ouch.

     Have you ever heard a bone break? Something like a sick, cracking sound as particles that were one become separate. A substance that was once bound together as a strong, supportive force begins to crumble, the weight it sustained crashing along with it. And then sharp, searing pain. Then, you know, a cast. Months of healing. Time to allow the bone to fuse together. Time to allow new growth.
Sometimes you don't even know it's broken. Sometimes, you have to have it examined over and over again to determine if it really is.

I was thinking about how the end of a relationship is like a bone breaking. Maybe sharp and unexpected, maybe a calculated cost of an action, maybe only that at some point, it would happen. It just would.

It just did.

Only the pain wasn't unbearable in that moment. It wasn't the actual breaking. It is the months of healing ahead. The disuse of some part of me so familiar.

Yet, the how necessary dysfunction of it now.

How I have to laugh at myself. Me, sitting there amid the rubble in my heart.
Laughing at my silly analogies of breaking bones, laughing at my silly attempts to describe a sharp pang of a kind of failure in my heart, laughing at me laughing at myself.

But not really laughing. Actually just kind of sad about the whole ordeal.

But anticipating that new growth and healing that broken brings after it.

The Jesus I Do Not Know

I do not recognize this Jesus. The one birthed from the free love of my parents generation and the political correctness of mine own. I do not know this one who is triumphed as about as being loving, soft and merciful, but only when the discussions of right and wrong begin to brush the edges of conviction in our lives. This is not the Jesus I know.

Jesus, my friend. The one who would never say anything to hurt my feelings, because He loves me. And love? Love means telling people what they want to hear. He is so cautious, you see, to side step delicately around the rolling, changing tides of human opinion. Because He loves me. That means He would never make me uncomfortable about my choices. There is no judgement in love - that's in the Bible, I think. Can't be too sure, I don't hear much of that book in church, so my only reference for this man's character is my own opinion. For surely He is a man, being so easily malleable, but with God like powers when the situation calls for a miracle. Jesus likes what I like. He is all things to all people. That's in the Bible too. He is kind, it's God who is angry all the time. Or He used to be, but that part of the Bible is obsolete. I don't know why He is angry, I just know Jesus died. So I wouldn't go to Hell. Which is bad because...there is fire. Heaven is not much better, there just isn't pain. I am not sure who actually goes to Hell. The haters...
maybe.

"I need Christ, not something that resembles Him." - C.S. Lewis

I need every bit of Jesus. I need all of His attributes. He is my fierce Protector. He is unchanging. He is Holy, Holy, Holy. He abhors all sin. He spent time with the down and outs of society. The "sinners." The tax collector, the prostitute, the doubter, and the control freak. In response to those I hear use this about Jesus as an argument to justify continually spending time with those who love doing evil, I would say this. Jesus didn't just "hang out" with them. He saved them. The gospel was continually on His lips, and His heart was perpetually pure. He wasn't only a friend, He was a Saviour. He loved them at their darkest, but it was that darkness (and mine) which nailed Him to a rugged cross. It was our sin which held Him there, so that we may not remain in sin.
I do not pretend to have an extensive knowledge of an infinite Saviour. I do know, however, whom He declares Himself to be. I know that at His coming, when the clouds roll back, a weak, hippie, all-love-no-judgement-Jesus, will not be the One descending through the sky. When He rides in on His white stallion, with a sword extending from His mouth, fire in His eyes, and black tattoo up His thigh declaring, "King of Kings, Lord of Lords", the sinners redeemed will recognize Him...
But many will not.

