we are the light-bearers

June 25^th

            My time in Nicaragua has officially ended, and I wanted to say a few things quickly while they were fresh. As I have a week in Costa Rica to reflect, I wanted to start with a list of things I have learned both about others and myself in these 5 months overseas.

1)   Poverty is so very real.

2)   Evil and suffering do exist.

3)   I can move and have my being in those worlds.

4)   We, as humans, have the crazy ability to adapt to any place and relate to any person.

5)   One of my goals is to continue learning different languages. I enjoy the process and am passionate about communicating with different cultures.

6)   Independence makes me feel alive.

7)   People are the most important.

8)   Exteriors don’t actually matter.

9)   God can be found: both in darkness and in light, in joy and in pain.

10)                  I need support.

11)                   I am a declared hypochondriac. No way around it. Damn.

12)                  I do like some form of routine/structure.

13)                  I crave like-minded individuals in whom I can share my heart.

14)                  The poor are so very blessed despite the physical circumstances.

15)                  Nature speaks.

16)                  I am a small, small part of this world.

17)                  Having said that, though we may just be a flicker of light, one person can set the world ablaze.

18)                  Everyone I meet can teach me something.

19)                  Gratitude. Gratitude. Gratitude.

20)                  I can survive with a lot, a lot LESS.

21)                  Time passes, and we have no control over how quickly or slowly it goes. Appreciate each moment.

22)                  I have been set free knowing that the opinions of others & the need for approval should have no bearing on who I am. 

23)                  Beauty can be found anywhere.

24)                  Beholding brokenness draws me closer, closer, closer.

25)                   In God’s heart, there dwells joy and grief, pain and pleasure, beauty and brokenness. If I want to experience one, I must accept the other, realizing that you cannot truly know one without the other.

On that last point, something I have felt a lot of conflict over and struggled with in my time in Nicaragua--working for House of Hope, and just seeing the poverty these people live in, is doubt. I have found myself asking, “God, where are you in this? Why does this happen? How can this much darkness and evil exist?” I began to pray the Psalmist David’s plea:

“Part your heavens, O Lord and come down; touch the mountains so that they smoke…” (Psalm 144:5).

I found myself praying that when I felt despair over the situation of the girls in the home, when I heard about an experience my brother or mother was going through, when I saw the pregnant adolescent on the corner begging. It made me doubt, made my faith feel shaky and illegitimate. This leads me to a moment I had as I was driving away from Nicaragua. I cried the whole bus ride to the border. Why? I felt deep in my soul like I was leaving these people behind. I felt the sadness I had encountered, and it felt heavy. I kept asking, “God, where are you in this? Where is the hope?”

I do believe God said to me, “Margaret. You got to bring the hope. You brought the light. You WERE it.” And it hit me in that moment that God, in His goodness, allows us to see His heart by embodying that sort of hope. We are made to bring the light. He showed me his special treasures, his own heart, when he allowed me to share in their sufferings. This world is a dark place, and evil does exist. But, it is our responsibility to open our hearts and release light into those places. I believe light is love. It is Jesus in human form. It is not burdensome because it is not my job to save these people. However, it is beautiful for it IS my calling to love these people. That’s the part that will live on, the act that is eternal. I choose to believe that love will overcome the evil that I saw in that place. I choose to believe that God is gathering little light-bearers to expel darkness and to live out his goodness and his love in this world. 

Ode to Nicaragua

Here is the beginning of my ode to Nicaragua and the time spent here--for I am entering into the last days...


...I will look back and lament the loss of these nights. Like when you wish you could just hold on to things and preserve some kind of feeling that would outlast it all. I can feel something that's about to expire, and I'm anxious. My head hurts and my heart even randomly skips a beat. I don't know that I've experienced this sort of angst before...I believe it's the counted-ness of days, the planning for departure, the sighs that go along with a goodbye, and the strange emotions of feeling in between, not really fitting distinctly anywhere. Im trying to grasp in my heart what this all was and has been. Yet, my mind is already trying to walk away, for in this moment, i am thinking about what i will lose.

