Innocent

I was sitting at Hotel Rwanda just yesterday. Yes - the One. Sitting with Jen, Adria, and Helge before my flight out of the country. Sitting in the sun. Sitting in anticipation of what is to come. Sitting in thought of what came to pass. It's been a long month - a good month. And somehow, unexpectedly, the ending brought me here. Hotel Rwanda. More amazing than that was what happened in the hour to follow..... I'm still kinda in shock

Sitting there, I started thinking about beginning this month with the crew from Visitng Orphans. Getting to see my kindred spirit, Katie Davis, in her home with her 14 beautiful girls! Hearing the story of saving her new daughter from dying in a trash pile where Katie found her.  I cannot wait to see the plans God has for this little life!! Someone's trash - Another's treasure. She IS a treasure! So is her momma : ) My mind goes back to Pastor Isaac at Cannan's Childrens Home. It was the day before using the art therapy program with the orphans there. He was telling me of a baby girl they had received from Gulu. She was found nursing on her mother's dead body. She had been shot by the rebels. She is safe now - a treasure.

My mind jumps to the ride to Gulu with Amanda Clark Lawrence, Britt Nicole, and Jake Birdwell. Three of my favorite people. We had no idea what that week would hold. Times of singing, dancing, and even crying with the children as some of them shared their worst memories they had drawn on handkerchiefs. Brave they were. Amazing to see them dance and sing after knowing so many had been abducted, forced to kill or watch family members be killed. It's amazing what Love can do - Love and Time and God

"Sometimes they draw out their pain...sometimes they cry it out. Sometimes they dance it out." Rose. Sweet Rose. Her work with these children is patient and loving and gentle and kind. They are all testimonies to the other side of trauma. Beauty from the Broken.

Sitting in the sun at the table by the pool at Hotel Rwanda. Soaking in the warmth as muc

h as I am soaking in the memories. Memories of interviews from child soldier rehabilitation centers about how to best help these children, memories of wise men of old talking about peace and reconcilitation following war, of children describing what life was like when it was at it's worst. Memories. So many. Some are a bit haunting. Most are not. This trip was different - especially Congo. This time it was about finding hope. It was about looking past the pain into the eyes of a God who is bigger than their nightmares. It was about bringing Light in the midst of Darkness - and lighting a spark that we hope to continue to fuel for years to come. My ride had come. Time to go. Hugs to the crew. Prayers of thankfulness, and off I go in the taxi. 

So I have this thing about starting random converations with random people that I don't know. I just start talking to them...kinda like I know them. But I don't. Not yet. I have found the coolest conversations to come out of talks with taxi cab drivers. To be honest, I think Jesus ha

s shown himself in African taxi cab drivers more than almost anyone else I can think of. Not kidding. This time was no different. We talked about where he was from, how he moved to Rwanda from Congo after his parents "ran from the wars", why he thinks there is so much fighting in Congo and then......

The Genocide.

"You know in Rwanda - we were once two: Hutu and Tutsis. We were two people, but now we are One. The people of Congo.... they are many. They are not One.

"The Genocide. It seems to be a topic that many do not wish to talk about. My experience has been that when you talk about it, there is often a tense silence for a split second. Maybe because there is so much pain underneath. Maybe because they just want to forget.

""How old were you?" I asked hesitantly. I mean, I had just met him....but somehow it seemed ok to ask.

"I was 13 years old" His face become very serious. We were at the ariport now. "It was bad. It was very bad. Never again. Never Never Never again."

"I am so sorry. I can't imagine. I can't imagine what that must have been like. I hear so much about forgiveness in Rwanda. I don't understand how the people have learned to forgive each other. How can you forgive after such killings?"

"Yes. Yes - we forgive." He said. His eyes actually started to light up a bit. "But how?" I asked.

"We must. If we don't - it will just continue. There will be no peace. The killing and the fighting will go and go. The Peace will not come. We must Forgive."

Still trying to understand. Asking more questions. Getting more answers. He said, "If you kill my mother and you come to me and say 'I have killed your mother' and you ask forgiveness. Then I must forgive you. We sit together. We must do this so we can be a new country. So it will never happen again."