Peaches and Cards

We sat on a bench in the middle of the compound. The concrete paths leading through the gardens slip under our swinging feet and splitting in two directions, on opposite sides of the property, stop at the steps the two homes. One home is for elderly women who are mentally handicapped, the other for "just" elderly women. We came bearing peaches and cards we had spent the morning making. Wishing I was more "spiritual", I wished I wasn't wishing not to be there as we walked through the putrid halls that afternoon. We had passed out all the fruit and cards we had in the homes and now sat, waiting for everyone else to finish doling out their supplies. Continual high pitched shrieks came from the home on our left. One of the ladies had been in a car accident years ago and permanent brain damage was accompanied by the continuing nightmare of her reliving the accident over, and over again.
Across from us, a sweet lady wearing a pink, fluffy robe is smiling at us. She only speaks Hungarian though, so we just smile and nod back.
I am sitting with my little, Romanian friend from the group homes. He is thirteen.
He knows a few words of her language, so as we speak, he offers them every now and then and she smiles even bigger at him.
"Why does no one want her? Look at her."
We were.
"See, she is nice old lady. There is nothing wrong with her..."
Screams from the home for the handicapped echoed over the compound.
"...you know, brain."
"I don't understand these people. If you have family, a mother, why you stick her here to die alone? Why you never come to visit her? Why, if you have mother, you not keep her?"
We continued to observe her as she happily munched her peach.
"And her.."
The screams have grown louder.
"What was the accident for? Yes, God must have had plan for her life. It was to die here?"
He gestured to the home.
Gulp.
What the heck. How am I supposed to respond to that?? I have no answers. None.
He is still talking. Talking about his friend from his home who hit his head. If he was brain damaged, he would end up in a home like this, eventually. Talking about peoples brains. He demonstrates a healthy brain by a fist, and a damaged one by a flat hand with spread fingers. If his friend's brain had been like this, a spread hand, he would be here.
Well, not here. But you know. In one for men.
Yup. I wanted to say, believe me. Walking through the halls, I thought of my kids that had been on my teams at camp. My special needs kids. The ones that will not be able to live alone. The ones who have no future outside of...this. God must have had a plan for them... Was it this? Withering away in some railed bed, staring at some white wall, until death slips in and slips his chilled fingers over their decimated, weary bodies?
I had seen the beginning at the baby hospital. The babies that would grow up, dependent on the state, maybe even go to a christian camp, and then die here. Those babies grow up. And they are here.
Gah. I don't know.
So I tell him that.
"I don't know. All I know is that God is somehow still perfectly good. And that the world is permanently messed up."
I winced inwardly at how my answer seemed to ring with insufficiency in light of the heaviness of our talk. But I had nothing else to offer. And no matter how overwhelming the fallenness of man seems, sin, and all of creation which "groans together", there isn't a better answer. I know He is it.
And I pray for a heavenly perspective. I pray that He overwhelms me with the peace of His sufficiency.
But I know that the closer I see, the more that the placating layers of the worlds lies are peeled back, and when finally, the nakedness of the decimation of sin (my own included) is in front of me, God, in all of His holiness, all of His goodness, in all of His perfectness, stepping down to extend salvation to us...
my heart bows before Him at a loss for words.

