My Brokenness Runs Deep

 I read something today. 

“The more you are acquainted with your own brokenness, the greater your understanding will be of your belovedness.” (In Christ)

It’s a new way to move forward. A different perspective. A challenge to be looking up with hope. 

My brokenness runs deep. I imagine no one will ever know or would ever suspect what ragged, jagged pieces make up my story or what the depth of my shame and pain threatens to be. Today. And most every day. I think I hide it so well. 

But I also know that Christ’s love reaches even deeper. It’s unconditional and faithful and enormous. And the more I come face to face with my own need, the clearer it becomes that His love reaches this far. 

I. Am. Loved. 

So keep showing me, Lord. Show me how deep my deprivation. Run your hand along my jagged edges and feel my pain. Don’t let me hunker down and hide. Your love makes way for me to be broken and beloved in the same breath. 

Deeply broken. Fiercely loved.

"I am a professional writer."

Those were the words spoken to me and my seventh grade classmates by the new, no-nonsense, English teacher sitting on a stool before us at the start of a brand new school year. Some of us rudely rolled our eyes and the rest chuckled audibly and with disdain at her introduction. She went on to reveal her extensive resume', past experiential roles, and her clear, over-qualification for the job. She also expressed the deep value she placed on reading and writing and said, "THIS English class is going to be unlike anything you've ever had before".

And it was.

The first thing she did was chuck the endless grammar lessons and diagramming of sentences out the third story window.
And we all cheered.
She arranged our desks in groups to encourage feedback on each others written work and she started treating us like real authors with un-mined potential. Her shelves were lined with dog-eared paperbacks and several chair cushions were stuffed in corners, ready to pull out for good, flop-on-the-floor reading time.

She read to us aloud almost every day from that lofty stool we once scorned. Back in my day this was akin to secret church meetings in the third-world underground and we loved her for it. She probed our minds and hearts for reactions and thoughts towards the characters and plot that came alive in her voice and we wrote and wrote and wrote. Willingly!
Those assigned book reports were no more. She took the suffocating rules and expectations off of reading and writing for us that year and we blossomed under her expertise and boldness to blaze a new trail.

This seventh and eighth grade teacher of mine went on to become an American educator who in 2015 became the first recipient of the Global Teacher Prize, a $1 million prize awarded by the Varkey Foundation to "one innovative and caring teacher who has made an inspirational impact on their students and community." She founded the nonprofit Center for Teaching and Learning and wrote nine books, selling more than half a million copies.

I've lost touch with her but she left her mark on me by teaching me that what I had to say through the written word was important and worthy, an encouraging idea for a shy but creative seventh-grader.
I started writing on my own, filling blank journals with poems, short stories and thoughts and continued as I journeyed through high school and college. 

As an adult, life as I knew it was turned upside down when my four-year-old son was diagnosed with an aggressive kidney cancer. Not only did a battle begin in the flesh and blood for my boy, but an all-out spiritual war and incredulous spiritual journey began for me.

Thus began my story. The one that I believe I am finally ready to share. God knows I'd rather take the easy way out and remain silent. He knows my writing confidence is at an all time low. But He also knows me, chapter by chapter, line by line, and that He will most assuredly be glorified through the honest telling of exactly what He's done for me and wants to do for you. 

I don't know exactly how this is going to unfold. Today is a day of going back to my roots in seventh-grade English class and agreeing with God that it's time to start writing again.

You can "follow me" by entering your email above. Then you will get a notification when I publish a new blog post. My greatest desire is to write honestly and vulnerably AND to point your heart towards the One who rescued mine. 

Julie Anne

Dear Me

Dear Little Julie

I've been wanting to write this letter to you to set some things right and make them clear and easy to understand. I've wanted to lift your innocent face with my trembling hand and tell you you're ok.

I'm sorry I've held you responsible for our pain. You're just a little girl and little girls should not be bowed low under the sheer weight of it all. The most you should be carrying is a stuffed rabbit and a backpack loaded with sparkly crayons and a lunchbox.

I'm sorry no one listened or at least read between your lines. You lived in a day when awareness was at ground zero and no one was paying much attention.
You deserved to be seen.
I see you now.
And I'm listening.

I'm sorry I prolonged your captivity by forcing you to keep secrets. Those were far too big and scary for you and they've kept you in the dark.
 Hiding.
 Fearful.
Silent.

Today is a new day.

I want you to be BRAVE. The kind of BRAVE that sets you free.
I want you to untie your hair and let it shake loose and fly everywhere. We'll worry about tangles later.
I want you to set the shame down and pick up some paint brushes instead and create with broad strokes till you're satisfied; filling the white space with vibrant, freeing color.
I want you to dance because you WANT to dance
I want you to see the magic in your one beating heart, waiting for the curtain to be pulled back to reveal its glory.
I want you to look in the mirror and see just a little girl. No other titles. No other names.
Did you know that God calls us Braveheart? You and I were born to do BRAVE things alongside Jesus and do them with a heart like no one else. So stand tall, little one. You've been chosen to do big and bold things for Christ and He's on the move. You can bring your stuffed rabbit with you.

