Finding Hope In Hard Places

At a glance, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.   Yes, raw sewage gutters lined the side of the streets, separating the buildings from the road as far as the eye could see, with rickety boards or cement blocks placed across the gutters so that we could safely cross over to the buildings or merchant stands dotting the neighborhood.  

This was Ghana, and for Ghana, this was pretty typical whether you were in Osu, an urban, bustling part of Accra, or in a small community such as this.  

In the months leading up to this trip, I had researched many of the challenges facing Ghanaians, and sanitation was near the top of that list.  Being married to a plumber, I knew that he would take interest in knowing how Ghana manages this concern compared to the way it is managed back home.  Only roughly one third of Ghanaians have access to some form of sanitation infrastructure such as toilets, pit latrines or other means, and most of the sewage in Ghana is not processed in ways that reduce the impact on health and environment.  

It is an unthinkable but well known fact that it is easier for people in extreme poverty to access a cell phone than a toilet.

The local pastor led our team across the gutter under the watchful eye of a nearby merchant selling her items a few feet away.  Once across, we entered a small concrete walkway between two buildings, much as we’d done earlier when visiting the home of Prince, a sponsored child from Enyan Abaasa.  Even the yellow walls were the same color they’d been in the walkway near Prince’s house.

Really, nothing seemed out of the ordinary…  but two things we’d been told in preparation for this visit made us wonder what we’d find on this last home visit.

We were here on behalf of Beth, a sponsor from the US who had some concerns about her sponsored child, Vivian, who lived near the area where we were working this week.  Beth had shared with us that the letters from Vivian were very basic and repetitive even after a few years of sponsorship, leaving her feeling very disconnected and concerned as a sponsor. We contacted Compassion ahead of time and asked if there was any way we could get to speak to the child development workers and to meet the child and her family while we were in their area.  Compassion did their best to work this into our already full schedule, and that was what had led us to this small community in the Central Region.  

Just before we drove to this area where Vivian and her family lives, we dropped by the local church office where the Compassion staff met with us for a few moments.  Vivian is registered with this Compassion affiliated church.  One of the district supervisors, Samuel, had been our Compassion host when I traveled to Ghana in 2011.  It was great to connect with him after all these years.  He was glad to see us back in Ghana and to hear of the journey that had led us here, and he gave us the opportunity to go through Vivian’s file, much as we had done with our own sponsored children. 

Looking through Vivian’s file, we could tell that Vivian struggled in school, and that the letters were indeed reserved and guarded.   We asked the staff about Vivian’s family situation, and rather than to simply answer, the workers looked at each other, their expressions telling us that they were looking for the right words to convey that things were very difficult in Vivian’s situation.  What they did say was that Vivian has developmental challenges and that as for the family situation, we would see for ourselves when we visited her home.

Walking single file between the aging, yellow walls of the buildings, groceries and gifts in hand for the family, we followed our leader as he led the way to Vivian’s home.  

Turning around the next corner, the smell of raw sewage rising with the heat waves hit us full force.  We looked at each other silently as we kept going, sidestepping a stream of raw sewage flowing from various places and pooling in the dirt paths leading to different homes, while chickens pecked at the dirty ground looking for something -- anything -- to sustain themselves.

A few more turns later, we saw a group of sparsely clothed, barefooted children playing in a small rocky yard surrounded by a small tightly packed cluster of homes with rusty metal roofs.  Nearby, a beautiful young woman with an infant strapped tightly to her back bent low over a tub of soapy water, scrubbing clothes, and hanging them to dry above the stream of raw sewage.

We stopped and climbed carefully into the yard.

This was Vivian’s home.

(Vivian's home is the room inside the door on the left)

We had seen homes in poor state of repair all through our travels, including some of the homes we had visited earlier.  There had been crumbling walls and holes in the roof at the twins’ home an hour or two earlier… and more.

