I Will Be Brave

I think I‘ve cried maybe 3 times in session. In over 15 years doing this work – I've cried maybe three times with a client. It’s not hard for me, normally. I am in my role of supporter, encourager, listener. But last week I cried. Needed-a-tissue cried. It came over me like a wave, before I could stop it – or even think about it.

She was sitting across from me. We were talking about what wisdom she has learned in her suffering. What God can do with her pain.  And at that moment I felt this rush of purpose. I knew that I was there – present with her – at that very second to tell her to hold on. To tell her there was something better around the corner. And I cried with her. It felt strange to me. It felt weak. It felt wonderful.

Wisdom in Suffering. Purpose through Pain. Beauty in Brokenness. Can we find it? Do we see it? Can we hear it?

"Come to me, child. Come to me. I am here. It’s just around the corner. Just there….

Hope"

It seems to follow me around. Especially as of late. If it’s not a patient on the brink of suicide, it is a loved one who has lost a job. A little 9 year old boy who would “do anything within my power” to bring his parents back together. A little girl's nightmares, a sexually abused  4 year old, heartache from leaving all one knows, fear of coming into what’s new. Voices inside his head telling him to jump, a marriage meant to change the world now on the ground in a million pieces. A young man cutting himself because he hates being attracted to the same sex, but can’t tell anyone. Children dying before their time across the world of something we could go to Wal-greens to fix. A love felt so deeply that she would rather die than live without him. Fear, Weakness, Smallness, Hatred.

Evil. Good. Light. Dark.

Suffering. So Much Suffering. But So Much Love. 

So much Hope – if we could only see it at the time.

I told a friend last year that almost every day I feel like God puts a cape around my neck, kisses me on the forehead to say “Go Get’em Girl”  Then on other days I am the one on the ground, feeling as if I am all alone,  in a million pieces. But there is one thing I will not do:

Stay down there.

Why? I am in battle. And so are you.

A few weeks ago, we had gotten news that Senator Coburn had lifted his hold on the bill that would call the US to orchestrate a plan to disarm one of the rebel groups responsible for torturing the children we work with. It was a good day. A full day.

I ended the day with something I had been wanting to do for a while. I went to the movies by myself, and I watched Alice In Wonderland. Contrary to everyone else I have asked (begged) to see it again with me in 3D – I adored it. Top to bottom. Beginning to End. Why? I was Alice….at that moment, as cheesy as it may sound, I had that sword in my hand and I was fighting the Jabberwocky. In the biggest battle of my life. And so are you. It may be as simple as fighting the feelings of insecurity and as large as fighting wanting to give up. But we fight –    we have to fight. We have to believe. The other option is not believing. The other option is giving up. 

__________________

Alice. Fighting the Jabberwocky dragon: 

“My dad used to say he'd believe in 6 impossible things before breakfast....” 

Swing. Stab. Twirl. Fall down. Get up.

One: A drink that makes you smaller

Two: A cake that makes you grow

Three: Animals can talk

Four: A cat that can disappear

Five: There's a place called Wonderland

There is a place called Wonderland. 

How did she do it? Simple. She believed she could. One of the things we tell the children we work with in Africa is that man can burn their homes, kill their family, force them to do things they would never normally do – but one thing man can never do is to steal away the power that lives in side of them. The power of their Creator to give them Strength. The One who gave them Breath can also give them Life. Abundant Life. True Life. Hopeful Life.

____________________________

“I think you may be right” he said

“About what?” I said

“I prayed this week. Something helped me to pray. I think maybe you’re right about asking God to just be with me and help me get through this instead of asking him to make it go away. I don’t think it’s supposed to go away. So I prayed that He would just be with me and I felt better. It helped”

.That moment.

For that one. That moment is why I get up. Sword in hand.  Surrounded by a Wonderland of pain and tears. Creepy rabbits with watches telling me how to act and how high to jump. Strange large-headed ladies who surround themselves with other distorted creatures just to fell less large-headed. Battling a dragon - and winning. That moment is why I get up. Because of a strength bigger than my suffering and larger than my life.

 

Because of that – I will be brave.

 

“Come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you Rest. Take my yoke upon you and Learn of me, because I am Humble and Gentle and you will find Rest for your souls. “ ~ Jesus.

The Power of Believing

I stand in awe. I stand speechless. I stand tall. Not because of my own strength - but because I have had the privilege of standing next to strong souls. strong hearts. stubborn spirits. The day of the Senate passing a bill that could potentially begin the steps to ending the Heart of Madness. Madness like I have never seen or heard. My friend, Andy, asked me that night.....

How do you feel? 

How do I feel? (Wait, I'm usually the one asking that question - not used to the tables being turned. But I answered without even thinking....)