And now listen. I want you to stop running and I want you to breathe. No more running, baby girl. Believe me when I say you are safe now. God is organizing an army of people He's chosen, to surround you, care for you, be playful with you, listen to you on bended knee, gently touch you and even hold you. It's coming. Just hold on.

I will remind you that it's ok to look up. Let your downcast, soulful eyes be seen.
I will whisper in your ear, "We do not deserve to keep hurting ourselves."
Even when you call yourself impossibly wretched names in the reflections you pass by, I will call you beautiful and adored.
I believe in you.
You are good.
And Jesus is pleased with you.
It's a lie that Jesus is disappointed with you. That you are too broken to belong to him .
Fight back.
I know you are tenacious so fight back.
There comes a time to stand up for your mighty self and declare a winner.
Do it.
I believe in you.

Look ahead with me. We've already changed the world in the ways God has asked us to. You are headed for greatness in Christ, which ultimately means smallness, but it's the best kind of small to be. So stay with us.
Let your heart run with the passion that is in there.

I'm going to tuck you in tonight if you'll let me. I long to take care of you. Nurture you. Walk you out into the light, hand in hand. And you know, out in the light is where it's warm. And that warmth is the kind that seeps down into little-girl brokenness and soaks and mends and heals.
It fades the dark circles from under your eyes and makes those gorgeous red highlights in your hair sparkle.

Once we are in the Light, we are going to stay there.

Keep breathing,
Julie

Inside and Right Side Out

Everything changed when I set myself down on a cold hard floor in the darkness and refused to come out. Convinced of insidious, wormy lies that were crawling up my back and snaking their way into any brokenness they could find.

It's not the darkness that changed me.
It was Jesus, who knelt down beside me, made Himself comfortable, and stayed.

Like a friend?

Yeah....like your very best friend.

I can sing about it with fervor, read the words in fancy print and even make marker posters to announce it.
What a Friend We Have in Jesus....

But until He came for me with those snaking lies crawling all over me and sat down in the grotesque mess I was in, they were only just empty words.

But the empty cross handed me one loyal, loving Savior.
And that Savior moved in beside me on the floor and rescued me.

Does Jesus sit on dirty bathroom floors?

Yeah.....He really does.

And because He sat there, I was changed inside and right side out.

I am not alone. Ever.

You know what that kind of truth does to the heart of the little girl inside me?
It brings her up off the floor, reaching with every bit of tallness she can muster to a kind of friend she never believed was FOR her.
She grasps the sides of His shoulders, buries her face in His mane and all at once falls in love and falls asleep.

And the way that truth gripped me from one end to the other, the truth that I am never alone and Jesus stays, it makes even the colors in this world look different. Brighter.
The rustling wind from the woods smells sweeter.

That truth is locked and loaded now.
Because of trauma I've had to learn new ways to replace my survival tricks and tactics.
It took an EXPERIENCE to rattle the lies off and cement the hand print of my heart into the truth that I will not ever sit alone in the dark or dance across the kitchen floor without Someone delighting in me.
Never Alone.
He Stays.
I am Held.

Julie

Let Him Stay

Sometimes.... there is a darker story lurking and churning behind what others can see from the outside.
This has been true of me.

I was born into a home brimming with love, security and endless laughter.
I've been a follower of Christ ever since I was even remotely able to understand what a follower of Christ was. He had my heart.
I was gloriously voted in as class clown in eighth grade. A high honor for someone who loves to make people laugh.
I went to college and majored in Christian Education and Missions.
I've been a pastor's wife for twenty-five years in a church that has been nothing but generous and good to me.
I co-founded a non-profit that rescues and empowers children and their families from the grip of extreme poverty and hopelessness in Uganda, Africa and have traveled there to love on those kids and be equally loved by them, six times.
I am surrounded by exceptional family and friends who invite me into joy and crazy kinds of fun, who will stop to listen to my heart and who are never as far away as a text or a phone call, lunch or a movie.
I've been in counseling for at least seven years with some of the best Christian therapists in the field and have experienced deep and lasting healing from childhood trauma.

Hear me say this.
My life is GOOD.
My faith is STRONG.
My family is BEAUTIFUL.
But on June 28th at six o'clock in the morning, I tried to shut down my one beating heart by cutting off my air supply with the ties and material of two hospital gowns.

I'm not looking for pity. And I'm not wallowing in shame or regret.
Instead, I am asking for awareness and understanding.
And at the same time, I'm offering Hope.

