Maybe This is Why

 {A story from my recent mission trip to Africa... and a testament to the truth that it is sometimes the little things- or the little people!- that make the biggest and longest-lasting impacts on our lives...}

It was June eleventh and I was halfway through my first afternoon at Sanyu Babies’ Home in Kampala, Uganda when I met her.

I saw her sitting alone and motionless on a bench across the hut from me and I knew immediately that something wasn’t right. I put down a baby I had been entertaining and made my way through the little crowd of playing babies to where she sat. She was sitting in an awkward position; as if someone had just sat her down and walked off- and she had just stayed frozen in that posture.

She was staring off into nowhere, a piece of cake clenched tightly in her hand. She made no move when I touched her or spoke to her softly. I picked her up and held her in my arms, but she seemed to just move to whatever I did to her, like she had no energy of her own.

I held her tight and talked to her... I prayed for her and even sang a little bit, but her facial expression never changed and she rarely made eye-contact.

Her arms and legs were tiny and cold. Her eyes were beautifully big and brown, but when I looked into them, at one point, they glazed over and my heart skipped a beat. I was suddenly afraid because I knew that something was very wrong with this child. I moved over to another bench with her, and sat down beside one of the mamas of the Home.

I asked her what the little girl’s name was:  she told me it was Beatrice.  

She said that Beatrice had just come to the Babies’ Home from a nearby hospital that very day and no one knew much about her at all.  She had been brought in by the police, the nurse later told me.

The nurse and I both concluded that she was extremely malnourished, and therefore it was hard to determine her age... but because she had a mouthful of teeth we guessed that she was about a year to18 months old. I held her tightly a little later on as Nurse Sylvia attempted to feed her a dose of medicine, but suddenly, from who knows where, the previously-lethargic little girl found an impressive amount of energy. She clenched her teeth and downright refused to swallow the nasty medicine that the Nurse stubbornly poured into her mouth. She squealed pitifully (the first sound I had heard her make all afternoon) as the brown liquid leaked over her chin and dribbled down her neck, through her hair and onto my arm. After a couple terrorizing and unsuccessful attempts to get Beatrice to take the medicine, Nurse Sylvia handed me the measuring cup and had me try..... but I didn’t get much better of results. Giving up, Nurse Sylvia said that she had no options left than to put in a port and give her the medicine intravenously next time.

Finding a roll of toilet paper, I cleaned up the sad little girl as best I could and then- realizing that I was already supposed to have left for Mengo for the evening-  I laid her down in a nearby crib regretfully.

I hated to leave her- especially just then- but I knew I had no other choice. The nurse had already left the room, moving on to other children who needed her assistance, and Beatrice lay motionless on her back in the crib, staring blankly again. I whispered her name until she turned her gaze to catch mine and I smiled at her several times, telling her that I loved her.

Then, hoping and praying hard that she’d have strength to make it through the night,
I left her.

The next afternoon I made my way down the hill from Namirembe Guesthouse to Sanyu as soon as I could.  We were first set to work gathering laundry off the line because the babies were still napping, but it wasn’t long before all 40-something babies were awake and as loud and lively as ever. While the others from my team scooped up little ones and began to play, I passed by everyone in search of Beatrice.
I had received word from another girl from another volunteer team who’d been there that morning that Beatrice had made it through the night just fine, and was seemingly doing a little better according to several who had seen her the day before- including Nurse Sylvia.

I soon found her and held her for nearly all of the three hours I was there. She was still weak and lethargic, but showed a tad bit more energy by grimacing a few times and actually even pushing me away when it bothered her that I was singing or gently rubbing on her arms and legs.

Underneath all that weakness, I was beginning to tell that Beatrice had quite the little attitude!

I helped with the torturous medicine-forcing again that evening and held her still during the intravenous injection, but my heart was sad and I hoped she didn’t develop a fear of me and begin to associate me with torture. Again, she fought as hard as she could, her squealing a bit stronger and more like a scream than the day before.

Sometimes you have to do things that aren’t fun, and I wished she could understand that I wasn’t enjoying making her suffer, but that I was trying to help her ultimately OUT of her suffering.

Nurse Sylvia said that she needed to be able to gain more strength and weight before they would be able to test her for Tuberculosis and HIV, so until then we couldn’t really be sure of what it was she was facing besides malnutrition.