If he said that once, he said it 20 times. He talked of the need to confess your wrongs. He talked of the need to ask for forgiveness. To "judge ourselves." He talked of "Gacaca." A term I had heard before, but never really understood. The goal: Reconciliation. 

Around a million killed in 100 days. A country slaughtering itself - and the goal is reconcilation? Seems absurd. It is. As is Grace. Makes no sense - but I guess that's what makes it so amazing.

"I believe we can learn from you. I believe that the rest of the world can learn how to forgive from Rwanda. If the people of Rwanda can forgive and become ONE after such killing - I believe we all can learn to Forgive. To Forgive ourselves and others."

He smiled brightly. As if he were being honored. He was.....and so was his country. We were at the end of the conversation and the end of the time I had. Although I could have talked to him for hours. I asked for his email address so I might write to him and learn more. Then I had the realization that often comes at the end of conversations with strangers. I had failed to ask his name.

"I'm sorry....what was your name?"

He answered as if he did not make the connection at all. Like it was just a name.

"My name is Innocent."

"I stood still. Looking at him.......as if looking into the eyes of someone else. A moment of wondering. Are you? Are you God in the form of a taxidriver? But he was more than a taxi driver. He was a survivor. He was a living breathing testimony. What had he seen at 13? Had he run? Had he hid? Had he killed? At that moment - it didn't mattter. 

At that moment, I saw the country of Rwanda as a million pieces being put back together. I saw them as one. I saw them as a tiny African country once overflowing with blood, now a nation covered in grace.

Amazing.

Grace.

Giant Stones in Tiny Hands

Things here seem to be triple in size. The massive loads of charcoal that I have seen on the backs of the women in Congo seem to be three times the size of other places in Africa. But it’s more than that. They don’t just carry them around on their backs or on top of their heads. They are carried by a single strip of cloth around their forehead. Hard to describe.

I passed a little girl a few days ago with around 25 empty Jerry Cans surrounding her little body. They were tied around her waist, around her head, and hanging from her arms. On the way “home” today I saw a man on the back of a bike balancing two mattresses on his head. That doesn’t even include the slaughtered cow that we see practically every morning being pushed on a bike up the hill. Part of that is just Africa. Yet it’s more than that, but hard to describe. There is a feeling here of total lack of boundaries. Loss of the line. It is as if the people of Congo know nothing except pushing through. The size of the load they can carry stops only when they can’t walk any longer.

The point where they stop fighting to live ceases when they die.

This place has been deemed one of the worst places to exist – yet the suicide rate is one of the lowest in the world. Dying is what they fight AGAINST. Why would they do it voluntarily?

I have understood this before, but yesterday it seemed to hit me at a deeper level. I realized -- It’s the size. A country the size of Western Europe holds the greatest size of wealth of minerals per capita surrounding one of the highest percentages of rapes and child soldiers. It’s massive in every way.

The lack of structure, the chaotic feel, the darkness. As you drive down the roads that are caked in lava rock, you notice that they are as broken as the people. But they are not broken. Not really. Although, I don’t know if you would be able to tell it by the size of the burden stones the girls chose for our final expressive therapy session with them yesterday.

We asked each girl to get a stone and carry it back inside the room. The stones represent the burdens of their life – the pain, the anger, the unforgiveness. These girls ….. These girls have burdens. But they also have joy. We talked about how heavy it is to carry around our burdens, and how wonderful it is to release them. We talked about the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem. How they grieved before the Lord. How the Volcanic Rock Wall surrounding the center reminded me of the wall. We chose a secluded space at the Dina Center where the girls could go and lay down their burdens.

There are over 100 girls. Almost all are victims of sexual violence. Ranging from ages 3 – 17. Washing the tiny feet yesterday made it real for all of us.

I have done this before. Many times, actually. But never have I seen children grab stones of this size. Never. I was taken back, actually. They weren’t even stones, they seemed like small boulders! They all could have chosen small stones. Small stones are all over the place. But they didn’t. They chose Giant Stones. They matched the size of their country and the size of the corrupted wealth and the size of the volcano and the size of the violence and they size of their heartaches and the size of their strength.

So we took our stones, and we prayed, and we walked to the lay them down before the Lord - One. At. A. Time. Giant stones in Tiny Hands. And then……….

