Your Tax Deductible Year End Gift Can Change the Life of a Child......

Friends,

Here's hoping you had a wonderful Christmas and are looking forward to the new year!

A quick thank you to those who were involved in our Christmas Campaign! We also wanted to extend an invitation to consider our work as you are thinking of your year-end tax deductible gifts. As as we looked at the number of children and local leaders we have been honored to work with this year, we were humbled:

~ We have been involved in 6 teams in Uganda, Congo, Haiti, and Togo

~ Provided art therapy and our trauma workshop to over 600 war-affected children, former child soldiers, or those orphaned in Haiti.

~ By the end of this year, we will have supported or provided 4 trauma trainings to over 300 local

leaders on the ground.

~ In addition to providing art therapy workshops to the children, we also support weekly rehabilitation counseling by local leaders in our two partnering orphanages in Gulu, Uganda and Goma, Congo.

~ As a part of our advocacy work, we are proud to have walked with some wonderful teammates in Washington D.C. to bring the voices of these children to Congress as we saw the passing of the LRA Disarmament and Nothern Uganda Recovery Act that President Obama recently signed into law.

We could not have done this without you! As we go forward with our work in Action, Awareness, and Advocay, we would love to invite you to be a part of this. Our wish for them is not just to be survivors of war, but to watch God use their past pains to be the future leaders of peace for tomorrow. We believe in that. We believe in them. Watch our latest video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJ4HSnLf-P8. You may give gifts here http://www.exileinternational.org/sing (click on "One Time Donation")

Donations can also be mailed to: 5123 Virginia Way st b - 11 Brentwood, TN 37027.

Thankful for your support,

The eXile team

http://www.exileinternational.org/

~Feel free to pass this along to friends or re-post~

eXile international, inc is officially incorporated as a non-profit organization and is recognized by the IRS as a 501(c)(3) Corporation. All donations are 100% tax deductible.

It's Magic

"Dear God, help Santa to like his Christmas cookies and his milk, and help him not come into my room tonight and scare me." Julia's prayer after she had written her second or third note to him. And after I got a picture text from my brother displaying bowls of magic oats that Emma had set out for each reindeer. Yes - Nine of them. All personalized as to not have Dancer eating Dashers glistening late night snack. Tragedy that would be : )

It's Christmas Eve. The clock just struck midnight. So I guess that actually makes it Christmas Day. Snowflakes are falling. Little girls are sleeping. The house is totally quiet. And I am dreaming - but awake. Very awake. Alive. And Full.

........ of Magic.

I have felt it more this year than others. Even tried to understand it more. What is it about this time of year. Why so magical? Well - for some it honestly isn't magical at all. It's stress and pressure. Remembering lost loved ones. Longing for what one doesn't have. Wishing for what is not. Sometimes it doesn't feel quite like magic. But maybe it's still there somehow. I think it just means that maybe, in those times, we just feel it less.

But it's all around us. If we could just stop and see it. Anticipation. Hope. Life.

You see, It's not about a man with a beard. Or strange little guys with pointy ears. Or lists we are checking 2, 3 or even 7 times. Definitely not about half off sales and free shipping. Not even about white satan sashes or white paper packages tied up with string (though those are definitely a few of my favorites things- especially when Julie Andrews sings about them : ) No, I don't think it's that at all. I think it's about something much more. It's setting aside one time of year to get beyond ourselves - if we choose to. It's about stepping into the magic - if we want. Maybe it's about looking around us to see who is in need. As cheesy as it may sound: What if the magic was actually inside of us the whole time? What if we were the gift? Who in our own circles are lonely? Who is it in our own family that we truly need to extend forgiveness to. Not because they asked. Or because they deserve it. Or even because they are alive to receive it. But because it means living in Peace. Who is the one beside us every day who may just need someone to believe in them a little harder. Or maybe just to listen a little louder.

Living in Peace. P E A C E.

Outside of Redeemer. My favorite name for Jesus was the Prince of Peace. It captures me when I hear it. I search for Him. That Prince. Constantly in search of an inner peace in the midst of an unstable world.

Loving the unlovable. Seeing beauty in the broken. Hoping for the hopeless. Extending blessings to the needy. Looking around and seeing the anticipation of what is to come. That doesn't have to be a gift under the tree. Maybe that's just the gift of the Hope of God's plan for our lives. His divine plan. A plan that works all things together for good and allowing ourselves to get excited about that, rather than fearful. And in the midst of it.....