Isaiah 61

*Whew*
The first week of camp is over with. 
It seems I hardly have time to process all of the experiences I encountered this past week because, already, we are looking ahead to the next.
This week was embodied by the thought of a putting my hand to a plow and not glancing back. 
As the Lord continues to show me, I am responsible for faithfulness to speak the gospel, but the weight of responsibility is God's. He changes lives. 
My team at the beginning of this week were completely different kids by the end. Some of the feelings they came with were the normal nervousness of meeting new people, but much had to do with emotional barriers that they bear. 
By the end of the week, a girl who arrived stone faced was smiling, a boy who had been silent was talking, the one who did not want to be touched did not stop wanting to be hugged, and one that had not made eye contact or participated was constantly begging to be first to compete in games and incessantly asked questions. I loved my kids. 
I loved how God orchestrated the perfect team through seemingly random selection of grabbing them off of buses that first day, or trying to win them over from other teams the within the first minutes of loud confusion and general pandemonium. I love how out of chaos and exhaustion, God works to plant seeds of His word in these kids that are so precious to Him. I love how He is changing my perspectives, constantly and consistently. I loved that He taught me too much this week to even begin to sort through, even as I attempt to write thoughts out. I love that through my selfish, useless vessel He can display His selfless love and grace. I loved my kids enthusiasm and laughter. I loved hearing them shout their memory verses in Romanian, and praying that God would make their very recitation of His gospel real to them. I loved getting to know each of my kids, and at the last day, praying over them in ways I didn't even understand and in areas that God had revealed to me.
The last day was hard. Saying goodbye, knowing that this will most likely be the last time I see these specific kids on earth. The tone of my group changed as the camp day began to come to an end. My kids grew a bit somber, and some sat with silent tears. 
In a sense, this week was highly unfair. I was sad to see them go, but I am surrounded by people who love me. I have a very real representation of Christ's love through my family and friends back home. At the end of my stay here, I will go back to stability and comfort. 
For most of these kids, this week was it. If their home allows our follow up program to do classes, this won't be their only contact with those bearing Christ's name, and God works in ways and through people however He chooses. But this week was the most obvious, focused expression of love specifically to each kid that they can expect to experience all year. What broke my heart the most was to see the kids who made so much progress throughout the week retreat back into silence, or anger, or another burden they came with...
and we cannot preach the "American gospel" to "fix" them. 
In orientation, we learned of a young girl one year who asked if she accepted prayed to God, would she stop being raped every night when she went back to her home? The American leader encouraged her that God would protect her. 
With a face set like a stone, she approached her leader the next day. Through the translator she communicated, "You said to pray, that God would save me. And still, I was raped. I want nothing to do with your religion."
We can make no promises to these kids that if they just accept Christ, they will end up happy and successful here on earth. We do not say, if you believe in God, your parents will come back, or someone will adopt you. We cannot assure them that believing in God will keep them from being abused, if not by a worker, than by another of the kids in their home. 
Instead, we promise them what Christ offered. We promise them His comfort, joy, and peace despite circumstances. We preach eternal life and hope. We offer a love that doesn't abandon, and grace that extends far beyond our knowledge and understanding. 
As God has been redefining my understanding of the gospel, this was the hardest to learn, let alone live. 
In my human understanding, strength and sovereignty mean protection and comfort. 
But again, this is my human understanding. 
Christ offers an eternal perspective on life that supersedes anything we could encounter on earth. 
Why He would choose to use someone like me, who has hardly experienced any form of real suffering to bring his gospel to those who have experienced the harshest form of hardship, is completely beyond my understanding. Perhaps the Lord chose to include us, the American church, hardly because, as we seem to think, we are a super spiritual, equipped people who have the best resources and most knowledge on how to help the world's "least of these". But in that we are the least equipped. Yes, we have resources beyond the people whom we minister to could dream of. We have access to the Word and freedom of opinion more than we could appreciate... 
But to a child who experiences the vicious cycle of abandonment, one who experiences the very worst of human sin nature, forces of evil, and a fallen world... Are our pampered, manicured hands, the extension of Christ's body, the most equipped? Hardly. But, is not our God most glorified in what we are most ill equipped for? 


As we have been called to...a planting of the Lord for a display of His splendor. -Isaiah 61:3

Ogra Village

Day 6

We belted out the American songs playing over the Romanian radio station, quite  loudly, as we drove through downtown Targu Mures and past the surrounding towns. After a few sharp turns, the dust began to kick up after the wheels on our van as the paved roads turned to gravel, and then, to dirt. 

We made a final turn and drove down a brown dirt mixed with gravel road. Small shanties, with ideas of picket fences lining the edges of tiny yards, stood uncertainly on one side with the other side of the road was lined with brush and trees. 