They Sang. Before we left, I looked down to see a little girl who three days ago was withdrawn and empty. She was smiling as she watched they boys sing and play the drum. But it wasn’t just any smile.

It was Giant : )

Scars On My Heart

I washed the feet of a former child soldier today. They were scarred and scraped and dirty and beautiful. In every way. Beautiful because of the story they told. Not a story of hopelessness. Not a story of pity. They told the story of strength. They told the story of newness…

“What is your name?”

His feet were the worst I had seen. If they could tell his story…

“Paul. My name is Paul.” A huge smile covered his face when he brightened up – and a look of solemn intimidation when he didn’t.

When we wash the feet of the children, I always try to look into their eyes to ask them their names. They are more than just feet and faces. They are spirits and eyes and hearts and souls. They are children.

But they are not…. Children.

“Many of the child soldiers have never known how to be a child because they were taught to be an animal. I try to teach them how to play. They need to know how to play….” Helge said. Helge is one of the directors of the Dina Foundation who supports the care of thousands of war-affected children in Congo.

One of the boys said to him:

"You treat me like I am a child. I am not a child. I have cut off the head of a man. I have held his heart in my hands. I am not a child.’

But they are… Children.

Jennifer Allen, Adria Haley, and I implemented the workshop program with the boys at Bethsaida Center a few days ago. It was by far the most difficult workshop I have done. Translation was difficult, and transference was even harder. At times it felt as if they understood the message I was trying to give them. At other times, it felt like I was hitting my head against a wall. A volcanic wall to be exact.

….Paul. Of course your name is Paul. I smiled with him. Washing his feet. They were the largest of the 32 boys’ feet we had washed. They were the largest and they were, by far, the most scarred.

Before church we met with them and asked them what they remembered from our time with them. Thinking we would get blank looks. Thinking they got little. Thinking the older boys who seemed the most distant certainly would not answer, but they raised hand after hand. Well, actually, it was Paul who was eager to answer all of the questions. Eager. So Eager.

“Peace.”

“God will not leave us.”

“The boy who was blind…..” (which is a story I tell them).

I went on to remind them that even though God may seem very far away during our suffering – it is actually then that he is the closest. I told them that today was a day of renewal. Of washing away the old and allowing God to bring them newness from their pain. Adria read the story of Jesus washing the disciples feet. Jen prayed for the, And one by one we washed their feet. As I dried their feet, I prayed a prayer for each of them.

Then came Paul. Drying his feet, I knew that if his scars could tell stories or give me a vision of the past, I would be have to close my eyes. Yet his smile was eager.

“My name is Paul”

Of course it is……. A man whose past was persecuting others – but whose present became a testimony of God turning Evil into Good.

“You will be a great leader for your people. You are a great man of God and He will use you in great ways. Do you know that?”

I looked deeply into his eyes because I wanted him to know that. To KNOW that!

“Yes,” he said.

I said a prayer, and he was off with his new shoes. Smiling.

From this trip, my heart has been seared. Scarred, really. But I welcome them. I welcome every scar. From them I will be a voice for these wounded hearts – as will Jen, Adria, Britt, Jake, and Amanda. We have all been changed.

"Out of suffering has emerged the strongest of souls. Our Scars are a pathway to Peace…..”

Not Just My Feet...

For the most part, I am strong – but I am not afraid of crying. If you know me well – you know that. Somehow I keep it together when hearing stories, when sitting across from a wounded spirit in my office, when being in the midst of pain in Africa. In the middle of working with young and old who have been the victims of war, Jake and I filmed and researched and asked questions and pondered and listened. And listened. And listened some more.

 We heard stories of children being taken from their homes at night by rebel leaders, forced to torture their own siblings, childhoods being stolen away. We heard stories of intense pain. We heard stories of great strength. We heard stories of unthinkable forgiveness. God was truly in the middle of their greatest pain.

 “How can they not blame God for the suffering they have encountered” I asked. 

The answer: “They do not blame God for being abducted. They praise Him for allowing them to be set free.”