Looking at Christmas through a child's heart

Waiting on a man in a flying sleigh to do the unthinkable. Believing in him to do the unimaginable. To bring us gifts from around the world because he remembered us. Because he thought of us. Of little us. I believe that's the thought in every little girl and boy tonight. "Me?" "You mean I am important enough that he would come to Me?" "Out of all the boys and girls in the world - he would come and bring me gifts?"

Sounds a lot like a man who did something rather similar - but in a much more magical way. With a divine purpose. And an even deeper unfathomable love with gifts granting golden and forever wishes. More magical than glistening glitter filled oats for flying reindeer. More magical than flying in the sky on a sled. Yeah. The most precious thought to me is that it began with newness. It began at the beginning. A birth. A newness. A Living. Breathing. Hope.

So on this early Christmas Morn. My wish for you is nothing less than that. To be able to look at today with eyes of newness, hope, peace, and love. To see the magic of giving that is surrounding us and the newness that is on the other side of the New Year. Blessings of Love and Kindness on this Mass of Christ with hopes of extending forgiveness, receiving grace, and living in the magic of the anticipation of Hope. From my heart to yours....

His, b

B E L I E V E

There is Magic in the spirit of Christmas.

The A n t i c i p a t i o n of the opening of "The Gift". The unspoken breeze of Kindnessin the air. The child-like F a i t hin something wonderful and mystical and, yes, magical.The spirit of Believing comes to life.

Believing in what some would say isunbelievable. Not because it makes sense all the time. But because simply allowing yourself to believe means coming to Life a bit.

.B E L I E V I N G.

.It is sorely underestimated.

Something drastically changes in a person's heart when someone believes in them. Just those words. Those

Four

simple

words.

"I believe in you"

......creates a spark in the soul. With it can come a newness of living.......

NEVER underestimate the power of believing in someone. And NEVER forget that God is the ultimate Believer. in. you.

Regardless of what has been done. He desperately believes in you.

____________________________

.This is what we tell the children we work with through eXile international

Children

who have lived in W A R all of their lives.

Children who were taken from their homes and made to become rebel soldiers.

Children who were forced to kill after being abducted.

These children are BIGGERthan orphans. They are more than sex slaves. They are kinder than the killers they were forced to become. They are larger than their past.

These Children are

beautiful and

strong and

resilient.

But they need someone to

b e l i e v e

in them.

W i l l y o u ?

http://www.exileinternational.org/t-shirt.html

The purchase of a b e l i e v e t-shirt for only $15 buys two t-shirts! It supports eXile international's work AND we will bring a 2nd "believe T" to one of the children we will be working with on our upcoming trip to Congo as a symbol of hope.

WHY? Because we Believe in them and God Believes in you and by Believing..........we have Hope.

b e l i e v e

http://www.exileinternational.org/t-shirt.html

You may also donate to our work here: http://www.exileinternational.org

...we want you to be our father."

I have a confession. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be Little Orphan Annie. I went around my house dancing and spinning with my arms outstretched singing about the sun coming out tomorrow and dreaming of having red curls. To be honest, I kinda still do that sometimes. And then there was Anne of Greene Gables. Again, red hair. She was spunky and bold and viewed life through the lens of a hopeless romantic mixed with an idealistic dreamer. She saw the good in everything and had a Fight in her that weighed more than she did soaking wet. And she was an orphan. Hearing about an orphanage that our church sponsored a few hours away was the closest I came to hearing about orphans. Or even understanding them. I was raised in the country roads of Kentucky where things were safe, and warm, and people knew each other. And there weren't such things as real live orphans.

Until I grew up.

The first orphanage I visited was in Haiti. I had already been to Africa twice - but not to an orphanage. Not until Haiti. It was a strange feeling for so many children to be lined against the wall in small rooms with so few to love them. Crib after crib. Baby after baby. Almost like a hospital. Except this wasn't a hospital. This was their home. One room was for the infants. One room was for the 2 years olds. One room was for the 3 years olds. But it wasn't until they could walk that they went outside. With so few caregivers per child, one on one attention was scarce. Touches were even scarcer. I have always said that everyone needs someone. Some. ONE. who thinks they are the greatest thing ever. These children just needed someone to think of them. Period.