How do I feel? In awe of God. In awe of what good is actually in the human spirit. Realizing more and more that I'm less and less blown away at God's hand in this work. not because he is less amazing - but because I'm expecting his hand around every corner more and more. 

The more I believe  - the more I see his fingerprints. Its like magic.

He loves these kids so much. Its like a testimony to the beauty that can be found in suffering.

I feel full

The real deal is this: I don't even like politics. A year ago I didn't know a constituent from a barbiturate. Now I am finding myself practically begging people to call their local senator, speaking at press conferences, writing letters to politicians I don't even know and lobbying for children that I do. Know. In their inner most heart. 

I cry FOR them because i have cried WITH them, and I will never stop fighting FOR them until my dying breath. 

Why? Why have I gone from avoiding political conversations like bad sushi to sleeping on a sidewalk outside a senator's office with some of the FINEST people around? From thinking that my voice makes little difference in this great big Web of Washington to refusing to eat solid foods for nine days to change the mind of an Oklahoma Senator?

I am alive.....and I believe through Passionate Living that I can bring life to others. I believe because I choose to hope. Its contagious - and it could have easily been seen in and out of the Chase Building in Oklahoma City. I was there less than 24 hours and I could see it. Feel it. The Power of Believing. It could be seen in grown men who joined the young peaceful protestors outside of Senator Coburn's office because they started to believe in the cause. It could be seen in the quiet strength of a deli worker who bought food out of his own pocket for those "concrete sleepers" because he saw democracy in their eyes. It could be seen in the bond that brought over 50 people together  - woven in community. 

The passion of living for something bigger than yourself is undeniably larger than life. Finding your voice. FInding your purpose. It makes you come to life. And i wonder? At what point do you loose passion in life and at what point can you get it back. Do you loose it when the rat race begins? When the scars and disappointments of life  leave you face-first? When realities of family and power struggles with two year olds become louder than your dreams? When do we stop dreaming? When do we stop believing? When does LIFE steal away LIVING?

You see, the answer lies in perspective and the question comes in wondering. Wondering. I am in my 30s. Single. No children. Living Alone. And I wonder.... if I had a family. a husband. children. Would I still have passion? Would I still breath life in as I do now? I believe. I believe you can both Live and Have Life. 

As I said to my soul brother the week before......

"We are the lucky ones, you know. Some peoples hearts are never broken like ours are. They never feel their pain. It comes with heartache, but I welcome it. Wisdom in suffering - mine and theirs"

Thanks to all of you concrete sleepers, mercy fasters, silent soldiers, longsuffering, showerless wonders. Together we can do more. The Oklahoma Hold Out. It was a beautiful testimony of tenacity and resilience. And Democracy.

The power of believing. 

Wishing those kiddos could have seen you fighting for them. Lucky to have been able to be a small part.

Much Love - b

.Mercy.Fast.

TO LEARN MORE ON HOW TO HELP AND THE LATEST ON

   THE LRA DISARMAMENT AND NORTHERN UGANDA RECOVERY ACT CLICK HERE: 

www.coburnsayyes.com and here 

www.resolveuganda.org/news.com

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

.MERCY.FAST.

Why are we fasting?

On eXile's last trip to Village of Hope Uganda orphanage in January of 2010, we asked the children who were formerly abducted by the LRA and former child soldiers to draw their heartaches and their hopes on handkerchiefs during a time of art therapy.

Dennis was one of the first ones to share his story. The first one to share his tears. This was part of it

".....the rebels came and kicked in the door...they abducted my parents....they cut my brother and killed him in pieces....my brothers and sisters ran into the bush with nothing to cover ourselves and we had nothing to eat...we continued to run and the rebels continued to come....We fasted for God to have M E R C Y on us. As we were fasting, we managed to escape........ When we came back, we continued to fast for God's deliverance. I thank God that we were saved. I thank God for that...."

In the bush, naked, after losing their parents and their brother to the atrocities of the LRA - they fasted. 

They fasted from food they did not have.  For MERCY. And so do we.

Senator Coburn, These children cannot come to you with their stories. But we can. We cannot release the hold on this bill. Only you  have the power to do that. For Gloria, Norbert, Barbara, Norman, Scovia, Fida,Dennis and the 30,000 children who have been abducted by the LRA -  we ask you

To Have Mercy.

We will be fasting and praying for God to soften your heart. And find a way.

Most of us will be fasting until you release your hold. 23 years is long enough.

For those who want to join: please email info@exileinternational.org

If Dennis can fast from food he does not have at the age of 11 - we can fast from food we do have in his honor. In prayer for Senator Coburn.

eXile international

Those currently participating: 

Bethany P. Haley

Peggy Cox

Kathryn Campbell

What else can I do?