This, though… this was different.  There was no peace.  What there was in its place was palpable despair and disorder that we hadn’t experienced elsewhere that day, or on this trip.  The home was in very poor shape, probably the worst we'd personally seen.  The family dynamics were visibly strained.  And mere feet away, raw sewage was snaking its way between houses where children walk barefoot and play.

We quietly observed through the Ghanaian visiting rituals of introductions and exchanges.  Vivian’s mother had several children and appeared to be expecting another child. Her countenance was distant and disconnected from the activities surrounding her. 

Vivan (yellow/blue dress) and her mother (pink/white dress)

We had been told that Vivian’s mother was typically absent in the home, and that Vivian was being raised by Vivian’s grandmother.  This helped explain the complete disconnect between Vivian and her own mother.  Thankfully, Vivian's grandmother is warm, welcoming and provided the best environment she could for the children.  

Vivan’s aunt was the young woman with the infant on her back, washing clothes.   The small, barefoot children we had seen when we first arrived were Vivian’s younger siblings, three girls ages 9, 7 and 5.  They were not part of the sponsorship program, but the oldest three children, including Vivian, do attend school. 

There were no male parental figures in the family; not a grandparent, father, or a husband present. 

When our leaders spoke to Vivian, she barely responded.  She sometimes stared into space or at her feet until  her grandmother repeated the questions directly to her.  Sometimes, she would quietly respond to her grandmother, but sometimes, the questions were met with complete silence.  She seemed like a shell of a child part of the time, and then at other times, she would come alive and be in the moment with a warm smile.  It became clear as we were there why there had been such a struggle getting to know this child through sponsorship letters. 

When the time came for the family to ask our team questions as dictated in social customs, the local leadership addressed the grandmother and asked her directly what we wanted to communicate to us. 

Vivian's grandmother

She gave a short but intense response in the local language we didn’t understand, and her words made our local leadership team visibly startle.  Not knowing what she had said, or why it had unsettled the local team, we waited, anxious for them to translate her words to us.  They did not immediately translate.  We tried to coax them by telling us that we had a good sense of humor (nothing would surprise us!).  Instead, they exchanged rapid-fire words among one another in an effort to determine what was appropriate for them to share with us, while also preserving the family's honor and dignity.

What could she possibly have said?

A few things came to mind…  we knew from our advocacy work that families are not permitted to ask the sponsors for money or provisions, and we had also heard of desperate families in developing nations, especially Haiti, asking for visitors to take a child back to North America with them. 

In this particular case, the answer was closer to the first thought that came to mind – but it wasn’t a plea for money, it was a cry for help.  The grandmother is living in a really difficult situation, being left to raise her grandchildren without a husband to help her, without a source of income, in deplorable living conditions.  Given Vivian’s development delays and the family home environment being especially challenging, the grandmother was desperate for support, but specifically told the local leadership that she doesn’t want a handout, she wants help establishing a business so she could support herself and her family. 

It will take some time to determine what kind of skills she will require, what type of business she would be best suited for, and what it will take to help her get there.  The local leadership is prepared to help walk her through the necessary steps to offer a long term solution, rather than a quick fix that isn’t sustainable.  To do this in a sustainable way could take months, it could take longer.

Given the severity of the circumstances, one of the most practical ways to help would be to provide additional resources through Compassion in the form of a financial gift specifically for this family, so that the local leadership can have access these additional resources to help this grandmother obtain what she needs to establish a sustainable source of income.  Perhaps a small merchant stand, a sewing enterprise, bead making supplies, taxi service, etc. 

Our team members’ hearts were marked and burdened by this visit.  Much time was spent debriefing in the van on the way back to the guest house, and in the days to come.  Even now, back home, our hearts continue to be heavy for Vivian and her family.

Traveling to Ghana (or any developing nation) for humanitarian purposes brings you to some of the hardest places and situations.  There is extreme poverty nearly everywhere, and it can at times be overwhelming as we know we can’t help with every single situation we encounter, but there are times when we’re faced with a situation and know we are meant to be a part of the changes that brings the opportunities for a better future. 