It was a few years before I visited another orphanage. Not until Congo. Before we could get out of the van, the girls began running to us. As if we were their long lost mothers. As if they already knew us. They didn't know us at all. But they knew we would love them. That's what they knew. That's what they wanted. Needed. The highlight of that day was teaching some of the girls not only to blow bubbles, but to chase them. To dance in them. The low point? Going to the next orphanage. All boys. Right before I left, there were three boys who came up to me. One pointed to the other

"He is a child solider" I looked at him. His eyes were harsh.

"I am his brother" I looked at this young boy. He had a way about him. His English was better than the rest, but not very good. He was charming - but afraid. The three pulled me off to the side. Stammering, the child soldier's brother began to explain that they were orphaned. That they needed food. The older boys (one his brother), kept stopping him mid sentence. Pushing him at one point. "No - you are doing it wrong" The younger brother kept looking up and kept looking down.

"We want you.... we want you.... to be our..... father. To be our father."

Blank Stare. Me. Them.

"No, you are doing it wrong!" His brother said.

Frantic to make everything ok. Just for that one moment. "No, it's ok" I said. "He's doing fine. It's ok "

I finally understood. The younger brother was the spokesperson for the older two. His job was to try to convince me to take them back. To take them. To be their mother. It was like they had rehearsed it for just the right moment. For such a time as this. And they felt he was messing it up. I couldn't stop thinking: "They asked me to be their mother"

What do you do with that? What do you do when one child solider and his younger brother and their friend who have been orphaned from war asks you to be their "father". Wanting to ask you to be their "mother" - but not knowing the right word to use. What do you say to a group of orphans when the only reason they are orphaned at all is because they were forced to kill their own parents? What category do you put that in your head? In your heart? There is none.

There are things I wonder. Thoughts that go through my mind. One of which is why God mentions taking care of the orphans and widows over 40 times in the bible. Why are orphans His heartcry? So many who are wounded in the world. So much pain. But why those who have been orphaned? Why? Because they are the most alone. They are the most easily forgotten. They feel the deepest sense of emptiness. No one to protect or lean into. What does it feel like? To be orphaned? Can you put a name to the feeling of belonging to no one? Can words even begin to describe the feeling of being lost? But they do belong to someone. They do belong. They belong to you and to me and to God. And if they belong to God, then they belong to all of us.

I looked at them and the van was leaving. The team was yelling at me to come. I was caught in the middle of two worlds. I gathered them together. Put my hand on their heads and prayed for them. And then.....

I left.

I left.

And they were left - alone. For that reason, and so many others, I went back to Congo. And I will go back again. Every child should belong to someone. Even if it is a house mother of 14 children in a village home. They should belong.

We should all belong. Somewhere. To Someone.

So do you want to hear the redemption in this story? These are the orphanages that eXile has been able to work with in Congo since this first trip. Supporting a wonderful Congolese counselor to lead them in art and expressive therapy each week. I have met these boys again. They are happy. They are fed. They are amazing musicians and love to sing. We went last January and washed their feet and gave them new shoes and told they how much we believed in them. How much God believed in them. And these three...... well, these three have a special place in my heart. Redemption is amazing.

They belong. They are Somewhere. They are Someone. They are NOT the least of these. They are the greatest among children, because they have survived. They need a mother and a father - but until and if that happens, they are loved.

Father God,

Tonight, I just thank you for being a Father to the Fatherless. But deeper than that, I ask that they feel you. That tonight - they know you as their Father. That they rest in knowing that there are so many around the world who are loving them. Believing in them. Praying for them. Help them - just tonight - not to feel alone. Thankful that we are and always will be

Yours, b

She was there. He was beside her.

She was there. He was beside her. Side by side in their wheelchairs pushed up close to the edge of the pond at Centennial park. I took a second look as I ran past them on my late night run underneath the moon. It was a strange sight- especially with it being so very late.....but stranger still was the fact that they were Fishing. Yes, Fishing. Poles in hand - side by side. Catching anything? Nope. Let's be honest, if they were to get a bite, the fish would be pulling THEM in : ) So what were they doing? What in the world were they doing there at 9 p.m. at night in their wheelchairs and their fishing poles?

Being with each other. Just being with each other.

Companions. Friends. Partners. Fishing Buddies.

I have been in thought lately about love: What is it? How do you sustain it? What is the "secret?" I have learned that maybe the secret is not merely to love - but it is to LEARN to love WELL. I think that amazing relationships come when women learn to love and understand men well, and men learn to love and understand women well and when we all do so in the image of the author and perfecter of love......which basically means that true love in its purest form is a golden opportunity to die to self, swallow pride, and to give out of a place of "the sacrifice of the will". When that happens, power struggles begin to lose their grip and what is best for the relationship overrides what is desired at the moment.There is something about a marriage that gives you a unique opportunity to love in the most unselfish and sacrificial way possible. It is truly more precious to be happy than to be right.