 
When the time came again for me to leave I didn’t want to just set her down and walk off, so I found an older mama named Beatrice (after whom the little one was named) and asked if I could leave the baby with her.  Agreeing, the mama took Beatrice onto her lap, but the little girl immediately turned and held her arms out to me, whining in her tiny little voice.  This was the first time I had seen her show emotion besides fighting her medicine, and I was sad but extremely happy at the same time. Not only was she already gaining a little strength and beginning to communicate more clearly, she actually wanted me.... she recognized me as someone she felt safe with... and that was immediately one of the biggest highlights of my day.


I was there to make a difference... and somehow... I could see that a tiny difference was already being made. I couldn't help but thank the Lord!

Thursday, June 14th was my last day in Kampala and I was able to get over to the Babies’ Home first thing that morning. I found Beatrice still asleep in her crib and gently woke her up. I was determined to keep her with me as much as possible this day, since it would be our last day together for a while. I had no idea when or if I’d be able to come back to Africa again after this.
I bathed her, dressed her in the cutest little dress I could find in the stack of clothes, and noted that 12 months size didn’t fit this tiny little girl: she wore a 3-6 months sized outfit.

This day, Nurse Sylvia handed me the medicine and asked if I’d do the honors. I was thankful to have the opportunity to try it gently, without the struggle she was used to. She still whined and fought it some, but it went much more smoothly this time. I cleaned the medicine off her clothes and washed her hair again. As Beatrice sat on my lap outside, the nurse gave her a haircut, saying she was beginning to look “shabby”.

I snatched a tiny pinch of her black curls and stuck them in my pocket. (Shh!)

A little while later one of the teachers gave me a packet of something called Plumpy Nut and said that I was to feed it to Beatrice. My friend Emma, a girl who was very familiar with the Home and had also dealt much with malnourished children, assured me that this would be really good for Beatrice (if she’d eat it) and would help her gain weight quickly. At first Beatrice stubbornly clamped her mouth shut, thinking it was just another kind of nasty medicine, but after watching me taste it in front of her and slip some through her lips, she decided it wasn’t so bad after all. I rejoiced inwardly as I watched her willingly open her mouth for more.

The physical therapist who was there for the day asked if I would help with Beatrice's therapy and I felt as privileged as if I'd just been handed the world. I watched almost breathlessly as my baby girl shyly crawled to the therapist when beckoned, and then -upon command- stood herself up and walked across the mat. She was progressing so fast! I helped gently exercise and stretch her muscles and then massaged her body, silently praying for her and her little life as my hands gently moved across her chocolate-colored skin. I kept watching the clock, knowing my time at Sanyu was coming to a close. I had been told to be back at the chapel at Mengo Hospital (where most of my team was spending their time that week) for a service by 10:30, and it was already almost 10. I found Vicky, one of the directors of the Home, in the hallway and asked special permission to take pictures of Beatrice. She said that I could, so my sister Emily and I spent the next few minutes snapping away pictures together with this precious little girl who had become so very dear to our hearts in the last few days.

Finally, I leaned over and whispered to her, simply,  “Beatrice, honey, I’m going to have to leave soon.”
She whined, reached up and grabbed part of my shirt in her little fist and held on.

I couldn’t believe she had actually understood what I’d just said to her!

I could only imagine what kind of a life she had led up until that day, but the fact that I was now leaving her too was ripping my heart up.

holding my shirt tightly

Soon, I could hold it off no longer. I took her inside where some of the babies were having a snack. I found my friend, Laura, and told her I had to leave now; asking if she’d make sure Beatrice was well taken care of until she also had to leave later on. She understood that this wasn’t an easy moment for either one of us, and kindly offered to feed her a bottle while I left. I held Beatrice close, whispered many things to her, kissed her, hugged her, and finally said goodbye. I slipped her into her highchair despite her little whining and watched for just a second, then turned away.

That was the last time I saw her.
Never once did I see her smile.  

Many times since I left her I prayed for her, worried about her, and wrote to the director of the Home asking about her condition. Friends of mine from all over the world were praying for her, this little girl of mine, because she had captured a special place in all their hearts.
In my heart I had begun praying and scheming up plans of bringing her home.

Tonight I would be asking you to pray with me for this sweet little girl, but almost two weeks after returning to the States I was informed that Beatrice went to be with Jesus.

I don’t really know how, I don’t know why;

all I know is that she had been taken into the hospital the week before because of some symptoms which included vomiting. I had been praying for her to be healed, but Jesus had other plans for her life.