 We were interviewing Rose who runs our partnering orphanage in Uganda – Village of Hope Uganda. She was a counselor at the World Vision trauma center for those children who were formerly abducted or former child soldiers. She has slept with the children in the streets. She has run from the rebels when she was a little girl. She has wept with them and cared for them and loved them well.

 And then there was Richard. Richard used to work for GUSCO, an organization that works at rehabilitating these children after they return from the bush. I asked questions and I listened and I learned. More than I wanted to.

 “What happens after the rebels abduct them? How soon after they are abducted are they forced to kill again?”

 “They are often forced to walk to a training camp to Sudan for days. That is where they were trained to fight. They are forced to walk barefoot. Sometimes carrying the bodies of the family members they were forced to kill. Or their body parts. If they stop walking, they die.”

 Then he said this…. “Sometimes their feet get so wounded that the flesh becomes infected. But they must keep walking” 

I felt the tears begin to swell up. I knew if I started to cry that he would stop talking. He would know he had struck a cord and, out of politeness, he would stop. He did strike a cord. One deep in my heart. Why?

 A few months ago, we got a donation of THOUSANDS of shoes from The Standard Restaurant in Nashville. It was unexpected, but perfect. What a wonderful way to begin meeting part of their physical needs!! Then the idea came of washing their feet! Of course! We could talk to them about Jesus washing the disciples feet. Then wash their feet before giving them the shoes. What a wonderful way to symbolize a new beginning for them. Washing away of pain and sorrows. Maybe even encourage them to do a drama about it…..”

 I sat there listening to Richard realizing that this whole shoe donation and idea about washing their feet was not my idea at all – it was God’s idea to wash the feet of HIS children. He just used our hands to do it : )We were honored to do so.

He knew. He knew how many scars we would find on their feet when we were washing them. He knew tears would come as we looked into their eyes -  one by one -  to tell them how much God loves them. How much He believes in them. How great the plans are for their lives. He knew because He was there. He was there when they were in the bush, walking mile after mile under horrible conditions and with horrific memories running through their heads. He was there beside us, smiling as we were washing and rinsing and drying and placing new shoes on wounded feet.

 He knew that one day there would be a group to get a donation of thousands of shoes that would tell His children of the newness that Jesus can bring. He knew we would wash their feet as a full expression of our love.

 He knew that I would look into the eyes of my sweet Ugandan sponsored son who was forced to kill his parents in unheard of ways and to tell him I loved him and was proud of him. He knew we would both start crying as we looked at each other. That moment. That one…..I will never forget.

 “No” Peter protested, “You will never wash my feet!”

Jesus Replied, “But if I don’t wash your feet, you will never belong to me.”

Simon Peter exclaimed, “Then wash my hands and head as well, Lord,

 Not Just My Feet.”  

Chain Around My Heart

What does a heart breaking sound like? What about the sounds of a spirit so overwhelmed with awe that it seems to be rushing like a waterfall? I wonder. I wonder these things. I also wonder to what detail I should share these stories. How much is too much for others to hear or read? I figure if these children have experienced it, how can we not listen? Cry with them. Hold their hand. Pray with them. Sometimes I think I have heard the pain so vividly that I am de-sensitized to it – but not really. Not at all.

 Sitting down for the first time to blog since Jan 1 of this trip. Not sure where to begin. I have a chain around my heart – and my arm : ) As I write, I look down at my right wrist. I can’t stop looking at it.  It was given to me by the most broken and bravest boy I know. He was abducted by the LRA around the age of nine. He was forced by the soldiers of Joseph Kony to kill his parents after he was abducted. It does not stop there. He was forced to hack them into pieces. It does not stop there…….but for the sake of mindfulness, I will stop there.

 He rarely smiles. He is often found off from the group of other orphans. He is tall, and he is strong. He is the most broken, yet the bravest boy I know. He speaks little English, and he rarely looks you in the eye. But he gave me the greatest gift I have ever been given, and he cried when I washed his feet. I cried too. 

 

Britt, Amanda, Jake, and I spent three nights with the children of Village of Hope Uganda - and what seemed to be 10 days. Most of these children were formerly abducted - having either watched their parents be killed or forced to kill their parents. We prayed with them, sang with them, and cried with them. The heaviest day was when we did the workshop program with them. We gave them all handkerchiefs. I told them that handkerchiefs catch our tears  - just like God catches our tears in his bottle. We have happy tears. We have sad tears. But on these handkerchiefs, we were going to draw. And draw they did. They drew their Heartache on one and their Hope on another. 