The partnership we’ve had with Enyan Abaasa’s community in the past 7 years has been a great example of focusing on one community, and doing something to help meet their needs. It takes so little to make a positive impact in places like these.

While in Ghana to wrap up the library project, we were able to determine what our next long term project will be, but in the days following the visit to Vivian’s family, we determined that our first priority and short term focus will be to help give a voice to Vivian's family, to invite people who come across this story to help be a part of the support network for this family by praying and by helping us gather the funds needed to send a family gift to Vivian's grandmother via Compassion.  We can send a maximum of $1000 as a family gift, but are hoping to send at least $400.

If a few dozen of us give $10, or even $5, we can make a significant long term impact on this family’s well-being by helping this grandmother get a source of income established so she can not only feed her family and meet their needs, but perhaps eventually move out of this area and into a safer, cleaner place for her family to live.  She is determined, hardworking and such a strong woman.  She will rise above this, she just needs a little extra help to get there.

Our family would like to start by contributing the first $50 toward a family gift.  Beth has also committed $100 towards a family gift.  If you would like to join us, no amount is too small to make an impact.  Our Paypal address is JD@beyondmeasure.me or you can contact us for more information or options through this email address as well.  Please mark “Vivian” in the subject line.

We hope to follow up on Vivian's family the next time we travel to Ghana, and until then, we look forward to hearing updates from Beth, her sponsor.  

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.

Enough

     I've been home from Haiti for a week, and the words are hard to come by, and the ones that do trickle  through are raw.  The words flow slowly -- painfully -- it's rare for me, and unsettling.  I hesitate to share.  It's not pretty.  I can't make it pretty, I refuse to.

     In Honduras and Ghana, I shared stories, photos and our experiences while we were still there.  Cameroon, the words and stories came more slowly... the words drying up before the stories were finished.  Haiti....  I don't yet know what's about to pour out, I just know it has to.


     I hit the ground running when I arrived home from Haiti, in more ways than one.  I knew.  I knew that if I slowed down, it would hurt.  It helped that I had an overwhelming amount of work to come home to -- a bittersweet blessing, it would help me process the pain of what we have seen and experienced, and what we came home to.  It always hurts, like a heart bruise being leaned into, poked and prodded, pressed down.

     Things are never as they were when we come back from the mission field -- always a cost -- we come back to contrasts we don't know how to process, and an unsettling feeling that comes with our new shift of perspective.  The reality that we as a church aren't doing enough to be the hands and feet -- we're not doing enough to get out of the comfortable and bridge the gap between the rich and the poor in a radical way.  We're not doing enough to answer the call -- the knock comes, the call comes, but we turn away.  Do we assume someone else will pick up the call for the poor?  Are we leaving it to virtual voicemail?  Not just the poor in the standard sense, but everyone in our path in need of the gospel, in need of love, hope, light.  We're too distracted by the shiny and fancy trappings of this world, by preconceptions and attitudes and entitlement, by our own selves... our greed...  by the enemy's deception -- that it's someone else's job, that it won't matter, that it's too hard or that the lost deserve it somehow, it's their own doing, isn't it?  I've heard it before,  the rejection of responsibility... "If they're so poor, why do they keep having kids?  We shouldn't help these people, they do it onto themselves.  They should all be given birth control before we give them any help.  You know, help our own people here at home and let their government deal with their mess."  Appalling.  Unthinkable.

     Yes, the coming home has always been the hardest.  Coming home from Haiti, even more so, for two reasons:

1.  Haiti has the most extreme poverty I've witnessed to date. I've only traveled to three other faraway countries, but it's by far the worst living conditions I've seen in person, and I can't shake the images from my head -- nor would I want to.  I came there to know, to see, to feel, to experience, to walk alongside the hurting, the hungry, the lost, the lonely, the orphans, the widows, the poor, the broken, the sinners.  I tasted poverty.  It covered me in a thick, suffocating layer, seeped down deep into my weary bones.