I was in great anguish and despair on that early morning in June because I somehow believed I was all alone. Alone in the sense that Jesus had given up on me and walked away. And if I wasn't fit for my beloved relationship with Him, then there was no reason that made any sense to keep me tethered to this life.

How did I get to this place?

A few people have shamed me and turned away in disgust because I fell for and believed a lie. Because I chose to be utterly selfish in trying to end my life and leave everyone I love, hurting and broken.
But I'm joining the ranks of believers who don't carelessly judge someone who attempts or commits suicide. The ones who have been there or understand the reality and torment of mental illness.
One can have a beautiful life and have their medications cease doing their job. Add to that chronic pain with no relief, a serious and prolonged sleep deficit, added financial strain because you cant work your regular job, stressors that are beyond your control and anxiety that pulls you into the need to hide which ultimately keeps you from the very people who you need to reach out to for help. That tormented feeling like you are permanently alone and then circumstances that utterly convince you that your God has also abandoned you for good.

That last one broke me. It broke my heart and it broke my mind.

"I found out that Jesus didn't want to be alone, either. In a garden in Gethsemane, He asked, "Is there any other way?"
Jesus could have chosen to pray by himself and hide this inner struggle. Jesus often prayed alone. Yet on the worst night of his life, Jesus tells us he needed someone to hold on to the hard moment with him.
Jesus needed someone to stay.
And you know what? The hardness of the journey doesn't mean you are on the wrong path." ~Bonnie Gray ~ Whispers of Rest.

Jesus knelt quietly beside me as I pulled those ties tighter and tighter around my desperately pulsating neck, tying knots as I went.
 And He whispered, "I'm here with you. And I'm going to stay. Do not fear, for I have redeemed you. I call you by name. You are mine."
The Holy Spirit seemed to engulf me and loosen my grip.
He came in three, swirling colors that I recognized as the Trinity.
And I gave in to Love.

I put words to this incredibly personal and painful experience because we all need people who are real. And to help you understand that this does indeed happen to people of faith.
Don't look down on them. Look up to Jesus. The One who rescued me from my own destructive mind and helped me to uncurl my fingers and let go.

He's just as much for you as He is for me.
Let him stay with you.

I Am in Love

I am a certified list-maker.

Some of my lists are practical, others are fueled by my imagination and others, like this one, are God-led.

It's a list of ten people in my life who have had a remarkable impact on this heart of mine. It was easy to do and I could have added more friends, but I kept it at the nice, even number of ten. From there, I started writing down the details on how these incredible people bring out the best in me.The deepest ways in which they reach me.

 It is the end result that I want to tell you about, so stay with me.

Melissa ~ endlessly patient with me, loves and values my words, thoughts and ideas, sees beyond and through my fears and guarded heart.

Vickie ~ not afraid of my pain. Her very presence speaks safety to me. When she is with me she's fully present and her touch is indescribably healing. I could stay with her for hours.

Karisa ~ is careful with me and hears me in the deepest ways. She is extraordinarily wise and is the rawest real with me than anyone I know. When I am with her, I am certain that I am being heard.

Elaine ~ can wrap me up in her arms and love me with a love that is as close to Jesus as I have ever found. She looks me in the eye, assures me I am ok. And she stays. When all hell breaks loose in my life, she stays and has even gone to great lengths to adopt me. Permanently.

Amy ~ has the ability to make me laugh. Really laugh.With her there is no judgement and no expectations, which leaves me room to be fully and gloriously myself. Which also means she is brave.

Margaret ~ is a powerful mediator and intercessor, She believes in me, fights for me and always tells me the truth wrapped up in unmitigated, impressive love. 

Mom ~ is genuinely interested in what I have to say. She puts me first, lets me dream big and then stands behind me as I go after making those dreams a reality. She is generous.

Beth ~ leaves her door open for me. Accepts me and loves me without a single condition. She takes me in and sets me free all at once. She does not look away.

Mary ~ sees in me what I cannot or will not see for myself.....in all the best ways. She forgives me and her friendship is permanent.

PT ~ likes to be with me, needs me to show up and delights in the attention I give her. She leads the way.

This list makes me smile. It has become my way of tapping into the very nature of Someone who I have known for years but am just now getting to know. 

I've decided to cease all apologies for being the deep person that I am. I can't deny any longer my great need for depth and connection.

The only relationship where I still find myself hiding is with the threesome; God, Jesus and the Holy Spirit. And His intention behind this list that I made was about so much more than looking at the people who He has surrounded me with out of pure goodness. Because I was unexpectedly faced with remarkable insight into the very heart of my Creator.....

He is endlessly patient with me, loves and values my words, thoughts and ideas and sees beyond and through my fears and guarded heart.

Jesus is not afraid of my pain. His very presence speaks safety to me. When He is with me He's fully present and His touch is indescribably healing.