 But this brave boy that I have grown to love not only drew, but he and his brother were brave enough to share their stories with the group. They shared and they cried. They cried so much that the stories drawn on their handkerchiefs with marker, blended with their tears and became, in many ways, a rainbow of pain and hope and healing on cloth. Beautiful and tragic and intensely healing, I think.

 So, about the chain:

 After the day ended, I was walking back to the hut and felt something on my arm. I turned to my right to see the most broken and the bravest boy I know placing something around my wrist. In a flash it was there. Almost as if he didn’t put it on there at all. He then started walking beside me. I smiled and he smiled and I grabbed his hand. What did he put on my arm?

 A chain. A thick chain link to be exact. A silver chain link that fits perfectly on my wrist.  A silver chain link that has no beginning and has no end and has no clasp at all. I keep looking at it trying to find an opening. How did he get it on my wrist so quickly? My question is this: How did he get it on my wrist at all? But it is. On my wrist. Somehow, miraculously on my wrist. No beginning. No End. With no way to really get it off except to cut it off. Not that I was planning on taking it off. At least not in this lifetime…

 __________________________________________________

 Our time with the children from our partnering orphanage, Village of Hope Uganda, was pretty much amazing. There are around 400 children that Village of Hope works with in displacement camps throughout Gulu. Almost all of the children are formerly abducted or former child soldiers. Many have either been forced to kill their parents or forced to watch. Why? Why abduct children? Why does the LRA use such horrific tactics? Having them kill their parents is mild compared to the details that follow. But the questions remains…..why? The answer: The topic for another blog.

 Our time with the children was on the land where their new home will be. Cindy Cunningham and her team are building four new homes to transfer the children from the displacement camps to a self-sustaining “village” about an hour outside of Gulu. She wanted them to be far away from the memories. As far as they could be. The financial support we give them by selling the beads the children make helps with psychosocial rehabilitation, dance therapy, music therapy, bible study, as well as in meeting their basic needs of food, water, and education. One of their homes is being built completely by the funds from the profits of the beads. You can buy a necklace here: 

They are beautiful. Just like the children who make them : )

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 Kindness in the air. The child-like F a i t h in something wonderful and mystical and, yes, magical. The spirit of Believing comes to life.

Believing in what some would say is unbelievable. 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 BIGGER than 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

Asante Baba

I am humbled often. I need to be. He knows that. The most recent humility began last night in a country church in Hazel, Kentucky surrounded by 11 Wednesday night attendees. It ended by a recollection of 200 displaced, praying, weeping Congolese women on a concrete floor. Beneath a cross. Stones in hand..... and a phrase I heard over and over in their prayers. 

"Asante Baba" 

Translated: Thank you, Father. 

In a Swahili speaking country, there are a few phrases you pick up on in passing. When greeting each other? There is "Jambo." When praying? "Asante Baba." Thank you. Father. Over and over and over in their prayers. In a world full of wars and rape and starvation, they pray:

"Asante Baba." Thank you, Father. 

Where over 60% of the women have been raped and over 20%  die by the age of five. They pray:

"Asante Baba" Thank you, Father. 

Because they prayed mainly in Swahili, I could make out little. But I bowed with them and I prayed with them and I listened to them say over and over - scattered throughout the Swahili......."Asante, Baba"

My mind drifts back to another world. Last night's tiny town church service. Prayers. Listening to the acapella hymns of Thanks being sung in four part harmony, I felt at home. Before the service ended, my dad asked all of us to go around and share what we were thankful for. As I listened, it felt like a cloud of purity came through the room. One by one, person by person, sharing their heart. Some got choked up, a few tears were shed, but every word was spoken from a spirit of genuineness. I always seem to find that here. Gratitude. Real Life. Thankfulness. Genuine, Pure Gratitude.

................ I Find it Most Where There is Least..................