In each place I had been to, I experienced a quiet but deep sense of community and connection with the poor, the broken, the lost -- this was no different.  Being judged and shunned back home by some of the members of His body, His church, especially this past year in all the changes taking place here back home...  it has hurt, and I don't want to do the same to others, I don't want to give anyone the silent treatment, the cold stare, the judging look, the abandonment, and I've been guilty of it before.  May God have mercy on me. It crushes me to think that someone, somewhere, could have seen this in me and knowing I follow Jesus, assumed this was of Him.  I don't want others to mistake this for Jesus' love.  I don't want to walk away, to turn my back, to give up on anyone.  I don't want that to be what the body of Christ looks like, and I want it to start with me.  Yes, it hurts to be in the trenches, to serve the poorest of the poor.  To see the desperation, to hear it, face it, see it, taste it...  to relate...  It hurt, but I can't look away, I won't look away.  I want to see.  I need to know.  I have to remember...  to memorize their faces is to remember the face of Jesus, and to not grow hardened in this world.  It is the awareness that I am no different.  I am just as broken, just as much a sinner, just as badly in need of a Savior.  We all are.  Those who judge, those who are judged -- equally loved by Him.

2.  The day after I left for Haiti, my fourteen year old son Joshua moved 2800 miles across the country to live with his father.  His father had been living in the basement of our home since October of 2011 when he left our marriage.  After a long period of unemployment, he recently found work out west and made preparations to move.  Joshua decided to follow him there.

     Given my tendency to clean the house before I leave for vacation or leave for any length of time, I was bracing myself for what I'd find in the aftermath of their move.  I walked through the house, rooms echoing emptiness, the furniture gone except a few pieces, each room newly unfamiliar and barren.  Odds and ends littered the floor upstairs, all that was left was in a state of disarray.  It didn't feel like home, at least not the one we knew.

Yet as I looked at the coffee table, the kitchen table and chairs, my mattress set, one dresser...  all that was left...  I remembered the homes I had seen, I remembered Medgina's grandmother lifting her arms in praise to God, shaking with joy while standing in her seemingly empty one bedroom home with a broken roof and no doors, thanking the One who provides... and it confirmed what I knew -- God is enough, and I am blessed.


     Heaps of trash scattered all throughout the basement, junk in every possible inch of space, it felt as though what was once a home was ransacked, leaving only debris in the wake of the storm.  Suffocating.  A somewhat milder version of Hoarders, minus the team hired to make the nightmare disappear.  That's how it felt.  Brandon and I rolled up our sleeves, put our heads down, and worked our way through, room by room, hour by hour, day by day.  Solidarity.  My love poured out for Brandon, stepping up as a man, doing what was right and what needed to be done, taking charge with initiative and drive, and caring for his family.  It took a week to nearly finish two rooms, and we're nowhere near done the basement.  All this time, it threatened to eat away at me; the living conditions, the responsibility, the energy it would take to clear this mess and prepare this house to sell...  how unfair it was that they walked away and left us holding the bag -- dozens of trash bags, and counting...  and then the furnace broke down, then the fridge, then a leak in one pipe, two leaks...  the used-but-new-to-us fridge in the middle of our kitchen, too big to fit the space left empty by the old fridge...  all within the span of a week...  and I wonder if the power is next, the property taxes, one income not enough to sustain... but I fought HARD against it, against being overwhelmed... fought hard to cling to gratitude and joy...  and won...  because....

...   when I closed my eyes, I saw images of raw sewage running openly through Port Aux Princes, of one family standing about a hundred feet from the roadway in the city, adults and children alike, in a heaping, smoldering pile of garbage at a landfill, digging for food and anything else they could salvage for survival...  a scene so brutal to the heart I could not raise my camera at the time, hand frozen, heart broken.  It stayed with me the entire week we were in Haiti, and I  looked for this family on our way back to Port Aux Princes at the end of the week, wanting to reach out to them, bring them rice, words of encouragement, love... Jesus... something... anything... but could not find them.   Still, the image remains, much like the image of Richard permanently etched into the back of my eyelids -- pictures I can't and won't erase...  and I knew that God would be enough to sustain, to strengthen, to nourish, to bless... them, and me.