And maybe loving isn't about finding someone who makes you feel more loved, complete, or happy. If that were true, then what happens when they stop making you feel loved, complete, or happy? Maybe God's purpose of marriage was much more about finding a partner - a teammate - to serve Him WITH instead of clinging to someone who fills you UP. Maybe it's less about looking AT the other person and looking FOR the cork. Yes, I said the cork (or bobbers for those of you not raised in the country). Stay with me.....

Those two wheelchair fishing buddies - I never saw their faces. Never heard their words. But I have kept that image in my mind, and it has spoken much wisdom to me. This is what I have heard. Watch the cork. The purpose of marriage is to find your best friend to serve with, love with, learn from, and fish with.....with the goal of looking outward to the horizon to see how God can use your coupleship to serve Him, His children, or your children. It is not to look to each other for completion or security. Maybe it's to sit beside each other on late moonlit nights, walk beside each other, run along side each other in the loudest of cheers, or sometimes to simply stay beside each other......loving.......serving.....watching the cork. Looking TOWARD His plans for you as a ministry team, instead of looking TO each other for happiness.

Being on both sides of the marriage fence, I certainly don't have all the answers. I have lived and I have learned and I have seen......an elderly couple sitting beside each other in their wheelchairs fishing under the moonlight, and somehow in this world of division - they have given me hope : )

Remembering Haiti...... And One Crayon. And One Little Girl. And One Earthquake.

We were standing in front of at least 100 children. They were sitting on rocky and dry ground in a tent camp under a summer sun with a heat index of 115 degrees. They were dirty and hungry and wounded. We were totally surrounded with what seemed to be 1000 people at one point. I was having to practically scream so they could all hear me because it was so loud. Telling them how strong they were. How I was in Congo when I heard about the earthquake. I heard about them singing and dancing in the streets. How they had taught the rest of the world about hope and survival. Telling them how God was actually the closest to them at the very moment they felt their deepest abandonment. As if I knew first hand. As if I really had the right to be telling them that at all.

We had just given the children paper to draw their heartaches and stories of the earthquake.... inviting them to draw God in the middle of that heartache to remind them that God was with them. Starting to hand out the crayons one by one, it quickly became a mob of little Haitian hands surrounding us. Poking us. Prodding us. Louder and Closer and Pushing and Shoving and beginning to Yell. For what?

For One Crayon.

We were handing them out as quickly as we could and they were grabbing them even quicker. All I could feel were little fingers all around me.

"Blanche! Blanche!" ("white person. white person")

Sweet fingers poking harder at every inch of me they could find. Mother's shoving their children closer and closer to me. My heart racing faster. The sun beater harder. Space to even move become scarce. Almost falling over at one point. Louder and louder.

Poke. Prod. Shove.

Handing out crayons as fast we we could move. One prod. One poke was more intense than the others. Poke. Prod. Poke. Irritating, actually. Fed up - I looked down.

It wasn't a hand asking to receive a crayon at all. It was the first hand practically begging me to take what was in it. A picture. Of her heartache. I looked in her eyes. The hundreds of people faded away at that one moment, and I took her gift to me. She was smiling. So much.

As if it were normal. As if it were just a part of life. It is.

Her drawing? Her mother lying down dead after the earthquake and what seems to be a spirit or an angel in the room. She wanted to show me. Desperately show me. And soon there were more. Giving out crayons quickly gave way to grasping drawings as quickly as possible. They wanted to give us their drawings of their heartaches as much or more as they wanted a crayon.

One crayon. One heartache. One day. One earthquake.

Hundreds of broken Haitian hearts resulting in a flood of forced Hope that most of us would have stopped searching for. But not them.

"Many have come to God from the earthquake. Out of their suffering they have found Wisdom. They have found Hope...."

I keep that drawing with me. In my calendar. Sometimes I run my fingers over it just to be as close as I can be to that day. So I will never forget. So I will never stop learning from children who have suffered. As long as I live. As long as I breathe. Brings me back to this:

"And I will run from a Wisdom that does not Weep. Philosophy that does not Laugh. And a Greatness that does not bow before children" – Gibran

Blood On My Hands.....

