Naked Storms

The first great moment that I remember was when I was three years old– a storm – I tore my clothes and ran out in it – and I have been doing that in storms ever since”….Kahlil Gibran

I wonder things. I wonder a lot of things. I tend to wonder more things when it's raining. It's like the rain somehow causes me to feel protected enough to think deeper. To feel deeper. Like yesterday. I watched it. The rain. And I wondered......

Why do we run from it? To be protected from the knocking of it's raindrops. Sheltered from it's wind. Covered from it's wetness. Are we afraid? Just to stand out in it and let it soak us to the core. Not to hide from it or run from it. Not to find protection from it under a newspaper, an umbrella, or a roof. What if we just didn't. What if we just let it do it's thing and cover us? What if we walked in it proudly? Standing tall and uncowardedly? As if we weren't smaller than it or fearful of it's outcome. We would be uncomfortable and wet and yucky. And then, if we surrendered to it, we would just be part of it in a way. Letting it wash over us.

Not so unlike life and suffering and the scars that living brings. I find myself called into dark and broken places. Sometimes that can be in a country torn apart by war. Sometimes that can be holding the hand of child whose mother took her life. Sometimes it's on my own knees on my own floor putting my own pieces back together. But I have learned not to fight it. I looked at people rushing away from it today. The rain. Into cars. Into buildings. Covering their heads as if they would melt if they let it touch them. And I wondered.

What if we were bold enough to stand out in it and just be drenched. Surrendering to the drops and letting it's warmth wash over us?

So I did.

Why not? What are we so afraid of ? We happily get in the shower each day and think of it as uplifting. But when we don't choose to get wet. When life happens and it chooses us. When the water comes down over us at times when we don't turn on the facet or we don't get to choose the temperature.... then it's an inconvenience and we run.

And we hide.

I got angry today. I rarely get angry. It wasn't a pretty angry or sheltered. It wasn't covered or hidden. It was me sitting and kneeling at the foot of a 60 foot white cross. My head was down on the wet stone steps leading up to it. Feeling the feelings that many would run away from because they are uncomfortable. Remembering the drama the former child soldiers acted out of their abduction and being force to kill. And I thought.....

The question is not why there is suffering. It is not why life happens the way that it happens or why we ask and do not receive. The question is "What, Lord, will you teach me from my suffering? How can you use this uncomfortable, unplanned, storm of life to help me to love more like you and trust you more?"

And I look up. How?

Maybe the question is not, "God what will you do FOR me? Maybe the question is what will you do WITH me?"

There was a car to my right and another coming around the bend and I didn't care. I did not run and I did not hide. The raindrops fell over me.....

I don't think I have ever felt more free in my life.

Life has taught me much. God has taught me more. I have learned..... to cry when I need to cry. To laugh when I need to laugh. To dance when I need to dance. To kneel when I need to kneel. In the rain. Out of the rain.

Sitting there. Kneeling there. It rained down and I took it all. Every drop. Soaking it in as if it were a covering all around me. Washing over me like a welcomed showered blanket of Fearlessness from the Heavens.

I had this thought....

These places I am called to. They are not pretty. These scars. They are not neat. These tears. They are not tidy or clean or sheltered. They flow. Freely sometimes.

But I am so happy. So full of joy. I have been made for this. Not for suffering, but for Hope. To make sense out of the senseless and to see the good in pure evil.

To scream into the storms,

"There is a tomorrow." There is a tomorrow. And the night will fall and the day will dawn. And there will be light. There WILL be light.

I get back in the car, soaking wet, and hear this song..... And I smile. Take a listen.

From Children of War to Children of Peace and Out of eXile

There is something about finding someone who shares your passion. Something about the non stop talking. The completing each others sentences. The "getting it" not because of hearing their words, but because you feel their spirit. I find that rare. I found that in Africa. In Jane.

Her face comes alive when she talks about the dreams of rehabilitation for the children tortured and wounded by the LRA in Northern Uganda, Congo, CAR, Sudan. True Rehabilitation. Not just emotionally, but physically and spiritually. With skills training, education, reintegration, and advocacy work. As we talked (for hours) we realized that our hearts saw through the same eyes in what these children needed. We realized we had similar stories. We realized that God had brought us together.

Amazing doesn't begin to describe her. She has given her all in all for the calling God has placed in her soul. She knows how to teach survival because she has survived. And continues to. And will... continue to.