I will miss the nights where I could walk outside my little room at 3am when everything and everyone was silent and look up and see stars, moon, and feel quiet inside, except for the far off sound of a lone rooster crowing for a new daylight. I will miss oatmeal and milk at nighttime with spoons upon spoons of raw sugar--it made me feel like a child again. I will miss my head being scratched every night while listening to bob marley with my hermano. I will miss the sound of my fan spinning against iron and shaking like a generator as I fell asleep. I will miss praying with my madre, listening to the reverence in her voice and letting my tears fall freely. I will miss her small, dark hands that held mine when she wanted to tell me something important. I will miss the smell of rain and dirt and the sounds on my tin roof. I will miss making apple tea and wearing a mint julep masque while doing so. I will miss not giving a shit about what I was wearing or what I looked like. I will miss walking everywhere with my oversized backpack and somehow, feeling entirely unbound. I will miss flailing in a freezing cold shower to warm myself up. I will miss juicy fruit on the streets and cold coke in a bag and tired feet at night and desperate prayers at midday and ziplock bags of coins and windy taxi rides and aimless walks and the sheer discomfort that comes with living in a place where people don't have everything.

I have found the secret to being content, and it does not lie in exteriors, and it is not found in people. It is in all goodness, beauty, love, patience, peace, joy, gratitude, courage, and truth. It is the Spirit sprinkled over all things if we could but just catch a glimpse of that sort of glory.

The secret is.



God.

quick thoughts on the one month mark

I leave Nicaragua one month exactly from today. A couple of things that have been on my mind:

1)   I imagine myself looking into the face of my mom, feeling her skinny arms wrap around me, and having the deep sense inside of myself that life is right.  I feel it sitting here, now, in a café in Managua. It feels familiar and for a moment, I feel safe. Amidst the pain and the hurt, good people exist in this world. I feel it for myself, but the nagging voice inside of me wonders if all people have this sliver of hope to grasp onto when they are fearful or hurting. Here I am thinking of my homecoming, my sweet mother, and the out-of-body experience I will have when walking through my garage and realizing that these 5 months really did occur, I wasn’t dreaming, and I am different. But, what about the people that I carry inside of me? What do they feel? Do the girls at House of Hope feel loved by a momma? Do they know that through it all, people can learn to love? I do believe this particular part of me will never be the same. I house the hurt that I have seen and heard, and I will never be able to deafen my ears to it. In some ways, that frightens me, makes me feel sad and alone. But, more than that, it makes me want to fight. It compels me to take action, to use their stories as impetus to rise up and say NO to all the injustice in this world. And though I am one person, I am one more person that God is sending out into battle, one more torch set ablaze to bring light and expel the darkness. The reality: I have seen, and I am responsible now.

2)    I wrote a piece last year about the idea of hope, otherness, loss and love. As I was reading through it again, it occurred to me: I will arrive a stranger when I return home. A particular quote comes to mind: “It’s a funny thing ‘bout coming home. Looks the same, smells the same, feels smells the same. Ya realized what’s changed…is you” (Benjamin Button). I must admit: I do feel apprehension to confront my life back home. Though I have spent 20 years growing up in one place, so many things will be new to me in that place. Just to name a few: walking into a cool building, putting my trash in a receptacle, going to a private market, driving a car, feeling hot water, eating things other than rice & beans (ha!), using a dollar bill, paying more than $2 for a meal, having access to a printer, streets without stray dogs, not smelling burnt trash, actually being on time, the absence of street venders, and lastly—the unawareness that comes from living in abundance. I fear that. To put it into words: I am so sheltered from the poverty that exists everywhere around me, whether that poverty is spiritual, physical etc. There is something rich about seeing and feeling a lack every single day, about walking into a place where people are wearing shirts that have holes and stains down the front, about being with people that aren’t addicted to their cell phones because they don’t own one, people that wash their clothes in a sink, people that unplug their fans during the day to cut their electric bill, people that cook 3 meals a day in house, people that are grateful for the gift of life: the pure, sensory, nothing added, experiential life. Do not misunderstand me: I am by no means glorifying the poor or hating on the rich. However, I am agreeing with this truth: Jesus blesses the poor. I was reading the story of the fisherman that dropped their nets to follow Jesus when he called out to them. A thought occurred to me: those fishermen dropped their nets easily because they had nothing to lose. The emptier our hands, the easier it is to let go of that net and follow. When I empty myself, I leave room to be filled to capacity. I hope I don’t lose that awareness when I return because I do believe, despite physical circumstances, one can carry that truth at all times. It is the revelation that none of the exteriors really matter. It is the belief that we are all the same, that if hearts could be measured numerically, we would all be roaming the streets like beggars, all together in heaps and heaps really really feeling it: having the knowledge that we lack so much on the inside despite what the outside may look like.