I found out after she had died that soon after I had left, another woman had taken notice of her. Jenny is an American mama of 15 children who, with her husband, was in the process of adopting a little girl from Sanyu Babies’ Home at that very time. She has been staying at the Home temporarily until the adoption was complete, and when she discovered little Beatrice and noticed her condition, she immediately began taking measures to fight for her life. She notified people around the world of Beatrice and her needs, and soon The Baby Beatrice Fund was begun and many contributed towards her care. All this, and I didn't even know!
If I’m not mistaken, it was Jenny herself that made sure my sweet girl was taken into the hospital when her condition became worse, and Jenny was the one who thought to go out and buy a beautiful, frilly dress and flower headband to dress Beatrice in for her burial a week later.

How many time can I look in your eyes and say I have nothing to give?

At her death Beatrice was two-and-a-half years old, ten pounds, and HIV positive. She was buried in a graveyard that was surrounded by a trash dump where local people of all ages dig around to find food.

I don’t know why the Lord brought Beatrice into my life, but I do know that I have been changed by the impact of the story of her life and death. At times since her passing, I have wondered and asked the Lord what the point was of those three or four short days at Sanyu with Beatrice, and why in the world He put her in my life and then took her away?

And then- slowly, quietly- it occurred to me that maybe...

MAYbe... 

it isn’t about me at all. 

Maybe all of that was so that she could be loved in a way she hadn’t before, so that she could be cared for... even just for a few hours... by this insignificant, self-consumed girl from across the world.

And maybe that’s why we go to Africa at all:

Maybe that’s what this Christian life is all about:

Giving away the love that we have received.  Even when we don’t understand the outcome.

When God is Good

{This piece was begun in December, and slowly... sporadically... I keep coming back to it; adding a bit more here, changing a bit there. Tossing words around, knowing that words cannot always clearly convey that which weighs deeply in a heart. This is such a learning process for me, this Trusting-God-In-Everything thing, and though I am choosing to share this (finally!) completed thought with you, please know that I know I do not have a complete understanding of His way in brokenness.... I am only beginning to grasp the beauty of it, and slowly... sporadically... moving one foot out to stand on bare and complete trust. Pray for me in this? He is good. He knows how to best teach each one of His children. Thank you for graciousness as I pour out my heart a bit...}



God is good -and we know it- when a father stands before the assembly Sunday morning and praises Him for His love and mercy in the healing of his only daughter.

We can't help but rejoice in the goodness and grace that overflows from our Father's heart when before our eyes she stands-

{this young woman whose body had been racked with seizures multiple times a day for the past two years... who had at one point lost the ability to eat or drink anything beyond a teaspoon of water a day for weeks... whose right eye had turned inward and refused to return it's normal, natural position}

-and verbally lifts His name high, praising Him for it all;
for the work He has done in her through it,

...and every wretched symptom is gone.

We know -in moments like these- that God is good and that His mercy endures forever.
We know without a doubt.

And God is still good when, sitting on that Central American porch in the evening light -with tears running down my cheeks-  I am told that the little girl I held and played with all afternoon really isn't loved by many in this world and does have HIV which, they say, causes AIDS and "... damages or destroys the cells of the immune system, leaving [her] unable to fight infections and certain cancers..."

God is still good.

We giggled and shot photos together... we got our fingernails painted yellow together... and decorated ourselves with Christmas stickers. She went from silent and expressionless to bouncy, chattering and full of smiles right before my eyes.

She is an orphan.

Her smile left her face again when we left her there on that sidewalk two hours later. My heart ripped when our truck pulled through those gates that shut her in and we drove away.

Even then when I stand helpless to fight the injustice, even there where children fall asleep every night without hugs and kisses and prayers; God is still good. And He is still on His throne...

...loving and creating and blessing and beautifying 

and showing Himself strong
on behalf of those who fear Him.

It's just that... that.... well, it's in these moments I have a harder time knowing that God is good.



In the middle of the dirt path that stretches through a little Honduran village held captive by witchcraft and VooDoo, I reach down and pick up a small piece of broken ceramic.
Visible evidence of the state of so many lives here.

Broken.

It's here that I watch the tears roll down the beautiful face of a young women as she remembers her husband who only recently left her and her five children to go and be with Jesus.
They suspect he was murdered for his faith.

This village... it is so dark.