As the eXile team sat around the table a few days later with the board of Children of Peace.... born out of the film Children of War (2010 Winner of the Cinema for Peace Justice Award in Berlin), we were honored. Who knew such collaboration would be born out of a connection this time last year? If you haven't seen this film. You can now purchase it at http://www.childrenofwarfilm.com/ . Watch the trailer.

The history of bringing us all together goes something like this:

~ Miss Lisa Dougan from Resolve: "Bethany, you have to see this film. It tells the story of rehabilitation of former child soldiers in Uganda" Lisa connects me with Mr. Bryan Single who lives in Los Angeles.

~ Finally getting to talk on my way home from a road trip, I pull over. Bryan and I talk for about an hour.

~ "We would love to screen your film in Nashville and we'd love for you to come"

~ Finding out Bryan's parents, oddly, live right outside of Nashville, we make plans.

~ He comes. We screen the film. Heart connection. The UN has the World Premiere of the film in NY. I go. I meet Jane - trauma counselor of a well known Rehabilitation Center in Lira, Uganda. She leads the viewer through the story of the children's healing in the film. She speaks after the UN screening in NY of her dreams of holistic rehabilitation for the children. Addressing their physical, emotional, educational, spiritual, and relational needs - all lead by local leaders. I knew we had the same dream.

Jane and I begin corresponding by email. Bryan and I start dreaming of how we can all work together.

Fast forward 8 months, and I am in the middle of Jane's home in Lira, Uganda. We are holding sick babies together, finding food for orphanages, and talking about blogs, logos, and how God can use our hearts and visions to collaborate a 10 year plan to develop a program to change the face of a nation. Or two. Or three.

The team sits around the table with some amazing leaders. Sharing the same hearts. Praying the same prayer. The prayer of leading them back to life again. To give them back what was stolen from them in war. So they can become Children of Peace rather than Children of War.

It will be a long journey and lots of support funds to be raised and prayers to be spoken. But we will get there.

"We can all do more together" said the President of the Board of Children of Peace.

Yes we can. And we will.

Check out the website http://www.childrenofwarfilm.com/ Watch the Trailer

Listen to Jane speak at the International Criminal Court screening here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWP-FjUqem4

The new blog for Children of Peace will be live soon AND if you are interested in helping develop a website for this amazing organization please email bethany@exileinternational.org. Let's do this together.....

Where do I begin....

Where do I begin? So much in my heart and only a few minutes to blog....

Do I begin with the baby orphanage? When asked their greatest need and mentioned clothes, Sister Francis laughed.

"You know - it is the belly. The babies do not care if they are naked. They

care if they have nothing to put into their stomachs. What do I do if they

are crying and have nothing to give them?"

Do I begin with the child mothers - those who have been abducted at young ages and given to rebel leaders as sex slaves. They come out of the bush with babies. The youngest one we have met so far was 12 when she gave birth. I see shame in their eyes, and I want so desperately to tell them how beautiful they are. Each and everyone one. I want even more desperately for them to believe it

Do I start with the former child solders and children we met yesterday. Spending a lot time rained in with them. Trying to talk over the sound of beating rain on the tin roof. Time of laughing, sharing, playing soccer in the rain, hearing stories of survival. Looking at their scars as they danced in the dirt, as they played their drums. Watching them look down at the ground when we told them that God was with them in their deepest pain. Who am I to tell them that? Who am I? I have no clue what they have gone through - at 5 at 10 and 12.

Stories are just stories until they become your reality.

Like the reality of a young boy who was forced to kill a leader in his village - in unspeakable ways that I will spare you details from. He went through years of seeing him. The man he killed. He saw him when he slept and when he woke up.

"I see blood as running water"

He was five. When forced to kill. He was five years old.

Maybe I should begin with Innocent. Amazing young man of 15.

"I want to be white like you. I want to be like you. Life would be good then. Life is hard here.

Me "You are beautiful. we see more true life and joy here than we see in all of America some time."

He was orphaned by the war when his parents were killed and captured by the rebels. He was abducted. He is a survivor.... but he will not just survive. He will be a great leader one day. You can see it in his eyes. He wants to be a doctor, but he fears he won't succeed

Jessica "You will succeed. We believe in you."

Jessie "We will pray for you and never stop praying for you. We will carry your story in our hearts" Looking deep into his eyes. "We will not forget you. We promise"

Big promise. That will be kept.