For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 

Let's Draw by Gioconda Belli

LET'S DRAW
by: Gioconda Belli
Let's listen to the women
their feet are dancing on the sand
let's listen to them
and be silent.

Over there one is dragging her sandals
looking at her damp fingers 
she‘s coming from the factory 
with a handkerchief tied around her head
the machines still echo in her ears 
In the place she dreams 
there are children crowding noisily
around the chairs and the tables 
a big bundle of clothes to wash 
the raw vegetables 
the pots familiar with no other hands but hers. 

The other closer woman. Yes. Young
and walking in her floral dress 
like a balancing artist in her high shoes
with long fingers and red fingernails 
she came from the office 
tired of the telephone's incessant ringing
the coffee in cups of all sizes 
In the place she dreams there's a man
waiting for a smile 
and the bundle of clothes to wash 
the raw vegetables 
the pots familiar with no other hands but hers. 

Over there. Yes. The big woman who
looks like a monument against the light 
Her hands are rough and never have
known the sweet oil of almonds.
They resemble the earth. Clotted. Deep. 
She spent the whole day bent over
below the sun planting the
furrowed earth, 
busy taking care of the seeds' germination. 
In the place she dreams there are
Children crying. Children whose
Profiles resemble earthen jugs.
Children who appear when the moon is full.
And never stop appearing as long as the man
keeps returning from the fields, with dirty clothes,
hungry, and eyes that say fire in the hearth,
kindling in the kitchen,
corn for tortillas.

All the nocturnal bees are coming
with their honey hidden.
These women wanted to be butterflies and spread their wings
Inside the gentle walls of their homes when the day is over.

Let’s listen
here comes the man with his bundle of work on his back:
he leaves it at the door of the house
the raw vegetables aren’t waiting for him
the pots aren’t familiar with his hands
the children are asleep
She is the one who comes to the door
With a smile on her face
the woman, with her bundle of clothes,
the raw vegetables, the hearth,
and the eternal tired smile.

Let’s listen
Let’s draw the future in the sand
and men and women drawing
a world with no divisions
and a blue world where the sky isn’t compartmentalized
where love might leave the beds and the parks
and enter the bedrooms, the mops, the bundles of clothes,
the raw vegetables, the pots, and the children.
Let’s draw a man and a woman engaged in conversation
accompanying each other with their
eyes beyond the door

A man and a woman happily walking on 
the sidewalks on Sundays
as if they had been born together.
Let’s draw a single world where even
small things are important.
Let’s draw a home that’s the same size as the factory
the same size as the best, most valiant battle.

Let’s draw love with big letters;
and men and women loving each other
let’s draw them like the angular stone of a beautiful building.
Let’s draw the strength of a man and a woman
and their love like that of lions for their cubs
Let’s draw a star of light
a bright star on the man’s forehead
a bright star on the woman’s.
Let’s draw ourselves with the colors we love most
the color of peace
the color of tomorrow
The swaying color of sugarcane
the color of that house that we call my house
Let’s draw ourselves
like two hurricanes that hold hands
and draw the world over again.

Loose the Fear & Live

April 18, 2012

I had the strangest feeling as I was walking home from class this morning. I felt for a moment the sadness of estrangement wherein one seeks any alleviation that might dull the pain that I believe every human feels in the depths, in the quiet, in the secret space of the soul. I felt it, for a moment. I watched the students, and in my mind, I saw the frantic race of people trying to escape all the sadness. I saw the moments spent alone in fear, I felt the aching heart after a relationship lost, I smelt the liquor on their lips, I heard the voices in their heads that paraded around telling falsehoods, and I watched as little hands grasped for anything that might fill the emptiness. I knew it for that moment, and it made me want to cry for every human experiencing this feeling. Whether you are jumping ship like Jonah or you’re drowning out the voice that tells you there’s something more, we are all running in some form or fashion. That’s what humans do: we run. When I feel myself running: I listen to far too much music, I lose sleep over my thoughts, I use the future to feel secure, I count the days of the calendar to exert some type of control over my life, I make phone calls to silence the fear, I write to alleviate the pain, I ignore the pain, I act as if everything is fine, and lastly, I begin to seriously doubt the existence of all things good in this life. I wallow.