Like in a country church of a small town. Like in a church building in a war-torn. country 

I was in Congo with ALARM June of last year. They had gotten permission from the UN to bus 40 women into a church from each of the five surrounding displacement camps for a trauma healing workshop we were providing. We talked of Hope and Heartache and Healing. The women shared together and prayed together and cried together. 

At the end we had them gather stones from outside of the church. Goma is at the foot of an active volcano, so lava rock is in plenty. They brought their stones inside. 

These women had been traumatized by war and rapes and brutality and poverty and life.  We talked with them about the burdens that life gives us and the heaviness that it causes. I talked to them about Burdens of Anger, Unforgiveness, Hurt, and Shame. 

I asked them to look at the stone they were holding in their hands and told them that we were going to give them an opportunity to place those burdens at the foot of the cross of the Lord. To grieve before Him and lay down their pains.

They did.

A western women would have taken the stone and neatly placed it at the foot of the cross, returning to her seat and, possibly, bowing her head and closing her eyes. Not these women. These women were bruised and burdened. And Beautiful. Beautiful most of all because of something I have never witnessed before. Not to this level. 

In Congo I saw many things I had never witnessed. But there is something in the heart of the people of Congo that I had yet to see and have yet to see again. 

Broken Desperateness. 

These women did not place their stones anywhere. They surrendered them. When I invited them to come and lay their burdens at the foot of the cross at the front of the church......At once, it seemed all 200 of them came to the front and, as if it were rehearsed, knelt down. Praying. Grieving. Crying. Praying some more. We were all so overwhelmed, I think we froze. 

Overwhelmed at their Rawness. Their Vulnerability. Their Genuine need to grieve. Overwhelmed at their Brokenness. Their serenade of quiet prayers together made up a hum of petition to their Father. Their "Baba" and as I walked between them. Kneeling on the concrete floor of the church. Stones in hand. Puddles of tears on the floor. I heard....

over and over and over.

"Asante Baba. Asante Baba. Asante Baba."

Thank you, Father. Thank you, Father. Thank you, Father.

May we be broken. May we be desperate. May we be grateful. 

May we be.....

His, b

.The Door.

Back Home. It grounds me. Where people simply are who they are. Where you go to Wal-mart for a mini high school reunion and instead of getting home late from being stuck in traffic - you run short on time because you have to catch up with all your relatives you see in town. 

Nothing to prove. No one to impress. Nowhere else to be. You cannot re-create what is found in a Small Town and you can never quite find it in the City. I have learned that living Simple and Small is the Grandest and Largest means to live. Period. 

When you have More you want More, and the Larger you live the Smaller you become. Not because you yourself are small - but because comparing begins to creep in and all of a sudden, trying to become "better than" or having "more than" begins to make us feel "less than." Contentment gives way to Desire and we suddenly feel Inadequate. We stop asking ourselves who we are Becoming and begin asking ourselves how we can Arrive - when in reality, we are already there. 

I was in a taxi cab once. Driven by a man from Ghana. I told him I had been to Ghana and, for whatever reason, I asked him "Are you happy here?" 

"Yes, I am happy here." 

"Were you happy in Ghana?"

"Yes, I was happy. But I needed a village." 

"A village.....what do you mean?"

"In the village you do not need the door." 

He went on to tell me that in the villages, everyone has little. One person has what another person has and so there is no need for the door. "The door is to keep someone out" he said. If everyone has the same thing - there is no need for the door, because everyone shares. He then said in "the town" you begin having more, and so you begin wanting more. You then have to have "the door" to keep people out because they want what you have. 

Amazing.

On this day of Thanks - quickly to be overshadowed by the day of Spending - I am brought back to the simplicity of a small town, the genuine spirit of her people, the community of a village, and the need (or un-need) of The Door. 

She was wearing pink.....

She was wearing pink. Bright pink. In the middle of the woods - walking - searching - adventuring. Her pink stood out so brilliantly in her surrounding of nature. Like she didn't fit it. But she did. Fit in. Light shining through the trees. Her hair glistening with each sundrop. Leaves crackling with each tiny step. She was beautiful. As was her surroundings. 

As I lay on my blanket, I watched her.......and I thought: There is something about the woods. Something mystical. Something whimsical. Something dangerous. 