   
     We guessed her to be about two.... her name was Gwyneth -- she was the youngest of the 29 orphans at the Bethanie Orphanage.  The women gathered all the girls, while the men gathered the boys around them, and we set out to distribute clothes to the children.  Under the dark cover of night, we stood on the second floor balcony, the dimly lit area buzzing with activity, picking through dresses, trying to guess the girl's sizes.  I had intended on helping the women find dresses for the girls, but the moment I saw Gwyneth, so tiny, so young...  my heart convulsed violently and I found myself on the ground near her.  She melted into my lap, quietly sucking on a lollipop while holding another, and the realization that this precious babe, this tiny little child of God, had no earthly parents to love on her and care for her...  it was more than my heart could bear.

I broke down into quiet sobs, crying prayers over her and the 147+million orphans like her in the world.  Millions and I am only holding one.  ONE.  One just as precious to Him as the others in the ocean of children crying out for a family.  Still cradling her in my arms for as long as possible but not wanting to be selfish in holding her, I lifted her gently into Jillian's waiting arms, and as Jillian held her, explained to my precious 11 year old daughter that this sweet girl didn't have a mother or father to love her, to take care of her, to live with her and do life with her... Jillian's heartbreak was written all over her face as she gasped, and looked from me to Gwyneth and then back again...  asking, searching, not understanding.  "These are children from the orphanage, love -- an orphanage is a home for orphans -- orphans are children without parents to love them and look after them.  This little girl does not have parents to call her own."  Her face grimacing painfully, she shook her head and said "But mom, she's so little, she's just a baby, can't we take her home, I've always wanted a sister, I could take care of her?"  Tears poured once more, this time from both of us -- the well seemed bottomless.  "I know, love...  it's not fair.  For any of them.  No matter what age.  There are kids younger than Gwyneth who are all alone.  Babies.  Kids your age.  Older kids.  Orphans.  One hundred and forty seven million of them right now, in this world, today....  orphaned.  We, you and I, the church, the hands and feet, we're failing to respond to the call.  We're failing to be enough.  I know you and I would, in a heartbeat, take her home, but we don't have the ransom, the resources... not at this time...  in His...?"  We stared at each other in quiet disbelief, at a loss for more words, and quietly turned our attention back to Gwyneth and her friends in those precious few moments we had to pour love into them.

I return home to the children's father gone from their home.  Although they're not with their father, Brandon and Jillian are adjusting well to life without their father here... it's a new normal, but they're thriving.  They are loved and cared for and there are phones and Skype and someday, perhaps they will even travel there.  We are all blessed with a Father, and He will always be enough...

(Photo credit:  Tia Kollar)

     While serving, we met a team from one of the purest, Godliest Acts style churches I've yet heard of, who were also in Haiti being the hands and feet.  These Christians from Antioch, Tennessee had, among many other acts of service, locally purchased four tons of rice to distribute to people suffering from hunger.  We asked if we could join in their efforts to distribute the rice and minister to His people.  They welcomed us into their family without hesitation, without question, loving us as we were -- the true and loving body of Christ.  On Wednesday evening, we traveled to a field where a church was being built by their team, where the men had toiled hard under the hot Haitian sun earlier that day, and where there would be children waiting to receive precious rations of rice to bring home to their families.  Several fifty pound sacks of rice had been divided up into small family sized portions, individually bagged for distribution.  The rice was loaded on top of the bus, and as the bus made its way into the field, we immediately realized that the word had spread about the rice, and the entire village had shown up.  As we stepped out of the bus, praying for God to multiply as He had the loaves and fish, people pressed into us, welcoming us with eager anticipation.  The sun was setting, but it wasn't the only darkness that could be felt -- hope and desperation hung dangerously close to one another in the air, an intense and charged spirit weighing heavy on us...  we were just as desperate as these people were -- desperately hopeful that God would multiply the rice and make it enough.  When we realized that it would not be so tonight, we were told to quickly get back into the bus for our own safety -- they knew a riot would break out.  They wanted us safely back into the bus before they were to announce that we would be back tomorrow not just with enough food, but with more than enough.  Joy turned to mourning -- and in an instant, the bus was filled with the sounds of the desperate cries of mothers, angry shouts of men, children screaming and running after our bus as it was being kicked and pushed by a mob of angry, hurting, and desperately hungry people clawing for a shred of hope, trying to reach the bags of rice at the top of the bus.  They were simply hungry.  Hungry for the end of suffering.  Hungry for peace.  Hungry for hope.  Hungry for nourishment.  God had provided more than enough for Tia, Jillian and I through our fundraising, so we offered from God's abundance and provide for 3 or 4 more fifty pound bags of rice to the team to help ensure there would be more than enough for these people the following day.  It wasn't much, but we knew God would make it enough.