It takes courage to confront the fear we all feel. I am beginning to believe the opposite of love is not hate, nor indifference, but rather, fear. Most of us feel fear in some form or fashion on a daily basis, whether it comes in the form of anxiety, stress, depression, despair, loneliness, you name it—I believe all these arise from the origin of fear. In order to rid ourselves of the fear, we must face the fear. We must give it up, let it out, confess it like a secret long kept hidden. And there is no fear in love, but perfect love has the power to cast out fear, to throw it out and give it no place in our lives. Love, then, hates fear.

-----------------

I am sweating and the stream of my tears feels cold on my face. I am crying the tears of my momma. They weren’t mine. They were hers. I do believe I have just shared a real pain in my spirit, so closely, so tenderly. I walked in the little cement kitchen with a loaf of bread to tell her I could fix myself a peanut butter sandwich. As I glanced up, I watched as tears began falling down her face. I wondered what I should say or how I might be able to give her a timely word or some form of comfort. I claim no mastery over the Spanish language, and I stumble through sentences and can’t find the words to say, but in that moment, it didn’t matter. She didn’t need words. She needed someone to feel with her, to say it hurts, to know the pain and to let her cry and be small again. I told her I wanted to pray for her in that moment. Since tomorrow will be the 5-year anniversary of the death of her eldest son, the house has been heavy with a sadness that seeps through the walls, leaks out the vents, and crawls on every piece of furniture he once knew. The boys don’t say a word, and the father has been on the computer all day. Only she chooses to feel and let God do his work in her. She chooses to let the sadness in, to let it change her, to allow it inside. As I prayed for her, looking for the words in Spanish, I began to weep. I could hardly speak. I held her trembling body against mine, and I let myself feel, if only for a moment, her sorrow.

As I write, I still cry. I cry because it is the same sadness I felt earlier this morning, the place of fear and of solitude. What balm might provide a salve for that? For her, it is more than just sadness; hers is the termination of memories and of a life once lived and shared. Though I can’t begin to imagine the pain, I know it in the strangest place inside. I feel it like I felt it this morning, except, there’s something different about the outcome. I don’t see her running around frantically. I see her bowed, knees on the floor, head in her hands. I see her asking God the whys and hows, wondering if she will ever be able to go on, and yet, standing up in the midst of it all. I smell the rich aroma of trust, of faithfulness, of belief, and of love rising from her prayers. I believe she is getting closer and closer to Jesus himself in every prayer, every act of service, every loving word spoken. I believe God wants to tell her “Well done my child, you are faithful, you believed, and there are crowns of gold awaiting you. I see you. I feel your pain. I am with you in all of it. I cry with you there in your little room. If you could only see…”

She’s been chipping away at all the walls inside of her since he passed. I see them coming down, and I see God building a new home inside of her. It bears great treasure and peace. It is holy and sweet to my soul. It gives me new life each time I walk through that little iron gate. It is a dwelling for God himself.

-----

We are all knocking on the doors of eternity, waiting to get in. To those that are chipping away at the walls, removing the bricks that we have all laid to self-protect and hide, I am walking with you. I want to say this: he is making a home out of us, but we must make the conscious decision every single day to allow him entrance into our little houses. The doors don’t unlock by themselves. So turn the key, swing wide the doors, loose the fear, and live.

a traveler's thoughts on time

dated: April 14th

There are days when I count the minutes. There are days when all I can think about is the future that I believe awaits me on the other end of things. I think up every scenario of my plane ride home. I see my tears, I hear my music, I see the hugs, I see the sighs, I feel my nerves already. What it will be like walking down that aisle traveling home, what I will do when I see my old friends, who will I be after 5 months of time spent in a 3^rd world country with nobody familiar to me but my own thoughts? I wonder if I will feel the solitude that so often separates one from another after months of separate experiences, I wonder if God will travel with me there, to those places.