When we left he started whispering in my ear, but I couldn't make out what he said. Soft voice. He took my hand... and I listened. And I heard.

I heard a 15 year old former child slave, possibly forced to kill, who was praying for three women getting ready to depart on their journey to another part of his country. Yes - HE was praying for US. And, NO - we will not forget him. Committing to make sure this boy is sponsored and empowered and loved. He has no parents, but he is such an amazing child of God.

Father - bless this week. As we go into Village of Hope and see these precious children that I have talked about to senators, representatives, staffers in Washington DC. I have not seen them in over a year. Gloria. Norbert. Norman. Barbara. My heart leaps and my spirit fills with excitement.

Make us your instrument, Lord We are

Yours,

b

Never Old Hat - Back in Uganda....

It's becoming old hat. I wonder where that phrase came from. I don't know, but I hope it never applies to me. Driving down this Ugandan road to Gulu from Lira coming from Kampala after Entebee... and Amsterdam....and Detroit.... from Nashville. In three days. I have started coming up by myself a few days before or staying a few days after the team to meet with potential partners, finding needs and understanding culture (team gets in today!). I love it so much. I find the time richer and deeper. But I am tried. But not really. What I actually am is Full. Filled to overflowing with stories. Of numbers. Of sights and sounds and smells and lives lost that are floating around me in this green and beautiful bush I am riding through. Bosco drives. He loves listening to the Grease Lightening sound track and laughs at me so much when I belt out every word. "I love this so much!" He says "Have you seen the movie?" I ask "The movie? No? There is a movie?!" I smile and look out the window again.

I often ask my nieces what they are thinking about when I catch them drifting off (I miss them so much more when I'm away). I love hearing their response. For me? Now?

I'm thinking of John who told me about his wonderful program in Lira that teaches those who are not able to feed their families how to farm. He is driven and articulate and intelligent. I watch him tell me of his dreams for his people. He is missing his right ear. I know how he lost it. I don't have to ask - nor would I. The LRA is known for chopping off the ears and lips of its victims. But he lives on. He lives in color. He lives in hope.

I am thinking of Justin. The driver of our car who took us to Kampala. The minute we were alone in the car he started sharing. "I am from Gulu, you know?" I only have to ask a few questions and he begins, "Even I am war-affected. You know, they would come into the schools and they would take you. They would chop the children and force the others to kill their teachers. Even they would make you eat her flesh"

"I am so sorry. So sorry, Justin."

He points to his hand. He is missing the top of a finger. "Even I was abducted for 2 days" Showing me his finger. "It was a bomb. It took my finger"

"How old were you"

"I was 13"

Riding along. Bosco asks me if I am hungry. No. No - I am not hungry. I am sad. I am hopeful. I am full. I look out the window again imaging when the LRA was raiding this land and the 60,000 children in Uganda alone that I heard yesterday were either killed or abducted. I think of Congo were Kony is now. I think of Kinshasha, DRC where I was told yesterday that there were 10,000 street children abandoned by their parents who wrongly have accused them of being witches and sorcerers. They blame them for their poverty and they have abandoned them to the streets. I think of the 5000 child soldiers who are apparently going to be released to their villages in the next year in Sudan. What is there for these children to begin their healing? They will be rejected by their villagers and will be forced to be street children. But there is an answer.

I remember the three year old boy yesterday I saw on Jane's computer. He was born in the bush by a young girl forced to be a sex slave to Joseph Kony himself. There are thousands of them - these children born in the bush after abduction of the girls. They only know life in the bush. They are called "the choppers" because they are the offspring of a rebel commander. They range in age of around 3 - 10 years old. This little boy in particular?

This boy resembles his father - Joseph Kony - in an obvious way.

"They say that all of Kony's children resemble him. They say none of them that resemble the mother"

"How many are there?" How many children does Kony have?"

"He has had around 70 girls as wives. Many of them have had 2 - 3 children. They say he has 150 children. You know, if we do not teach the children differently. If we do not help their hearts heal. What will happen? We will have thousands more Konys"

I have fallen asleep. Deep needed sleep. Dreaming of many things. I open my eyes and the sunset is amazing. It captures my heart and I smile. I think.....

"Your love is as faithful as the sunrise and as soothing as the sunset. I will not fear. I will hope. I will believe."