(1) EMAIL SENATOR COBURN'S OFFICE HERE:

www.coburn.senate.gov/public/index.cfm?FuseAction=ContactSenatorCoburn.home 

choose "Foreign Affairs"

(COPY AND PASTE THE INFO BELOW IF YOU WOULD LIKE, BUT PERSONALIZE IT IF YOU CAN)

(2) CALL SENATOR COBURN'S OFFICE AT (202) 224 - 5754. No need to be fearful. He is in the position that he's in for this very reason. That is democracy. Be a part of it!!

What do you say? "This is (YOUR NAME) and I am calling to ask Senator Coburn to release his hold on the LRA Disarmament and Northern Uganda Recovery Act. I believe the children are worth it" 

(3) SIGN THIS PETITION: at www.coburnsayyes.com under "take action"

(4)  IF YOU KNOW SOMEONE IN OKLAHOMA  - SPECIFICALLY A CHURCH OR MINISTER  - please pass this information alone. we need Oklahoma to take a STAND

I have never done this before......

"I have never done this before...."

I said. It was kind of a fearful feeling mixed with anticipation and a dash of childlike wonderment. Right after those words came out of my mouth I thought. "Nice, Beth. Seriously - that didn't sound too good"

"Remember That You Are Ashes........And To Ashes you Shall Return" He said. Forming the sign of a cross on my forehead. I just stayed there for a while. Silent. Praying. Kneeling. Breathing. 

I never understood Lent or Ash Wednesday or any of those other ceremonies outside of my Church of Christ comfort zone. In a strange way I was not only afraid of experimenting with it, I simply didn't give it much thought. Somehow I thought maybe I should look into it deeper. I was out of town and looking for a place to worship. Saw a beautiful church with a beautiful light on - so I went inside.

This question has been on my mind:

 What would happen if we gave up NO-THING instead of giving up some-THING for Lent? What would happen if we committed to 40 days of releasing unforgiveness or envy or worry or bitterness or fear?

Because of how God made me (aka "stubborn as a mule" as my grandaddy would say), I need to understand something before I do it. or believe it. or believe in it. Lent is no different. What did I find when I looked deeper? Humility. What did I read? This:

"He was led by the Spirit to go into the wilderness. Where the Devil tempted him for 40 days" Luke 4: 1 - 2. It has been set aside as a time of Self-Examination. Prayer/Fasting. Repentance. Humility. Self-Denial. Regardless of your background - how can that be a bad thing?

Sitting in the pew with ashes on my forehead, reading about Jesus' temptation and his humility - I asked myself. What is it? What does it all mean? People seem to give up everything from sugar to sitcoms to sex. But what does that really have to do with looking more like the Humility of Christ? I mean it causes us to be less of Self - I get that. And 100% Totally Agree. But Suddenly dots started to connect in my head. 

Thoughts started flowing like a waterfall.

~

~

~

"Why don't we give up the hard things for 40 days? The deep things. The things that are less like our Lord? Envy. Malice. Bitterness. Resentment. Hatred. Discontentment. Unforgiveness. Worry. Why? Because it's hard. Giving up french fries is SO much easier than giving up Fear. Fear of inadequacy or loosing everything or looking stupid or living in loneliness forever. We know how to give up McDonalds. You just stop driving through. But we don't KNOW how to give up Fear and finding out would take a lot of work. 40 days worth of work. A LOT of ON OUR KNEES, SOUL SEARCHING, WHO AM I REALLY, ASKING TOUGH QUESTIONS, SEARCHING FOR TOUGH ANSWERS work. Yeah, French Fries is much more fun. And hip. Somehow.

BUT Does it bring us to Humility? And maybe it's not about giving something up. 

Maybe we have to do something different to get something better. Maybe to give up Daily Discontentment we have to really DO something DIFFERENT. Maybe to find Forgiveness for the first time, we have to take the first step of WANTING to show Mercy. Of WANTING to forgive. Not because what they did was ok - but because WE will never be ok unless we do"

Because doesn't it all come down to Humility? A God? A Man? 40 days in the wilderness? Without Food? Why? 

As I look at myself in the mirror with these ashes on my forehead. I see. The answer. The unworthy - humble answer of answers. Yes, Lord. 40 days to look more like you? How could I resist? What can I LEARN to rid myself of to reflect more of you?

Let's start with Fear. Fear? Silly girl. Didn't you just get back from "The" Congo? One of the most  dangerous places to go? To work with former child soldiers? At the foot of a volcano? Leaving the day after there was an attempt to kill the President - again? Yeah. That was easy. Kind like giving up French Fries. What's harder? Giving up the need to micromanage my life in order to make sure everything falls into place to prove myself worthy of the amount of Grace I have been given because of my Sinful Mistakes. You see.....

I 

am 

ashes. 