She is my sister because we have the same Father. Her name is Dominga. It means "Belonging to God"... and any one who sees her knows that she does. In her I see this beautiful truth coming to life:

He tends his flock like a shepherd:
   He gathers the lambs in his arms
and carries them close to his heart; 

 He gently leads those that have young.
 

And in the midst of all the brokenness of this place I see that -indeed-
God is still as good in this place as in any other.


I grasp to know... to truly believe and trust and live out in situations like these... that  
God. Is. Good.
Truly good and kind and wise.
Always.

{Why do we... why do I... always demand proof before I will believe?}

O me of little faith.



And then.....
I got a  text last week that broke my heart like few things do because it hit very close to home.
A dear friend just had her engagement called off.
My first silent question? 

"WHY?!!"

Why, God?? Why her? Why now? Why this.... Oh Jesus, why this??

And the Lord- ever so gently- took my mind that morning back to the simple truth.  

He is good.

Even when things get broken.

{Even when things get broken.}

Days go by... and then silently, with the dawning of the new year, as I am still pondering all these things, the following words float gently into my inbox.... a message from God to me for right now, written by one who also knows brokenness;

"....‘koinonia,’ it means sharing. Sharing — breaking of oneself
and giving oneself away.
We only have what we hand away.

It means sharing out of brokenness to bring healing to community.
We only are broken and this is beautiful: in brokenness,
we are instruments in the hands of the Wounded Healer.

It means in our brokenness, we share in the sufferings of Christ, and this is communion.
God, He calls His people to share –  not out out any sense of perfection –  but out of brokenness, patterning life after the God who broke Himself and gave..."

(Ah! I am beginning to catch on now!)

 ...and it all make sense, this brokenness.
There is a perfect meaning and beuatiful purpose in all of it. 
Brokenness is how He chooses to grow His Body. It's how He chooses to heal. It's how He chooses to purify His Bride. It's how He forms us into His perfect image.


He was broken. He chose brokenness. That captures my heart.

He is good.
He is always good.

Even when things get broken.

Thank you, Jesus.

Giving of Thanks...

Oh, it's such a yummy day! Filled to the brim with sweet gifts, ready for us to drink down with thankfulness.

 

Little gifts are everywhere.... 

Are you looking for them today?

Let me share a few of my recent gifts with with you to whet your appetite....

...liquid love...

...fully enjoying every drop of the present...

...floating marshmallows...

...happy smile (can't you just see him about to break into a wide grin?!)...

...cozy little felt scarves tied tightly around the cocoa mug...

...Catchlights in her eyes...

...licking lips, a sign of enjoyment...

...God loves a cheerful giver!...

...when your cup runneth over... laugh about it!

Are our eyes open?

Look! See the gifts falling like leaves... blanketing our days with goodness and mercy.

Are we remembering to thank the Giver today for the quiet, life-giving gifts He bestows?

Lots of leaves + trampoline = tons of fun!

We call it... ULTIMATE LEAF JUMPING!

Can't help but laugh out loud!

Brothers. Thank you, Father, for brothers.

Squinting eyes . . . him, all buried in crunchy leaves. . .  :)

. . .  bare little toes . . .

 And yes, It is our traditional season of thankfulness but let's not confine thankfulness to a season. Let's make every day Thanksgiving, by choosing thanksliving.

I am asking Father this morning to help me keep my eyes open today for opportunities to be thankful, and for grace to take this day and drink down every drop with thankfulness.

"Lord, You have assigned my portion and my cup; 

You have made my lot secure."  

Psalm 16:5

The day He brought her right across my path

I tend to get wrapped up and consumed with the little things in this life of mine and forget how close I live to eternity.

I am so thankful for Father's reminders.

Because it really is just a breath away. 

Or, as David says, "... there is only a step between me and death."

Eternity.

I know they say that all the time, but do we really believe it?

Like... really?

I pulled out of the driveway on a recent Friday afternoon, all wrapped up in my self and consumed with some things that really didn't matter in the light of eternity.

My attitude? It stunk.

I was flustered because my hair was greasy and I didn't have time to wash it before I left. I was letting my to-do list pressure me, and worried about the things I left undone in my hurry to get into town. 

All very petty things. Very. Very. Petty.

But the Holy Spirit is so faithful to help us in our weakness... and He began working on me about my heart. As I drove I realized I was wrong and asked for His forgiveness.