I find myself thinking in future mode when I feel alone, when I feel afraid, when I feel weak. It seems controllable, it seems like it sits in the palm of my hand, like I could somehow teleport myself to that place and cease to feel in the present. But, today, I didn’t feel that way. I felt ready to face the present moment, I felt like time was so out of my hands that it was free to be and to pass as it wished. It felt like a person I was well acquainted with, like it was for me and not against me. Anyone that faces an extended period of time away from the comforts and the familiars of home has most likely experienced this same type of conflicted feeling over the passage of time. In some ways, it passes so quickly I don’t even have a chance to know it. In other ways, I feel like I am living a new life that will never end here, like my entire past got wiped off by a few months, never to come back to me.

As I walked the dusty streets and breathed the smoke-filled air and carried my sack of shampoo and water bottles home from the store, I asked myself: “Why and when do I specifically experience these moments of freedom? What is it about this point in solitude that makes me feel somehow more alive and yet, less human?” There’s something divine about that place, it is free. Like Rainer Maria Rilke says in his “Letters to a Young Poet,” I believe it has something to do with a deep and profound trust of what difficulties lie ahead. Future thinking gives us the illusory idea that we can control. We cease to operate in faith because we don’t feel any need to. And yet, time might be the only thing we absolutely have no control over. It passes quickly and then it passes slowly and we have no way of speeding it up or slowing it down. But, might I just trust that life happens right? Might I just trust enough to let go of my grasp of the future, the future that I have made up in my own mind?

In the remaining two months I live here, I hope I can break out of this very human way of thinking, that somehow I might be able to break out and really live as one set free from time, from anything that tries to set a boundary in places that should be limitless. In trying to control time, I allow time to control me. I want to think of time as segments of growth, love, rightness, and realization. I don’t want to be hemmed in to the very human way of thinking in days and hours and minutes for didn’t we just create all that just to give ourselves some form of structure? I want to think like Jesus thinks with Kingdom thoughts. I want to use my moments of fear as opportunities to open the doors of my soul and let trust in, let God do His work in that moment, let His love destroy the fear that so often accompanies the inevitable human solitude.

i am the cracking sound of trees

dated March 18th:

I was walking through the National Park in Nicaragua called Mombacho. Though located only an hour outside of Managua, the temperature drops to around 50 or 60 degrees as you climb to the top of the mountain. As we walked along the moist paths, my lungs were filling with the fresh, cold breaths of pure air. The leaves strewn along the paths held water in the cup of their little hands like cups. I let me hands brush the lichen that grew on the stone. In order for lichen to grow, the environment must be incredibly pure. Lichen look like algae and feel like some furry animal you might encounter on another planet. They obtain all of their nutrients and hydration from the water in the surrounding atmosphere. They can be indicators of atmospheric pollution.

We passed under a tree with 35 different species of plants growing on its wooly branches and limbs that hung down like human hair. Everything felt alive, the plants, the rain, the clouds, the mountains, the earth. All of my senses were tingling from the purity of the place, a haven completely saturated by water. It was a dwelling for growth and lush vegetation.

I could hear the sound of a tree cracking, groaning in the wind like a heart once broken. It hit me like a sensation, like a feeling, like a pain in my chest. It sounded like a soul. I turned quickly to see the thing break, but I only heard the noise. The image wasn’t there for me to look upon. I began to imagine the tree as it fell. I saw it fall in my mind’s eye, and I saw the wood splinter. Something about the thought of it breaking felt heroic. Like it gave itself back to the earth.

One of my prayers over the course of the past few days has been that God would give me a revelation of what it means to walk aright with Him, to be in righteousness. I do not believe it is dependent solely on behavior. If that is the case, I give up. Yet, I am beginning to believe there’s far more to walking righteously than my actions. I feel it deep in my spirit. As I walked those paths, bathed in rain, I started to think about that image as it relates to me. The forest was covered in clouds, almost like a blanket. It received all of its water source and nutrients from the moisture that leaked out of the clouds above. The forest remained uncontaminated from the pollution of the surrounding atmosphere. Although located in close proximity to cities like Managua and Granada, the air in Mombacho was so free of contamination that lichen can thrive on almost every surface of rock located in the park. One tree can house up to 35 different species of plants due to the character of the environment.