Sitting at the table that night at the guest house, in front of a warm plate of food and a cold drink...  it was hard to chew -- to chew through not only the food, but the reality of the multitudes that go hungry when elsewhere, there is more than enough.  Thousands of children die each day from hunger and preventable causes.  Yet God gives more than enough from which we are to bless.


More and more, as I travel to these countries and walk hand in hand, heart in heart with the poor, "rich" loses the hold it once had.  I don't want stuff.  I don't want wealth or riches.  Black Friday makes me want to throw up.  I want only to spend of myself in order to save someone else.  I don't want what the world has to offer -- I want enough.  Simply enough.  For me, for them.


I want enough compassion for everyone, by everyone, everywhere, in every situation.

I want enough understanding.

I want enough awareness.

I want enough love.  Love in action.  Love as a verb.

I want enough service to others, at home, next door, in our communities, churches, throughout the world.

I want enough of us to hear the call.

I want more than enough of us to respond.  Radically.  Urgently.  Lovingly.


And enough mercy and grace for myself as I find my way through this.

"The call of orphan care is not a call to simply "save the orphan". The call of orphan care is to share in the suffering of the orphan. It's to intentionally position yourself, your family, your community, to suffer alongside the orphan. To say, 'Your suffering, is now my suffering. Your story, is now my story. I willingly position myself to suffer alongside you.' "

-- Aaron Ivey, Adopted - The Cost Of Love.  

That seems, to me, to be the very definition of Compassion.  For the orphan, the poor, the sick, the widow, the broken, the sinner, the lost, the lonely...  even the rich --  for all our neighbors.  Compassion.  Love.  Hands and feet.  The true body.  Rather than turn our backs, shun, give the silent treatment, judge, shift the responsibility and the call elsewhere, to someone else, anyone else...  what if we ALL joined in the suffering, the brokenness, and simply loved IN the trenches, simply loved and gave and served and looked and saw and shared and became one in Him until it was enough, even knowing it will never be enough until He returns?


It starts with me.

Ghana Through His Eyes -- Guest Post

Meeting some of our Compassion children, encountering severe poverty for the first time, spending time with trafficked children and taking part in the negotiations to rescue child slaves...  not your everyday teenage boy's experience.  

Joshua and I were invited by Compassion International to share his perspective on his experiences in Ghana this past November, as well as how it felt as his mother to provide this experience to him.  

We shared in this post on their website today:  Changing One Teenager's Perspective

To read my other guest posts on their website, click here:  JD / Compassion 

Family By {His} Choice

We no longer sponsor a Maker's Dozen. 

Our Compassion family grew in 2011... first George & George in April, followed by Tahameena in July.  Thirteen seemed to me to be blessed (on any day of the week, lol!).  

Surely we were at our limit.  

Surely God laughs when we think this.

In December, three more children were added to our Compassion family.  Don't ask me how that happens.  Ask Him!

Victoria was introduced in this post, and today, I would like you to meet Maryuri, our sweet girl from Honduras.

There is no doubt that God chose Maryuri for my mom and I to sponsor together.  