There are small things I have learned to love in this life of mine. Like how the shadow of my pen prances in the sunlight on the page when I write these words. Like how the denseness of the morning air causes a heaviness on the pages of my journal and how the ink seems to seep into the pages a little deeper. How the eyes of an old grey man who has lost his luster begin to dance when you ask him of his very favorite memory. How a small child can get lost in your eyes as you tell them a magical story that really isn't magical at all, but becomes full of whimsey and wonderment simply because it's something they've never heard before. Why? Because they are able to dream and imagine like we simply cannot. Story becomes Life.

Life.

I have said recently that my soul is weary. Feeling as if I have soaked in so much of the worlds suffering over the past few years that I am left to look into it deeply. Almost as if it is blood on my hands with God whispering over my shoulder "What are you to do with it" Should I wash it off because it makes me weep? Should I wipe my hands because I am uncomfortable or because of how others may judge me? Should I pretend it isn't there because I don't know what to do with it or how to make it go away? No, I should not. And I will not. Sitting with the worlds most wounded souls, crying with them, hearing of their pain. I think I soak it in deeper than the average person. Like I am feeling it with them sometimes. I am almost daily a bit burdened by the pull to write down all of the stories along my journey. There are simply too many. Trapped inside of my heart and dancing inside of my mind. I need to tell them. They need to be told. And today I stopped to think of my own path.

How my own steps and story of woundedness walked me into theirs. Into their stories.

It is no accident. I believe.... When your greatest heartache becomes your greatest ministry then Grace comes full circle.Recently being forced to look a bit of my own darkness in the eye - I have come. Full Circle. And I have realized I am a walking testimony of His redemption. If you were to look into my soul it would be a wonderous, colorful mirage. Not of my own doing or creation. But of a once torn spirit of darkness begging for redemption, light, and understanding.

A past suffocating breath being given new life..... and still, often, gasping. A mirage of my own spirit's brokenness knitted together by the threads of the stories of others and the Ultimate story of a healing savior and a merciful God.

I am not my own.

I love rock climbing. Love the thrill of the height and the chase of the mountain. There is nothing quite like climbing up the side of a Rocky Mountain, having to be so present in the moment to reach the top, finally getting there and looking down to only ask yourself this question:

"How exactly did I do that? How did I get here?"

In his book "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years" Donald Miller talks about his friend, Bob, who wrote down everything he remembered. He says that he "captures memories, because if he forgets them, it's as though they didn't happen." I read that and I realized simply this:

The memories in my mind of the world's broken. The steps along my path into the stories of The Redeemed Suffering. The scars on my heart and on the hearts of others that I have been so honored to touch and feel and kiss with the lips of a Savior - are not my own at all. No matter what the story is - your story, their story, my story. The ending is Beautiful because the ending is Redemption.

"I want you to leave your heart here. Take ours with you." This great pastor from Congo. He and his family had been forced to run into exile. He had lost many of his loved ones in the wars. His Life - his Story - spoke of strength and his soft and gentle disposition spoke of Hope. A gentleness like I have rarely seen. Our last night with them he said this: "The bible tells us... 'Now that you have seen, go and tell' I ask of all of you '... now that you have seen, go and tell."

Go And Tell

What good is a Story that is not told? What good is a Life that is not learned from? What Beauty is seen from a Life's story of Wisdom when it is told for generations to come?

So I sit here in my favorite restaurant in my favorite Tennessee hide away with tears falling down my cheeks and songs of Redemption in my ears. After spending the day telling about these chidlren's storeis time and time and time again. And my heart says this....

We Live our Stories so they can be told. It is when we see into the Scars of others and hear their stories of the Pain behind them that we step into their Story as well. And when we begin to love them - simply Love them - we begin to step into the story of Redemption. Not of our own strength.... but of the heart and soul of a Crucified Creator whose Suffering branded us to Him for eternity. That is what makes the ending of all Suffering beautiful.

That is what makes Survival worth it.

"....there is a force in this world that does not want us to tell (our) stories. It doesn't want us to face our issues, to face our fear, and bring something beautiful into the world.... I believe God wants us to create beautiful stories.... I don't know why there are dark forces in the world, but there are" - Donald Miller

And because there are, I will go. And I will tell. One. Story. At. A. Time. As they come to me. With no particular rhyme or reason. Because they are beautiful and honoring and they need to be told.

If these Strong Souls can live through them, how can I keep from telling them?