I picture myself, head in the clouds, arms spread wide like that tree, hands open, waiting to be washed by that kind of dew. I am that forest. I am covered in fog. Some days, I can barely see in front of me. Some days, I cry out just to feel a presence bigger than my own, just to hear the sound of a soul that is breaking through, just to know that there is a light flickering inside me. And though at times, I feel myself existing in the world, on the other side of the door, stumbling among the shadows, I believe. In fact, I believe so much that I feel it is no longer a part of me. It is who I am. I am the girl begging to be bathed on the corner, my face covered in grease and my hair in knots. I am the child walking with dirty feet that need to be washed day after day after day. I feel myself depending more and more on water that doesn’t run dry, and at times, I am fearful because I feel so dependent. But then, I remember the tree. I remember the sound of my soul in that tree. I am groaning to return to my origin, splintering in every which direction on my way down, falling into the unknowable universe of faith with a noise so loud that it echoes into eternity.

We must not seek righteousness alone. We must not aspire only to be good. We must look for something far beyond the concrete world. We are looking for water that lives, a rain that has the power to wash the soul. To those that are not satisfied with this world, I am holding your hand. I am crying out so that my sounds might reach the heavens. Tell me who Jesus is. Show me how the Holy Spirit can move in winds and in breaths. Show me the sunset melting into the sea so I may know that good things exist in this world. I am looking to find God in all His glory, nothing less. I am begging to find Him, to behold His beauty. Oh God, saturate me in the clouds of Your goodness. I give myself back to You, my Maker. I lay at your feet, as a tree that bows to the ground in glorious groans.

Nica Dust

I stumbled upon this writing and wanted to include it because I wrote it the first week I was here...in shock.

Nica Dust

“I can always be found” (Liars).

Third worlds know no comfort. I am third in line for my beans and rice. Don’t drink the ice. Bring the toilet paper to the stall. Oh, if a dog approaches you, pick up a stone, and he’ll scurry away. Teach me things so I know. My teacher tells me his goal is to understand the people, in his own home country. Maggie tells me to try not to understand because I never will. And strangely, I find hope.

Sometimes, I just need to be told I am brave. I led the anciano to her home in the night with her hand in mine, misshapen knuckles clenched to find even steps. My madre prayed, “Si senor, si senor.” I didn’t find it odd. Here, no pavement is even and every street is cracked. Men sell bread at 4 in the morning over an intercom. The streets, the venders, they call my name. The papas don’t got mamas, and the hijos don’t got papas. Papa looks in the room, the empty cuarto. And my mother, her son, he died from cancer in his blood. Blood red eyes go with the water that is no good. I itch. The dust floats here.

I got on the bus this morning with 25 cents to ride across the city. And everyone honks here like it will dissipate the traffic. Trash thrown over every bridge like compost. Backpack in front, I will never forget that rule para protegir. My brother, mi hermano, protect me at the discoteque. They say technology saps life. Hardly believe it till you have none. Nothingness. All they drink is rum, like sweet, lethal rum. I can’t say I like it much. Dilute it with water. Soldiers, boys, dance, dance, dance. Soliders here carry machetes. All hail the Sandinistas. Make room, make way. There is a way that leads to death. Walk on. I am going to bed with dirty feet.

Las mujeras venden sus cuerpos. I work to find love. I labor to know goodness in this place. Children chained in the storefront like dogs. She never lets me take her picture. Age 7: sufferer of severe low self-esteem. Scarlette, don’t throw rocks at the small girls. They didn’t mean to steal. If someone tries to break in your window, bang back. Tamara hugs her mother on market day, the same mother that sold her. Shirli, age 9, asks me to pray for her father que es un alcoholismo. I am begging to find You here. And then, smells of smoke, soft like stars rise in the sky.

I cry much of the night.

Jesus lives w/ the Poor

Dated: March 10th

34 “Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’37 “Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’40 “The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ Matthew 25

The girls at the home all have lice and their faces are smeared with dust and grime. The first few weeks it was all I could do to pick one of them up. The red beans in their bowls and the fruit juice in their cups stains all of their clothes. I must be honest and upfront and tell you: I felt such an empty place in my heart for them. I didn’t feel love. The human part of me felt afraid and paranoid each time I took them in my arms. I wondered selfishly what I would do if I got lice down here without the luxury of driving to the store to buy lice shampoo. I worried about getting sick and not being able to get the medicine I needed. In an effort to protect myself, I was cautious and maintained a safe distance.