I came up over the hill, passed highway W on the left, and after rounding the bend I saw a red truck coming towards me in the opposite lane. Suddenly the driver swerved across the double yellow lines. For a split-second I watched and expected the truck to swerve back into its own lane (like they always do)... but it didn't. It swerved more. 

I jerked the wheel to the right just as the truck was on me -my right tires in the grass off the road-

and heard a crash.

I gasped loud, but my hands stayed firmly on the steering wheel and my car moved smoothly right back into my lane. (That, I'm convinced, was God driving because I'm certain I would have lost control at that point). Little bits of glass had showered my dashboard and my shirt.
I felt dust in my eye.

I looked out my open window to see my rear-view mirror slammed into the side of the car a few inches from me- the mirror itself was lying (a bit shattered) on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

I pulled in the next driveway to survey the damage, and found that the mirror was the only thing hit. I was somewhat baffled (And yes, I guess I should admit; I was a little disappointed. I mean, really? That's IT?? I was expecting to see more than that! Sorry people, but I do love adventure...).

A minute later the red truck pulled in behind me. The driver had turned around and come back to see if I was okay. She apologized over and over, explaining that her little dog had got in between her feet and the pedals so she had reached down while driving to pull it out of the way. That's when she swerved.

I saw a crack in her headlight.

Her HEADLiGHT?!

Her headlight had collided with my little mirror?! You guys, seriously. This mirror doesn't stick out into the road that far. It's a tiny mirror!

There wasn't even the slightest scratch (nothing, that is, that hadn't already been there) anywhere else down the side of either vehicle. Her headlight and my mirror were the only two things that made contact.

Her hair was pink, she smelled of smoke. Within the first five minutes I learn that her husband left her recently for someone else and her dog had been hit by a car that very afternoon.

Her life reflected my mirror.

A bit shattered.

I placed my hand on her arm while she still sat in the driver's seat and I prayed with her. 

Jesus? Will you reach down and capture this shattered soul...?

Tears came to her eyes.

For the next half-hour as we waited for the officer to show up, she shared her life with me.

She has cancer. She was in a wreck twenty-two years ago that sent her best friend into eternity. Her dad just passed away last year. Into eternity....

Eternity.

Oh, I just kept thinking about eternity.

After the sun had sunk lower on the horizon...

After a full report had been written up for insurance purposes...

After the she honked and waved and pulled back between the lines...

After the officer and his lights faded away...

After I was back on my way into town again...

I just couldn't shake the thought.

I guess when someone's headlight passes a few inches from your face at break-neck speed you can't help but wonder about eternity- even for a bit.

I know I am ready for eternity. His life is in me and it's eternal. 

But is she ready for eternity?

Could that be why Father brought her -quite literally- across my path?

Has she found the Healer for her shattered heart? Has she discovered that the way to live is to die?

{Will you pray with me for her?}

 

"All of us must die eventually.
Our lives are like water
spilled out on the ground,
which cannot be gathered up again.
But God does not just sweep life away;
instead, he devises ways to bring us back
when we have been separated from him."
2 Samuel 14:14

We have such a merciful Father! He has made a way to bring us back. He came to heal the brokenhearted and bind up their wounds. But how can they hear about Him unless someone tells them?

I am absolutely convinced now that Father brought her into my life that day for that very reason. So that I could share with her the hope I have in me.

As I drove through the hills and watched the sun set once again over this yet-revolving earth, I thought about the things that had been consuming my thoughts before I saw that red truck cross the yellow lines. Was any of it really worth being consumed with? 

In the light of eternity, do any of these little things really matter??

Last week a dear friend texted me and asked me to pray for her aunt who just got a bad report about the cancer she is battling.

She tells me her aunt lives each day "as if it was her last"...

And I wonder if that is not what we should all be doing.

"Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. 

What is your life? 

You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes." 

James 4:14

Tomorrow is not guaranteed. Life as I know it now is not guaranteed. 

Am I living each day unto the glory of God?

Am I living each moment filled with thankfulness to a good Father for good gifts?

Am I loving each person in my life unconditionally- as if today is our one last together?

Are the things I'm doing, saying, being, and wanting really worth doing, saying, being, wanting?

Am I walking worthy of the calling with which I was called?

Am I choosing to die daily so that Jesus can live beautifully and powerfully within me?

Am I shining like a star in the sky in this warped and crooked generation- holding out His hope and His truth to those whose paths cross my own?

Am I living in the light of eternity?

Are you?