At the sound of our engine, children appeared from everywhere. Slipping from the brush, running down the main road that cut the small village in half, pouring from houses, or slipping quietly from oblivion to observe while the others strained to wave, jump, and shout at the Americans.
I singled out a few of the ones pleading most for attention, and tried to engage the most withdrawn, by tapping on my window at them and waving. Smiles exploded and they waved back. The Americans are here! Here at our village!
We came to a halt and waited for the van with the rest of our team mates to arrive. Being separated by glass didn't deter the kids from attempting to soak up as much of our attention as they could.
You should leave your belongings here, our Romanian translator cautioned us. I mean, I don't want to be rude, but these kids are known as thieves.
As we climbed from the van, the wave of children hit us. The fact that most of us were strangers was of no importance.
As the wave of children hit, so did the smells. There was no escaping it. The stench of horse manure mingled with the smells of trash, this formed the overall smell of the town and added to the kids who simply smelled...unclean. Their faces that looked up to smile, and hands that stretched to hold ours were caked in dirt, sticky with different substances, and some, smelled strongly of feces.

We were visiting Ogra today, a name that literally translates into ogre, a gypsy village which Livada ministers to.

They rushed to hug, pat, shake hands, or merely talk as fast as they could at us. 

Shouts of, "Cum te cheama?", "Cum te cheama?" "Ce mai faceti?" (How are you? What is your name?) filled the air. If you could answer those questions, a million others would take their place.

I tried out my broken Romanian sentences and butchered words to the children's great amusement. But they patted me anyway for my attempt. 

"Bine, bine!" They exclaimed.

As we mingled in a circle, the kids laughed and played, tugging at our clothes, begging to be chased. We set off on a grand tour of the village. Two little girls grabbed my hands and began to chatter away while a mischievous little boy squirted me with a water pistol and laughed hysterically at my exaggerated reaction of indignation. 

The tour included all of walking down the main street until houses no longer lined the side, then turning back.

With a grand shout, the kids began to beg for games, so tramping through a ditch, we all began to clamor through a small opening near on the street lined with brush and trees. Climbing through a broken fence, even the little ones came, showing skill for maneuvering the opening.

After following the winding path, which was riveted with ruts and and holes, we arrived at an open field in which stood a stark soccer goal frame, a dirt middle, and small trees on the grass edging this playground of sorts.

The next hour consisted of as much as was physically possible.

"Raţa, raţa, gasca!" (duck, duck, goose) was followed by a game similar to Simon Says.

After the structure came the sweet chaos. As many times as I could lift one child into the air and spin around, ten more would be next shouting for a turn. Piggy back rides, tree climbing, and lessons on how to count were also in order for me as my team and I were pulled into different corners of the big field.One girl gravitated towards me who stuck out a little. She was a bit taller than the little ones, she was older, not easy to lift, was especially grimy, and as she propelled herself onto my back, the smell of her waste, which she had not wiped away and had seeped through her leggings, hit me so strongly that my "American" stomach turned and I dropped to crouch in the dirt for a few moments as bile rose in my throat. 

I am ashamed, but my first thought as my stomach stilled and I looked up to her gaped smile again and out and upward stretched arms begging for a "horsey ride", was to immediately, but gently avoid physical contact and perhaps to just show her Jesus' love by smiling.

Again, my next thought brought me shame even as it formed. 

"We still don't have our luggage." 

I had just acquired a clean, white shirt. We would not be at home until the evening, so however I smelled after this, I would smell it all day. 

"Also, I may be dehydrated!" 

I considered as I pinched the back of my hand to see if my skin stayed together longer. We had run out of bottled water last night, and I had not drunk anything since. Yes, I shouldn't be lifting so many kids, I am parched. 

And I knew. As far as I have encountered in my life, these were the least of these.
It is hardly a sacrifice to love a child, or anyone, that is lovable. Even with these children, there were the "easy" ones to love. The smaller, more vulnerable looking ones tugged at my heart and were easy to shower with attention. The ones without snot dripping down their faces were easier to hug tightly, the smaller ones that clung to your legs, or the older ones which looked to you like you were "cool". The ones that make me feel good about loving, not the ones that leave me gross and wanting a shower all day.

It didn't matter. 

The least of these. 