Because of these feelings, I began praying that God would impart a supernatural love to me, that He Himself would put a deposit of His love inside of me. I needed to feel my heart widen for them, for their hurt, for their desire to just be hugged and loved like a child. And then, I realized: in loving these girls, I am getting closer and closer to Jesus Himself. Yet, it is impossible for me to fully embrace the grace and the heart of Jesus without the aid of the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit gives us the awareness to sense and know the love that God has for His own. When we let the Holy Spirit come in, we are allowing our own spirits to connect with the heart of God. I think we, as humans, as believers, walk around with the crazy idea that we can extend a real form of love on our own. We try to love in our own strength by serving or giving gifts or telling our loved ones how much we care, and then, we feel worn out and spent by the end of it all. All of these things are very true and good things. However, I firmly believe that we must learn to love like Jesus did. He loved out of the outflow of love He had received from the Father. I want to know Jesus because I feel His love in my own individual soul. I want to sense that love when I brush my teeth in the morning, when I walk to class, when I listen to a good song. I want to be awakened to His love for me in every single moment of my life for that is what makes it worthwhile.

I want to know a love that reaches beyond my own limits, that operates out of gratitude and not obligation. When we connect to the Holy Spirit, we begin to sense the surpassing love that Jesus modeled for us by giving His own life for our welfare. I recall a time I was laying in my bed one night. It was 4oclock in the morning, and I began to pray that God would give me a better understanding of who Jesus is in my life, the reality of His life and His death as it relates to my own. I needed to feel and see the depths of what He did for me, Margaret Pearcy Fleming. Funny how I grew up learning about the sacrifice of Jesus, yet still felt a disconnect in my heart. I was lying there, and I had tears streaming down my face. And in my minds eye, I saw the image of a cut out, much like a body traced on roller paper. The body was covering me. The body was Jesus. From above, all that could be seen was the cut out, covering me. That’s what Jesus did. That’s what Jesus still does. He covers us like a cut out so that God, the Father, can look upon us and only see the good parts, the parts that look like Jesus. I will never forget that image.

Which brings me to tell you about this strange feeling I have been having, that maybe, just maybe, that’s how God is calling you and I to love people: to only see the parts that look like Jesus. To let the rest fade out of focus for a moment and begin to look upon a person as one who is divinely loved. What a miracle. There are these moments, when I look the little ones in the eye, and I begin to wonder if I am looking at Jesus. In that moment, I want to kiss them on the head and let them hang all over me. I want to feel tired with their love and feel their weight as they crawl all over my lap. I want to learn to love Jesus. Matthew 25 tells me that by extending my heart to these girls, I am opening my heart and home to the person of Jesus. To love Jesus means to feed the hungry, clothe the poor, and visit the sick. It means to lend freely to those that can give nothing in return. For when we experience the true sacrifice of who Jesus is in our lives, we want nothing more than to show it to everyone around us.

We love God because He first loved us. We love others because He first loved them.

Living w/ A Family

Dated: Feb 19

You should know that the family I am living with lost their oldest son just a few years ago. I have often heard that the grief of losing a child before a parent passes is the hardest kind. I can’t say I have ever known or seen that to be true, thankfully. However, last night I got a glimpse.

Marvin is his name. From what I gathered, he was the preferred son, the oldest, wearing the name of his father proudly. Every corner of the home serves as a shrine to his existence. His picture hangs over the singular computer in the house; his photo albums are spread all over the little, concrete walls. It took me a few weeks to gather enough details (in Spanish) as to what happened, but he died of cancer of the blood. In his last days, there are pictures of him in the hospital, bald and frail. The family invited me in to live, to eat, to walk, and to be a part of their home. I have a strange feeling that God has me here for a little bit more than that though. What emptiness they must feel after the loss of the eldest son. Marvin senior, the father, took me through 4 different CDs of photos of his son. As he did so, slow falling tears rolled down his rough face. Every single day, he faces the reality that his son, his Marvin, no longer lives here on earth with him. He cannot see, touch, or know him any longer. The only memories he has are the pictures, the digital moments of life and color. I cannot begin to imagine the pain he must feel, the intense longing he faces every single night he lays his head down on the pillow, or the questions he fears to ask God when he says his prayers.