Father, if I love these children as deeply as I do, I can only imagine how much you love them. Use these next few weeks not only to change me, but to use me. To use our team. Use our words. Use our hands. I don't want this to be old hat. I never want my heart to stop breaking. I never want to be hardened. I was at one point. Hardened. Thinking I would never thaw out. I praise you for breaking me. I praise you for unthawing me. I praise you for never giving up on me.

I will, my God and my Father, never ever give up on you. I am

Yours, b

How do you say goodbye?

How do you say goodbye? How do you say goodbye to your best friend? Best friend of 60 years. Best friend of 5. How?

Funny, I've noticed that I don't blog nearly as much as I used to. Mainly because I thought no one was reading them when I wrote them. Now that I know people do, I find myself being less vulnerable and writing less often. But it's inside of me. It's always inside of me. Even more lately. I get a bit sappy before a trip. I think deeper. I feel deeper. I live deeper. I question.... deeper.

Like how do you say goodbye? To your best friend of 60 years? Knowing you have weeks with him. Maybe days. How do you say goodbye to your kindred best buddy in high school when a freak accident snatches him from your life. At 17. When you feel like you can't even breathe?

There are so many kind of tears. It fathoms me. Tears of fear. Tears of relief. Tears of disappointment. Tears of embarrassment. Tears of wonderment. Tears of joy. Tears of sorrow. Tears of loss. Deep loss. Stomach pitting loss. Grief is its own animal. And its been surrounding me the past few weeks. Seeing young lives lost suddenly that were supposed to live for decades. Seasoned lives slowly coming to an end and the anticipation that surrounds that. The time to say the things you need to say, do the things you need to do, and the knowledge that death is imminent.

This past week I prayed fervently for the life a teenage boy. After a tragic accident. Before he died. Tears of loss. Questions of purpose.

Today I watched the two wrinkled hands I blogged about a few weeks ago. I watched them all day. Not just their hands, but their eyes. Their tears. Tears of sorrow.

I watched love in action all around them today. Acts of honor and love in the form of a warm peach cobbler, in cleaning out a fridge, in writing a heartfelt letter, in the colorful drawings from the heart of a grandchild, in a yard being mowed, a memory being told, a tear being shed, a hand being held, an eye being wiped or a breathing treatment being tenderly given. I watched.

I watched his sweet grand girls coming over to give him the pictures that they had drawn especially for him. Him looking at them, barely able to see them, and then closing his eyes in silent tears.

I watched love surrounding me today. If it were a colorful cloud I would have been blinded by it.

I saw it from a far this week. 100 amazing kids just being with the best friend left behind. Precious heart. Incredible young man. Just sitting with him. Being with him. In ICU rooms being decorated in school colors. In donations being given to the cause of adoption in honor of a life.

Life's Death being honored through Living Love.

LIVING LOVE.

C.S. Lewis: "If, as I can't help suspecting, the dead also feel the pains of separation, then for both lovers, and for all pairs of lovers without exception, bereavement is a universal and integral part of our experience of love."

When it's all said and done. I go back to this. The Sorrow we feel would not be Sorrow at all if it weren't for the Love played out from the precious memories. And if what they gave us, what they taught us, and the person we are because of them still lives - have we truly lost them at all? And doesn't that somehow mean that a part of them still lives. And as we live out their fingerprints they have placed on our souls in our own lives - touching others along the way - doesn't that somehow mean a part of them will always live? Maybe?

"I want to move my bed in with his. When they move in the hospital bed, I want my bed to be in the room too. So I can sleep next to him. So I can be next to him."

Tears. More beautiful tears. Tears flowing out of a love that some rarely experience. Especially for over 60 years.

How do you say goodbye to your best friend? You don't. You just don't. You live for them and they live through you. You carry them around with you when you remember that thing that only you both would smile about. When you see that special something that causes you to think of them. Or you remember that special lesson that they taught you. You live out a deeper understanding of how you are a changed person because of them and you touch other people with their fingerprints.

Knowing that your heart would not be broken if it had not been loved. And it's that love that you live off of sometimes.

And until then?

Maybe you sleep with them. Beside of them in the same room. And slowly..... day by day.... say goodbye.

For now. Just for now.

Beautiful wrinkled hands. Together.

Sitting beside each other on the sofa. Surrounded by their grandchildren. I watched them. Adoringly. She took his hand and put her fingers through his. He took the youngest grandchild's hand and did the same. Generations. Hand in hand. I caught them looking at each other. It was a look I had never seen them give each other before. Not a look I even have words for, actually. The picture was taken and the kids got up. Just the two of them on the sofa now. Still hand in hand.