As are you. As are we all. Severely inadequate. Humbly so. So inadequate that we need God to sacrifice himself so we can taste fullness and wholeness and heaven. Sometimes embracing the fact that we are inadequate - that we are ashes - makes it easier to stop the "self-promotion, ladder climbing, is she skinnier than me, are my kids smarter, will I ever be enough?" game. Because we won't....... ever be enough. 

Good thing He is. Praises for that. And for his creative abilities to make: 

Beauty. 

From. Ashes : )

I drink my coffee like I drink my life.......

I drink my coffee like I drink my life. With Purpose and Passion and Much too fast. With gulps instead of sips and carelessness instead of caution.

I have never been a fan of anything I have had to acquire a taste for - when it comes to food or drink anyway. People - now that's a different story. Acquiring a taste for people when my first impression is bitter or distasteful is almost a challenge. What is behind their jaded eyes? What lies behind their harsh words? Who is really behind the curtain of their heart? I wonder.

But back to life - I am learning. Important things. Like to enjoy the small sips rather than trying to gulp with the goal of gaining the caffeine jolt sooner rather than later. I had that realization just yesterday. Why?

Simply because it was cold and the coffee was warm and wonderful, and I got this strange new desire to make it last as long as I could. To actually enjoy it rather than gulping it down with the purpose of "waking up"..... I liked it, actually! And then I laughed at learning from my cup of coffee. God teaches me in the strangest ways. If I let Him. He is teaching me: To Sip, To Listen, To Notice. To stop my world - if only for a few seconds - to listen closer, hug tighter, look deeply, and to drink slowly and at the moment?

At this moment that means pretending that I am riding one of the snowflakes outside of this window as she floats her way down from the clouds to the ground with the speed of Imagination. Being scooped up by a playful lover and blown into the face of a First Crush as she laughs behind her wool scarf and underneath her knitted snow cap.

Play - may we never underestimate it. Play or Sipping. Sipping, yeah. I think I may start doing that. With my coffee. With my Life. 

Love: It's More Than A Kiss

As I write this, there is snow falling outside my window, two candles lighting my condo to my right, and the simple sound of a clock ticking overhead. I am in Love. IN Love - In the middle of it, surrounded by it, immersed in it actually. So are you.....but it's kinda like magic. We only see it when we open our hearts. 

I want to invite you to be a part of something this week. I want you to do something with me. You may not look at Valentines Day the same again. Keep Reading.

"Mommy, you know

 what my favorite part of Valentine's Day is? It's giving balloons to the ladies at the nursing home..." Sweet Emma. My four year old niece. Tania takes her each year to give red balloons to the ladies at a nursing home close by. Started me thinking......

I stopped celebrating Valentines Day as most know it about five years ago. A very long term relationship had just ended and I had to make a decision. I could feel sorry for myself, OR I could do the opposite. Embrace it with all of it's sappy overflowing candied hearts and red roses. So I did.

I decided to re-think this Day of LOVE. I thought about those that I loved the most and I bought them cards. I sat down and wrote to each of them - telling them why I loved them. I decided to stop celebrating Valentine's Day as simply Romantic. 

Love is just too big for that.

New Love. Old Love. Sweet Love. Deep Love. Love of a dream. Love of a place. Love of a movie. Love of a child. Love of a song. Love of the ocean. Love of white chocolate raspberry cheesecake truffle from Cheesecake Factory. So many types. Just one word. 

Four letters. One Color. RED. 

Love is Beautiful in Many Ways.....

Open your 

Heart 

for just a second.

 

 Romance is so much bigger than a romantic relationship. Romance is making things lovely because of Love. It is seeing the signature of God on his creation. Watching the snowflakes weave their way across the sky to that perfectly selected blade of grass they call home. It's the precious uniqueness of each child's laugh - none being the same. It's the artwork of a Congolese war torn child as she draws her life dreams. It's a true friend's long embrace. A hot happy meal to a homeless man. A hug of gratitude from an earthquake victim. 

 It is a smile when you are by yourself in the car and that song comes on.  A unspoken bond between two friends. It's overdue forgiveness. It's the sound of distant train whistle. It's knowing something about someone that you only know because their fingerprint is on your heart. It's your cat licking your face to wake you up in the morning. Your dog meeting you at the door. It's the sounds of rain dancing on a tin roof or sleet as it hits your window. 

It's a smirk because you both are thinking the same thing without saying a word. The innocence of a three year old. That look of adoration when you pray with them and the sound of their feet running to you when you walk in the door....that is Romance. 

SO HERE IS THE QUESTION..... HERE IS THE CHALLENGE:

Where do you see Romance? Where do you see Love?

Post it. Send it. Status it. Twitter it. Share it throughout the week.....Why?

Because:

#itsmorethanakiss

I'll go first. First Post.First tweet......

"Where did I see Love Today? In a daughter holding the hand of her elderly mother as they crossed the street #itsmorethanakiss"

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.”