further perpetuating the cycle of poverty into the next generation.  Desperate times all too often lead to desperate decisions.  

It doesn't have to be this way.  "Do you love Me?  Feed My Sheep", He said...

We asked what would be best – for her to receive food and the basics needed, or for her to receive funds to obtain the basics on her own.  Pastor Michael said that in this situation, there was no concern with providing the mother with money, in that it would be used as it is intended – for survival.  Research backs it up -- mothers in extreme poverty will spend over 90% of their financial provisions on the basic necessities that take care of their family, often before their own needs. 

We asked how many families with children in the program were facing extreme circumstances such as these.  He named three.  We had met one – an older single mom of a disabled child unable to work to provide for herself or her child.  We decided to visit the homes of the other two families to assess their situation in person, interview them and learn more about their needs. Each story made my heart raw with ache for this broken world...

The second family consisted of a young single mom with two profoundly disabled children, Manikandan and Sathya, both of whom are in the sponsorship program.  

The mom could work, but only occasionally, as her daughter was too disabled to attend school regularly.  

Even her clothes told the story of her situation – she wore a heavy cotton sari wrap in the crushing heat while doing chores at home, rather than a lighter material that may have cost a few extra dollars.

Two years ago, she lived with her two children in a mud hut shelter built for keeping livestock.  The government had stepped in and provided a solidly built one room house, improving her living conditions considerably but still leaving her without enough. 

The last family consisted of a grandmother and her two grandsons.  

(Jaya, grandmother raising two teenaged grandsons)

The boys’ mother had died in a tragic kitchen fire accident, leading the boys’ father to flee the responsibility of raising two sons on his own.  Their care was left to the grandmother, who struggled to meet their needs on her own after her husband passed away.  

The only work she was able to do was to harvest rice when the fields were dry; this was seasonal work at best.  

The grandsons were in their teens and at risk for leaving school too soon in order to find daily wage work to support the family.  She was living in a rented home, and if she were to pass away, the boys would be immediately evicted.

At best, working full time in manual labor (rice fields, agriculture, brick work) in this area, these women could earn approximately $15-20 a month if working full time.  Full time work is rare.  The grandmother receives an old age benefit of 500 rupees a month from the government, the equivalent of $10 a month, but the basics of food, shelter, transportation and school costs an average of 2500 rupees a month – $50 -- far out of reach of what she can earn with her ailing health and body.  Many young, able bodied women do not earn that much. 

School fees are provided for by the sponsorship program, and food is provided daily to the children.  This helps alleviate the financial strain on the families, but still leaves a gap. 

After much discussion and prayer, we determined that with a sponsorship donation of $20 a month, supplemented by any work that the caretakers can manage, the heavy burden that breaks the backs of these women could be lifted, and the raw wounds left on our hearts by these women’s stories could begin to heal.

When it was time for us to leave, I turned to give Jaya, the grandmother, a comforting hug.  She wept openly in my arms, in the middle of the street in front of her tiny house, as everyone looked on and prayed.  

It took a long, long time for her to look up and look into my eyes to find hope.  I prayed she wouldn’t see me at all, but would only see Jesus... and I kept repeating the same message to her over and over again, in English...  “Hope is here – his name is Jesus…  He is here.  Hope is here....  Hope is here.”

Hope IS here.  God Himself sent us.  

To love Him is to give.  To give is to love Him.

To share from your abundance and provide hope to these families, please consider a Family Support sponsorship of $20/month, or a general donation in anyamount, (indicate "Family Support" in the notes).  One time donations will be divided equally amongst Family Support program families who do not yet have a sponsorship.  Tax receipts available (U.S. only).

He commands us to go, to serve, to give…  He connects us to the people who need His provisions…

Now that we know, how will we respond?