To be born into the Roma (Gypsy) people group, in most countries, is to be subjected to a life marked by discrimination and poverty. Romania is no exception. Most of the kids have Gypsy, the word with connotations of beggar and thief, tattooed on their identity by the darker color of their skin. The few lighter ones would have better prospects in society, but that their names are distinctly Gypsy names. Of the eight hundred people living in the village of Ogra, seven of the men have steady jobs. The others depend on searching for day labor, and odd jobs. Even the Gypsy people that are able to rise above their circumstances turn to discriminate against these Gypsies.

In a moment, which seemed like an eternity to me, I processed and weighed my options. The girl waited as I  crouched down "catching my breath".

There would be showers and  bottles of sanitizer, hand wipies, and, eventually, changes of clothes, but this little girl was asking for love now. So as I rose and she climbed onto my back, the words of one of the long term missionaries I had talked with earlier that day came to mind, 

"Whatever you have give it. All the love, all the touch, attention, and kindness you have."

Give until you are spent. And the moment you are spent, as I was crouching in the dirt, pray that our Father, who loves us unconditionally regardless of our filth, will empower us in our weaknesses.

We climbed into the van a few hours later, every one of our white shirts varying shades of brown with hand prints on them, and me an especially interesting smell.

Nothing illustrates better the love of our Savior. Not fearful of our humanity, getting his holiness smudged, or acquiring the stench of sin, He reached out anyway, picked us up, and continues to hold us  with no hesitation, no option weighing on whether He should show us love or not, and tighter than I could have ever held that little girl.

Romania!

Salut from Romania!

We, my team and myself, have so much to be thankful for! We arrived safely Thursday morning and our days have been a flurry of activities ever since.
We have taken up residence in an old children's home called Casa Rene (in honor of the french man who donated it to Livada) which is in the middle of being renovated. 

For a girl hailing from Beaumont, the land of no inclines whatsoever, the view from our window is breathtaking.

There being a "mix up" at the airport, we arrived sans luggage, but in good spirits.
Also, my roomies are awesome.

Friday, we arose to sweep, mop, clean any surface we found,

 scrape newly tiled floors,

and practiced our skits and material for camp.

With occasional dance breaks, of course.

Oh, and we also ate copious amounts of food.

So, though tired and nasty from travelling with no options to be in anything else, God has provided more than we needed and gave us joy to have places to sleep and ah-ha-maz-zing Romanian food in our stomachs. 

A Cry for Discretion- The Controversy of "Kony 2012"

There is something rousing and heartwarming in the thought of a global movement achieving peace and justice through throngs of people, ordinary people, demanding it. 


There is compassion that lurches inside of my own heart at the sight of injustice and horrors, followed by a stirring of adrenaline to do something about it. I believe that this comes from being made in the image of God. There is a sense of justice He has instilled within our conscience and emotions which causes our hearts to desire justice for those who are oppressed, who are hurting, who cannot speak for themselves.


This being said- compassion, good intentions, hopeful goals, global movement- while these things can be beneficial, they do not replace integrity.


We cannot let our emotions, our emotional response to a moving piece of media, dictate our discernment.


Allow me to explain.


Starting yesterday evening, I saw a few smattered postings of the movie “Kony 2012” made by the non-profit organization Invisible Children, calling for the arrest of the Ugandan war criminal, Joseph Kony.


This morning when I logged onto Facebook, the movie had gone “viral”.


I realize very quickly that two sides are forming on this chasm of what is becoming a social clamour- either in full-fledged support, or bitter opposition.


As with any organization I would potentially donate to, I want to know that the money being collected is actually going to the stated cause before I donate.
This is where it gets a bit sticky.
First, a look at the actual organization:


There have been countless blogs and articles questioning the integrity of Invisible Children as a non-profit organization. There were allegations that the organization was pouring 23-80% of its funds into the care of previous victims and education of Ugandan children, along with multiple other accusations of the founder and film maker, Jason Russell’s intentions.  So many, that there was no possible way for me to discern what was true from the opinions reporters, bloggers, and Facebook commenters.