The woods....or the forrest. I always wondered what the difference was. From the country line road in Farmington, KY, it was the "woods" - or the "woods behind the house" to be exact. We would go back there and spend hours. Our own little scavenger hunt of sorts. Me, Jason, Heath. What would we find......in the woods? What escapade would we go on? What perils would we find ourselves in the middle of? What new creeks or hiding places we would come upon in.......

The Woods. The Wilderness.

I watch her and I smirk. She in her new outfit of play clothes bending down to pick up a branch of a tree that is four times her size. "I found it!! We could us this one!!" She is screaming to her parents who are about 30 yards away. It brings me to pause.

Searching.....Adventuring....Scaventure-ing....she found it!! And she was so proud.

I have been drawn lately to look into myself. Past pink play clothes and tiny crunchy steps and into the deeper places of wooded adventure. I am also drawn lately to this verse:

"John grew up and became Strong in Spirit. Then he lived out in the wilderness until he began his public ministry to Israel." Luke 1: 80

The adventure of the wilderness. I went deer hunting with my dad at dusk. Saw a deer. Shot. Thought I hit it. And so we went searching. In the woods. Dark was drawing close, and the darker it got, the deeper I searched, and the faster I walked. In the woods. Me in my camo and boots.....................thinking back to the little one in her pink play clothes. A parallel came to mind. 

Young me. Old me. Little me in pink. Older me in camo. Youthful Innocence. Seasoned Courseness. Can you have both? I think  - yes.

You see, the wilderness is just that. It is wild. It is life's version of coming and going and living and learning and playing and building and running and jumping and loosing and hunting and searching and finding.............life. And finding God. And finding Truth. And Finding, well, yourself. I never knew what that meant really. Finding yourself. Or maybe its not just about Finding Something , maybe its also about Becoming Something. Someone. You. Maybe it's about being settled with the pink and the camo and walking in a wonderful blending of the two. 

It's about picking up something bigger than you are and realizing that it is not of your own strength. Looking at your Father in the distance and saying with a childlike excitement, "I found it!!"

We are the truest versions of ourselves when we walk the closest to our Creator. We shine a little brighter. We walk a little straighter. We seem to loose the need to Prove ourselves and stop the game of Striving and we, slowly, find that walking beside of Him in the Garden becomes the most comfortable of strolls. 

A stroll that, ironically, is surrounded by trees and leaves and thorns and bushes and shelter. It is woody and wonderful..... It is wild. But the comfort comes in knowing that it's His forrest and these are His trees - and you can't see one for the other. But you can:

Walk. Beside. Him. 

Shall we? Walk? I think, yes. 

In Pink Camo, nonetheless : ) Yes. Pink Camo. 

Brave Benjamin

I have come to realize my favorite thing about cooler weather. There are many. The slight bite in the air that causes you to hug yourself a little tighter. Scarfs. The inside warmth of a long run in a cool breeze. Cold nose-tips. The appreciation of how hot tea feels as you sip it slowly. Cuddling. Being able to fog up a window with your breath and then using your finger tip to draw the shape of a heart - then smiling in spite of yourself. Cuddling. The strange security that extra heavy blankets bring in a bed when you are sleeping alone. Cuddling. And .......... 

Fire.

Dancing. Dreaming. Laughing Fire.

It ignites my soul in a different way. Brings me more in touch with the breath of my spirit. Warms me from the inside out. My thoughts dance with it - as does my fingers on the keyboard.

I love it most especially here. In my secrecy of hide-aways. My friend, Danny, always knows where to seat me when I come here in the fall or winter - the table right in front of the Fire.

Fire..........Fire........... Fire...........

I had a rare jewel of an opportunity today. A first. Sitting around a table in a public housing apartment. Me and Claude and Frank and Benjamin and Claude (the older one). Four brave and very strong boys from 7 to 18. They are refugees. Refugees from Congo and Burundi. Their stories of strength and war and refuge and rescue would cause the strongest of us to be broken. But they smile and they laugh and they live and today -

They Drew. Heartache and Hope.

"I cannot draw. I do not know how to draw." Benjamin. Oh, Benjamin. He is a personality rolled up into a little man in the form of a 12 year old. Trying to slyly and quietly leave out of the side door.