He has cancer. Worse than they thought. Both in their 80's. Grey hair. No hair. Age spots. Beautiful wrinkled hands. Together. I watched them and couldn't help but wonder....... do they think about that thing they had their worst fight about -now?

Does he care about that thing that always drove him crazy - now? Do you think she cares that he always forgets that thing that he always forgets - now? Do they remember that time they weren't sure they loved each other anymore or that time they wish they had maybe married someone else?

How much does resentment veer it's head - now? How often are they angry with one another - now? How big are the tiny things - now? How much grace do they give each other, how often do they say "I love you", how much more patient, loving, gentle, kind are they to each other...

Now?

There was a client I had who others consistently said was in the Mafia. I'm not convinced he wasn't. I'm actually a little more convinced he might have been. He denies it wholeheartedly. Interesting soul. Like no one I had ever met. (and yes, I was granted permission to write this : )

"I am getting away for a few weeks to do some things"

Vagueness was something I was used to with him. But he was more vague than normal this time.

"Anything special?"

"No, just need to get away for a few weeks." I left it at that. Two weeks came and went and I saw him again. And he was different. He was lighter. He was more transparent. He was softer.

"How was your last few weeks" I asked. "Pretty good, actually" His eyes sparkled a bit.

He went on to tell me that the last few weeks he went on a "little journey." I probed and he answered and explained and I became more and more fascinated and amazed. Of his stories. Of his journey. Of his - well - pilgrimage of sorts. But he didn't know it was a pilgrimage at all. He really didn't think it was anything special. But it was. Fascinating, actually.

"Something inside of me told me I was supposed to do it. I decided I needed to make some changes. 95 percent of the people haven't done the things I have done. And they shouldn't have done them. I needed to get right for me"

What was that "getting right"? Three things. Three things he came up with on his own with no prompting from me. At least not that I was aware of.

"Forgiveness. Atonement. Reflection. For two weeks."

He went on to say that throughout this road trip he made a lot of stops. He visited those in his life he needed to forgive or ask forgiveness of. He met with them. Talked with them. And decided to let go of what he had been holding on to or apologize for what he needed to ask forgiveness from. Then we went to those people that he needed atonement with. Those who he felt had harmed him, hurt him, or problems that were still "unsolved" He had conversations he needed to have and did things he felt he needed to do. Going from place to place. Talking to person after person. Letting go of burden after burden. And along the way? There was reflection. Reflection on who he was. Who he wanted to be. Changes he needed to make for the rest of his life.

He wouldn't call himself a man of faith, really. He is skeptical about organized Christianity. But there are things he values.

Amends. Reconciliation. Forgiveness. Reflection.

He didn't have cancer. He was not looking death in the eye. He was making some changes before he got there. Because he needed to. Because something inside of him told him he should. So he did. Simple as that.

"She is a good nurse for taking care of me" He said as she got up to get him something to eat. Somehow you could tell she delighted in it. His appetite was getting a little better.

"I bet you would do the same for her...." I said. And he would.

Because that's what love does. The sad things is that sometimes it takes the fear of loosing it to cause us to treasure it.

I watched him look at his grand children when they weren't looking and get teary. It was the first time I had ever seen tears in his eyes. Hugging him goodbye. It was tighter than normal. Silent crying you could hear beneath her breath. Leaving them to be with each other. To love each other.

I drove away in thought of how precious life is and what it would be like if we valued it as much along the way as we did before it was getting ready to be taken from us. If we understood things - now - like we would - then. Wondering if that is even possible. Somehow I think it is.

What am I taking from this? A lot. I'm getting ready to go on my own two week journey, actually. Two weeks before Easter. A holiday of freshness. Of new beginnings. Of resurrections. A time for Forgiveness. Atonement. Reflection. A time of holding on to the treasures in life and letting go of the burdens. It's really as simple as that sometimes.

Father, I am sitting here listening to the rain, watching the sky dance with lightening, listening to the thunder roar and crackle and demand attention. Candle beside me and all around is quiet. Thank you for that. For the quiet. For the calm before, after, and somehow, during the storm. For the moments of fresh purity we can have that puts all things in perspective and causes us to be uncomfortable. Uncomfortable enough to make the changes we need to make. To treasure those things we should treasure and to release those things blurring our vision. I thank you tonight for the freedom in forgiveness. For the possibility of atonement. For the power of reflection. I give you these next few weeks as a pilgrimage closer to your heart and the possibility of making all things new. I am graciously and humbly.....