It started in December...  My mom had been missing her dad very much as the holidays approached.  It had been 13 years since his passing, and the holidays always made the loss especially tender.  Perhaps intuitively knowing that it would bring healing as grief is often softened when reaching out to others, mom had asked me to find the oldest available girl from Honduras. 

I asked my Advocate team leader to help, and a while later, the child pack came to my house just as I was about to pick my mom up a few days before Christmas.

As soon as I saw the child pack and read it, I immediately called Compassion and told them that this would be the new child for my mom and I to sponsor, and I added her to our account.  No hesitation.

I quietly gave my mom Maryuri's child pack when I picked her up, and gently told her "Meet your new child..."  I also shared that my present to her this Christmas would be my pledge to continue financially supporting our co-sponsored Compassion children should she, at any time, find herself unable to continue to support them financially.  She had been concerned about being close to retirement and committing to a child...  

But when she saw Maryuri's profile... she broke down and cried, knowing God had chosen her for us, and that He would provide, as always.  He would not only provide financially, as always, but also provide healing.

Maryuri's birthday is the exact day, month and year of my grandfather's passing, as well as the same day/month as my younger brother's birthday.

It was a while before she could speak through the tears.  

It was a while before I could see the road again clearly.  

Penny Perspective

I had the opportunity and blessing of writing for the Compassion Canada Blog today...

"If we ignore pennies under the assumption that a penny is worthless and won't make a difference... how much more of a grave mistake is it to do the same to children?  How often do we do this to the world's children?  How often do we do this to our own?"


Will you join me there to hear about my Penny Perspective?

http://www.compassion.ca/advocatenetwork/blog.php?intid=836

The Gift Of Community

Suddenly, it was no longer the Maker's Dozen.

Every few months, I would make a call to Compassion's headquarters and quietly inquire about Berling, the child from Nicaragua who captured my heart back in June.  Time after time, I learned that the child whose photo I still had, unable to let her go until she found a sponsor, was still waiting for her answer to prayers.

Those prayers were answered this week when I learned that a sponsor had finally chosen her among the sea of faces waiting their turn to be chosen. 

Strangely, I had been prepared to commit to her had I been told that she had not yet been chosen, but deep down, I knew she was not meant to be mine.  I am not her sponsor.  

Still, as I rejoiced in the news that Berling had been sponsored, I felt that all too familiar stirring, this time with a twist.  

Reflecting upon the blessing of being supported by this community, as I have been so well loved and supported by the many friends God has brought to this blog...  I thought of Kwagala, the child sponsored by Michelle's blogging community, and how beautiful it is to know that this young woman is surrounded by the love of an entire group of sponsors who love her and support her through her difficult situation.  She had been chosen by many, and is loved by many.  

It became clear last night, quite suddenly, that God had chosen a child specifically for this blogging community too.  Although I had many child sponsorship packs in hand, I knew the one God had chosen wasn't among those.  I began searching, eventually going through hundreds of profiles before I knew beyond measure that I had found the one.  

Initially having no idea where this child would come from, thinking that perhaps God would have me sponsor a child from somewhere new to me, I was actually surprised to find that He had led me to a child from Ghana.  I knew the moment I read her profile that she was the one, and then I looked at the country and grinned with disbelief.  Really?

Yup.

Victoria is 14, and faces some special challenges.  Crippled in both legs, visually impaired and in need of regular medical care, I knew that like Kwagala, this beautiful girl with such a peaceful, sweet face would benefit from knowing that she had a group of people lifting her up in prayer and support.  She has five siblings and lives with both parents just north west of Accra, an area we're familiar with.  

Involvement in this sponsorship is voluntary -- you will know if God is leading you to step forward and take part in this gift of community.  Whether you would like to commit to $1 a month or $5, or whatever the amount, however often, you will be able to take part in sharing in this blessing.  How it works is well described by Michelle, I will simply point her way.  If you have any questions/concerns, simply let me know.  A one time donation can also be made.

Contributions can be made through the Paypal button on the sidebar for Victoria's sponsorship.

Thank YOU for the support you've given me through the years... may it flow into Victoria's life and lift her up as she soars to her full potential.