Gathered around one small table in one small apartment in the middle of inner city life.......Talking to them about the Hope of healing from the Heartaches they have been through and the promises of God. Reminding them that He was with them in their heartache. Benjamin wanted little part of it. He was uncomfortable and embarrassed and, on more than one occasion, tried to leave. "I cannot draw. I do not know how to draw." He must have tried to leave 5 times. Smiling and smirking each time - but underneath his smile seemed to be something more.

"Benjamin, its ok. Just sit beside of me. Will you sit here. Just be beside me." (I have deceptive tactics. I admit.)

Having just come from a wonderful worship service at MidTown, they were pretty wound up. Marisa had coordinated rides for these families and Cissy had sweetly gone by to pick up some art supplies for us. As I told them stories of the other children I have worked with in Africa and after they watched me draw my own saddest memory - they begin to understand and settle a bit.

I watched as they drew Heart Wounds. Saddest memories. Times that they were most afraid. I watched as they drew:

Guns. Men with Guns. People running away. And I watched as they drew God in their picture. I always have them do this as a reminder that, although He may seem so far away at that moment, He is never further away that our next breath. So they drew Him. Sometimes as a heart. Sometimes as a long-haired person (don't ask me why.... apparently God is a hippy : )

And I watched Benjamin.

"Benjamin. It's ok. Look - I can't draw really well either....just draw whatever is in your mind" Tactic number 2. But I wasn't lying. For someone who does art therapy - I am a lost art. Except when it comes to stick people. I rock at stick people : )

"I need a pencil. A pencil." (All we had were crayons, and he was using as many excuses as he could find)

Finding a pencil in my purse I gave it to him. It quickly broke and this was excuse number 16 to get out of dodge. I gave him a pen. I didn't pressure. Just invited. There is a difference. A beautiful difference. I gave him space and went on to encourage the other boys to draw what Peace or Forgiveness or Love looked like. I watched as they drew Hands Holding. Two men embracing. Hearts. Birds. Rainbows. I smiled.

Looking over at Benjamin again - I was pretty amazed. For some boy who didn't know how to draw, he had suddenly developed a skill. He was drawing a bus and people running away. Running. Away. Faces were sad. Frowns and then he drew

Fire........... Fire.............. Fire

Behind the bus was a tree and the bush and a man who had set a house on Fire. It is a theme in many of the pictures that I see. Fire. It is common place. Three main themes I always see. 1. Burning Houses. 2. Dead Bodies. 3. Guns and Bullets. The stories behind their eyes and behind their smiles and behind Benjamin trying to leave  - speak loudly. He told me his story and then I asked if he could draw what he thought Hope would look like. He went straight to 

it.

Rainbows. Holding Hands. Hearts. Yes, he is quite the artist, Mr. Benjamin.

As I left, he was close by my side. You could tell he was proud of himself - as was I. And I told him so. And as I walked away, I thought that we are not so different. God sitting beside of us. Encouraging. Loving. Listening to us as we make excuses not to deal with our pain. "I can't draw, God. I can't do it. It's too hard. I am not capable. I don't know how." God, in His wisdom.

"Its ok, child, just sit beside of me. Just be beside of me."

Trying to escape. Trying to look away from the very thing we must face head-on in order to find Healing. In order to find Hope. Gently coaxing us - He is there. He is always there. Actually - never further away than our next breath. If we would only -

Breathe.

But we don't. We hold our breath believing somehow that it will go away. Wanting it to just go away. We are blinded by the Fire. Feeling it's heat all around us. Trying to escape out of a side door. Sometimes slyly. Sometimes boldly. Sometimes blindly - we look past the very thing that will bring us relief:

His Hand. On my way to the car - I notice someone holding my own. It is Brave Benjamin. He is a character. The things he has seen in Congo in his short life there will stay with him for years and years. But, much like us, it is in facing them and feeling them and grieving them and reaching out for that hand to hold that will somehow make the fear subside.
I leave and he waves and I wave and I feel my heart become warm. Yeah. Almost like its on.........

Fire : )

Lord God - I thank you for this day of warmth. Of, yet again, learning much more than I teach. Being refined by your own fire much more than I mold. Finding your hand even in blinding flames. Humbled. Again.

I am,
Yours - b