Yours, b

The Story

There is a story of a little girl in Congo. Her name is Yvette. When she was two years old she was found in the bush bleeding. Her mother picked her up and placed her in the arms of a man who was visiting the country. She had been raped by rebel soldiers. I saw her and her mother about a month ago. She is well and strong and loves God. She will be a great leader and woman of God. Why?

Because someone believed in her. Because someone believed she was bigger than her past and stronger than her greatest pain.

Because of that moment, there is a center eXile partner's with called the Dina Center specifically for girls who have been sexually violated because of the wars in Congo.

There is a story of a boy in Uganda. His name is Norbert. When he was around 10 years old he was abducted from his village and forced to killed his parents. With a machete. I saw him last year and he put a tiny chain on my wrist to remember him by as we walked back to our huts hand and hand. It was after he had so bravely and tearfully told his story of heartache in front of many other children who had experienced similar pain.

I washed his feet as he cried. And I cried too.

He is now a teenager at Village of Hope Orphanage in Gulu, Uganda. He is there

Because someone believed in him. Because someone believed he was bigger than his past and stronger than his greatest pain.

There is a little girl in America. She lives inside of the body of a 38 year old women. A women who, because of her past and her pain, had given up on herself and on life. But she found purpose in the story of a girl in The Congo named Yvette and a boy in Uganda named Norbert. Because of those children and many more, her greatest heartache became her greatest ministry. And Grace came full circle.

Because God never stopped believing in her. Because there is always purpose in our pain.

I am that little girl. I am that women

When I went to Congo almost three years ago now, I returned broken. I hardly left my room for three days. I had never seen hopelessness like that before. Child soldiers asked me to be their mothers. Mothers wanted to give me their daughters. In some areas of Congo, over half of the women have been raped. There are more child soldiers in Congo than anywhere else in the world. It has been deemed one of the worse places to be a child. There are over 6 rebel groups there and each month in the area of Goma alone, 150 are rescued from rebel forces. I had never seen children so traumatized.

A few months later exile international was founded with a dream of creating an art therapy program for war-affected children and former child soldiers. It has since blossomed into a wonderful mission of providing trauma care to hundreds of children on the ground through trips and supporting the work of local leaders, providing trauma care workshops, and being honored to be deeply involved in advocacy work in DC.

Within a few weeks of returning from Congo, I wrote a blog called “Looking Darkness in the Eye” In that blog I wrote about my wrestling with God. Where was He in all of this pain? I couldn’t find Him. I finally came to understand where He was. And it was beautiful.

He was beside of them when they were abducted. He was beside of them when they were being raped at the age of 8 by rebel forces. He was beside of them when they were forced to carry a pistol because they were too small to carry an AK47 at the age of 7. He was beside of them.

The question is not where is God. The question is where are we?

There is a monthly giving program that we have called SING that starts at $7 a month. It started with a question: How Does Your Life Sing? On our website you will hear Benjamin’s voice when you play the video. His father was killed in the wars of Congo. He says:

“When you begin living for something bigger than yourself you find your self. Your purpose. Your song.” And this he asks “Will you sing with us?”

And I want to ask you – will you Sing with us? With them?

We just returned from Congo a few months ago training around 100 local leaders and working with around 200 children. 24 of those were once child soldiers. Many of those have killed. Most of those do not want to return home for fear of being re-abducted again. All of them love God. Their dream is to return to their villages they fought in to begin peace clubs to teach others about forgiveness. When I asked them to draw their heart wounds – they drew pictures of guns, soldiers, dead bodies, and blood. They performed a 30 minute drama re-enacting their abduction from school, being shown how to use a gun, being forced to kill, slowly assimilating into rebel-hood, being hidden from the UN when attempted to be rescued. And finally? Being rescued and returned to society.

While praying to God about what to share with you, I started asking myself. What would they tell you? What would those 24 boys tell you ? What would Yvette tell you if she were here? What would Norbert say?

They would first tell you not to pity them. And I would double that. The children we work with have more strength and resilience than all of us combined. Please don’t pity them.

I often wonder what would happen if we began learning from those whom we feel we need to save. Outside of Jesus, they have become my greatest teachers.

Secondly, they would probably ask you to listen to them. To help them. To believe in them. I would encourage you to do the same.