To see a father cry twists something in your gut.

pensamientos, thus far

Managua: a crazy, third world ciity with lots of people honking, yelling, sweating, and pushing on the buses. Yes, this is true.

As of late, we have been in an intensive spanish course from 8-3 and i cant complain because 10 days is getting me 3 hours of 3000 level credit for my major. i am excited and ready to begin actual class, get on a schedule, and pour myself into writing and house of hope stuff. it has been grand so far but definitely an adjustment. its an underdeveloped country down here, pretty nuts. there are two other gals in my program, madison and stephanie. they are cool and super sweet, and i am praying God will give me heart connections. its been hard i wont lie, but i have been doing lots of reading, writing, praying, walking, and thinking down here. God is teaching me a lot, and I do feel like He is preparing me for my future, whatever that may entail. but i go to bed with dirty feet and depend on reusable water bottles and sleep with no covers and enjoy cold showers and eat ice cream off the street to satisfy my sweet tooth. an email is a connection that makes me heart happy, truly. and this i have realized: how blessed i am with the people in my life. truly, it is amazing and so rare and i am thankful. so thank you. all.

this morning, i woke up, sat down to breakfast with mi papa nica and realized i was looking at an aguacate tree. yes, a real life tree with big, dangling, green avocados hanging right over mi cuarto, any gals dream. pretty spectacular. i am learning to appreciate the small things in my life. truly. God is good, full of love for every single person that says YES to him. but we must say yes. i must say yes in every single moment of my day, every thought, challenge, joy, meal. yes Lord. Yes. because when i dont say yes, i forfeit grace. i am unable to trust and believe and receive fully.

House of Hope: The girls in the home are so hurt and their stories are so dark, but none the less, i must choose to believe that there is hope for them, a future and a blessing to prosper them and not to harm them, to use them to achieve a divine purpose in this world. i have to CHOOSE to believe this truth because at times, the world runs contrary to that reality. but God is not about the things seen. He dwells in the unseen. i choose to believe He is healing each of them, one by one, heart by heart for if i dont, i will fall into despair. i think i have been more convinced of Gods existence and presence after seeing the need and the darkness down here than in the places that are full of goodness. sorry it sounds awful. but i am being honest. it is very strange. for if darkness and evil exist, how much more so does the light? it blows my mind. the hurt opens the door for healing.

but lately, i am finding that i must fully commit myself to trust. i must live in the present. i must love what i love and take joy in the small things like cereal with sugar and coffee and avocado trees and the hummingbirds i spy outside my window. for now, i am taking it one day at a time. its crazy to think i will be here for 5 months. but again, i am here for a purpose and a design and i dont have to understand it fully. To all of us-- we are brave, we are surrounded on sides yet living in courage, we are strong in His holy might, we are deer on the heights people. a common misconception is that believers use God to cope with their lives, and that is what makes Him real to them. I completely disagree.for lack of a better word, that argument is absolute horse raddish. God is not a coping mechanism. Living a life that is committed to the Big man is far braver than not. a coward shrinks away. but we can no longer be cowards once we committ fully, we must be bold as lions, we must swim through the unknown, placing our confidence in His character: of steadfastness, love, peace, joy, goodness. He is good, he leads us to good places, a Shepherd of our Souls. if i dont believe that, i will sink. so, lets be brave. lets be content with uncertainty. lets choose to trust. together.

one last thought: these people are so different than us. an entire different culture, economic system, mindset, worldview, ideas of right and wrong, mentality, family style, food, art, music, language, the list goes on you get the point...what is the one thing connecting us?

LOVE. our humanity and His divinity. truly.

i apologize for no punctuation, spelling, grammar, or capitalization. yes, i am an english major believe it or not. its annoying the hail out of me but this program is all in spanish so it is impossible to spell check bahaha.

peace love and gallo pinto,

mpf

hope perches

"but God will never forget the needy; the hope of the afflicted will never perish. arise, Lord, do not let mortals triumph; let the nations be judged in your presence"

psalm 9:18-19

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all

-emily dickinson