So, I went directly to the Invisible Children’s website, where, as a non-profit organization, they have to provide something called a 990 form to show how they spend the donations they receive.
They checked out better than I thought.


Of the 13,765,180 monies which they received, $7,163,384 was pumped into “program services.”


That is 53%- not a bad percentage, but, for me, not a good one.


Half being used for “education” and half for film making raising awareness.
And the salaries of the four paid staff members were comfortable, but not excessive, for California living expenses.
As far as how they handled their money, everything checked out…almost.
The following are points of concern:

•         On the form it was stated that they have a financial account offshore in the Cayman Islands, United Kingdom. This smells a tad of fish. Any bank account in a neutral, off shore location is a matter of question, however; the question here is whether or not they are using for ease of access OR for shady dealings and money laundering.
•         There are seven members of the board, four of which have voting rights (They get to call the shots). This is where it gets fuzzy. These four members are related, two by marriage, and the others by “business”.
•         One of the paid board members, Scott Wolfe, owns a private copying company, which the founder, Jason Russell, has some “business relations” with-whether shares, a seat on the board, etc., is not stated. This is the company which the organization orders their supplies from. With all the posters being printed up, you’d have to guess that’s a lot of supplies
•           Because all the members are interrelated they could act solely in one another’s interest, there is the possibility that money is simply being funneled in one lovely circle.
•           There is no independent organization appraising The Invisible Children’s claimed “program services”. We do not know what their education programs look like, or accomplish.

Though this is all some measure of concern and I would think twice before I donated funds to this organization, it is their message I find to be more troubling in areas.


This is the stated mission of Invisible Children:
INVISIBLE CHILDREN USES FILM, CREATIVITY AND SOCIAL ACTION TO END THE
USE OF CHILD SOLDIERS IN JOSEPH KONY'S REBEL WAR AND TO RESTORE
LRA-AFFECTED COMMUNITIES IN CENTRAL AFRICA TO PEACE AND PROSPERITY.


And so I ask you to consider these thoughts.


If all of America, on April 20, 2012 “plastered the town” with posters of Kony to raise awareness, what end would this accomplish?
The movie’s states this would catch the attention of our government, convincing them to retain the 100 US military advisors in Uganda to train their military in the newest technology to find Joseph Kony.


Small problem.


Joseph Kony is not in Uganda.
He has been in hiding since 2006. But, he is (we assume) still in control of the LRA (Lord’s Resistance Army) because they are stronger than ever.
Every time an attempt has been made to find him, there has been a slaughtering in response of children and an escalation in violence as repercussions.


A quick break down, the ONLY things we can do as US citizens are:

•     Send advisory troops.
•     Donate funds for the victim’s rehabilitation and education. 
•     Raise awareness.

As the United States, we have no legal jurisdiction in Uganda. 
If we did, the simplest solution would be to deploy an army Seals team to dispose of this terrible man, Joseph Kony.


As simplistic as the movie makes it seem, there are more aspects to the problem in Uganda- a major one being the Ugandan army is also corrupt and commits some of the same atrocities as the LRA, save making child soldiers of the village kids.


I am asking you to count the cost. 

Ask harder questions of organizations like the Invisible Children- before you donate.

It is easy to sit here in America, and buy a bracelet, or an awesome graphic tee, and have a genuine heart to see change, peace, and justice done…but can we see the consequences of our "activism"? Or the perhaps the effects this will NOT have. 

I am not questioning the sincerity of anyone's heart. It is amazing to me how much power and voice our generation truly has when awakened, however, is it in the right direction? Or are we fighting for a goal that does not make sense given the way our country works in regards to foreign affairs?

I do not have a solution. I know that these kids are of the utmost importance, and my heart is to see them rescued as well.

However, we might do better to invest in organizations that provide little more than three million dollars (23%), of their overall net, to an unidentified form of “education”.