Our dreams for these children are not just that they survive war, but that they become the leaders of peace and forgiveness in their communities because of what they have survived.

Frank Warren has a saying “It is the children that the world almost breaks who grow up to save it.” Our hope is that the children we work with change the course of war in their countries.

Because someone believed that they were bigger than their past and stronger than their greatest pain.

So as you watch this video and think about these stories, my wish for you is not that you are heavy hearted – but that you are excited about the opportunity to help the ending of one of these children’s lives look different than their beginning.

As you hear their stories or read about them on our blog I would ask you to learn from them. To hear them. To listen…..

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJ4HSnLf-P8

http://www.exileinternational.org

.i dream of a church for the broken and beautiful.

i dream of a church for the broken and beautiful

where wounds can be seen openly and mended freely

where tears can flow as fresh snow on mountaintops

and captured in bottles of the merciful

where scripture is read as breath into dry bones

and the deepest scars are displayed in a shadow of grace

where embraces are as genuine as a children's laughter

and prayers are lived as much as they are spoken

Where your sorrows are felt in my soul and

your joys cause my heart to leap

i dream of a church for the broken and beautiful

"I didn't want to kill those people" - More stories from a Homeless Heart

I didn't believe it. But it was true. And I have to share....

This isn't normal. I don't usually blog this close together. Although, I feel a lot more coming on lately. Lots in this head of mine. Even more in this heart. I was overwhelmed with all of the sweet messages after the last blog about Bill. But the story didn't stop there. Something else happened after I posted it, so I had to write again to tell you the rest. Sometimes I listen to myself talk and I think people have to think I make up half the stuff in my life. But I don't. Sometimes I wish I did.

4 days later after meeting Bill. Same Redbox. Same Time. Getting a movie and there was a man right beside me. Obviously drunk. Talking to himself. He had a hat on that was a mix between a cowboy hat and something Willie Nelson might wear. Shifting back and forth. I probably should have been afraid of him a little - but I wasn't. Not at all.

"You young people. You don't know. You don't know at all"

He was obviously homeless and weary and worn. Trying not to give him eye contact to be protective, but wanting to know his heart. His story.

"You don't understand." He kept saying. It's hard for a therapist not to take the bait on that one. I bit.

"What don't we understand"

"I didn't want to. I didn't want to kill those people." Did he just say 'kill those people'?

"It was fire. It was fire." He was stammering. Me: "What do you mean the fire. What was the fire?"

"It was fire or be fired on. I didn't want to kill those people. It was the war. I didn't want to kill them" He started crying. I was dumbstruck. I looked down at his hands and he was holding them in way he would hold them if he were holding a gun. My mind went back to the boys we had worked with in Congo. I remembered their hands as they held the guns they had made for the drama they did of their abduction. It could have fit in his hands perfectly.

"You young people don't understand. I'm not just a drunk. But I'm a drunk. I'm just a drunk. They put me in that prison. Without parol. My grandbabies. I have never met my grandbabies. My family thinks I'm dead. And I.... I... I didn't want to kill those people."

Trying to hold back tears. I finally felt it was useless.

"I know you didn't. God knows you didn't. I want you to know that God knows you are sorry you did that. He knows and it's ok. I think your grandbabies would love to see you. I bet your family would like to know you're alive."

Him. Crying more now.... "No - they don't care about me. They just think I'm a drunk and a killer."

"You aren't a killer. You know you aren't. God knows you aren't. What is your name?"

"Joseph"

"I think Joseph is a beautiful name. What war were you in?"

"I don't want to talk about it. I can't talk about it. You just go now. Just go on."

Both of us wiping our tears away at the same time. I asked if I could pray for him.I did. We shared more tears. Still beside the Redbox in front of God and everybody. Back to the jeep I went. Thinking of Bill. Thinking of Joseph. Thinking of the boys back in Congo and what it all meant.

Why, Lord, do you lead me into these places of War? In Uganda. In Congo. Beside of the broken hearts and lame homeless men who have lost much more than legs in the wars they have been in. What does it all mean?

I don't know yet. I don't know why things like that happen to me. Or why I am doing what I do. Or why I find myself crying with a man I don't even know outside of a McDonald's Redbox. But I do know this:

I'm glad I did. And until I do know - I will keep crying and praying and listening and learning.

And getting movies outside of that Redbox. Strangely, I seem to find Jesus there.

_________________

Please find Bill's story below....