He is careful with me and hears me in the deepest ways. He is extraordinarily wise and is the rawest real with me than anyone I know.

Jesus can wrap me up in his arms and love me with a love that is as close to perfect as I have ever found. He looks me in the eye, assures me I am ok. And He stays. When all hell breaks loose in my life, He stays and has even gone to great lengths to adopt me. Permanently.

Jesus has the ability to make me laugh. Really laugh.With Him there is no judgement and no expectations, which leaves me room to fully be myself. Which also means He is brave.

He is a powerful mediator and intercessor, He believes in me, fights for me and always tells me the truth wrapped up in some pretty impressive love. 

He is genuinely interested in what I have to say. He puts me first, lets me dream big and then stands behind me as I go after making those dreams a reality. He is generous.

Jesus leaves His door open for me. Accepts me and loves me without a single condition. He takes me in and sets me free all at once. He does not look away.

He sees in me what I cannot or will not see for myself.....in all the best ways. He forgives me and His friendship is permanent.

Jesus likes to be with me, needs me to show up and delights in the attention I give Him. 

He leads the way.

I had no clue that I was being set up. That He was about to reveal Himself to me in a way that He knew would set my feet to dancing. 

This is my God. 

This is who has been in relentless pursuit of my heart for so long.

This is who sits with me when I'm so lost and unsure of my next breath. 

And this is who holds me when I think no one should ever want to hold me again.

Let me suggest that you try this. Make a list of ten people in your life who you like to be with. People who like to be with you. And who have made a deep, lasting impact on you and spent themselves for your good. Add the details of exactly how they love you or inspire you or see you.

Then....go back and rewrite your list but use your Creator's name in place of your friends.

This is how He wants you to know Him. 

As for me, I will never see Him the same way again. 

I do believe I am in love. 

"You never have to overcome your      brokenness to claim God's love.
  His love has already overcome your  brokenness and claimed you." 
  

My shoulders lower three inches upon reading these words penned by Ann Voskamp in "The Broken Way".
My jaw loosens and those eyes of mine shimmer with unreleased tears.

For I am broken.

"No one could tell me how to get the dark, the ache, the fear, the hell out of me. No one could tell me how to find the place where you always felt safe and secure and held."

It was like a thunderclap of my soul from the inside-out.
I am broken.
The pieces are scattered across the floor and I am bent over them, kneeling into the gritty shards of my sin and darkness. The busted up pieces of loss and shame and the gravelly crumbs of innocence lost that look impossible to gather up. Much less put back together.
I needed safe.
I wanted held.

"How can it be? When we're naked and ashamed and alone in our brokenness, Christ envelopes us with His intimate grace. When we're rejected and abandoned and feel beyond wanting, Jesus cups our face. 'Come close, my Beloved.' When we're dirty and tear-stained and despairing, Jesus Christ is attracted to us and proposes undying love. 'All that you're carrying I take....and all that I am is yours.'"

Hope rises.
Jesus is attracted by brokenness.
By my brokenness.
It's why He came.

"You're guilty, but not condemned.
You're busted up, but believed in.
You're broken, but beloved."

I can do this.
I can be broken and beloved in a single space in time.
The two can link arms and walk straight and strong.

"Heart-shattered lives ready for love don't for a moment escape God's notice." Psalms 51:17 The Message

No Pulse

I did not know there was an Enemy in the camp.

Here I was, fully immersed in the life and kingdom that I had so carefully arranged and had dominion over. 
The dishes were washed AS they got dirty and I implemented the same strategy for the relentless laundry.
Back-to-back dentist appointments were scribbled in red ink for Tuesday. 
Said a prayer for my neighbors, daughter's dog AND the pope on Thursday.
A family reunion complete with a bubbling casserole and peanut butter whoopee pies tucked into a picnic basket for Saturday.
And always, always church on Sunday. I was the pastor's wife. I needed to show up.
Every morning as soon as I became conscious, my legs would swing out of bed and my feet would hit the floor running. My husband and four squeaky-clean children needed me for their very survival.
The floors had to be swept and vacuumed, the dog bed needed fluffed, there was a glaring streak on the window that faced the morning sunrise that I never stopped long enough to watch and there was only one pickle left in the pickle jar for goodness sake.

And while I was debating dill versus sweet in the grocery aisle, a battle raged inside my little boy's body.
An unseen and aggressive cancer was quietly grasping and clawing and consuming his entire right kidney for its own and creeping its way to nearby blood vessels and lymph nodes.
We did not know that time was against us.
The only red flag flapping gently in the wind of life wasn't very red at all; fevers that came on swiftly and left even more abruptly only drove me to buy more Tylenol and stock up on freeze pops.
We were all sleeping soundly at night while the disease multiplied and advanced.

As clueless as I was about this nefarious cancer being camped out among us, even more unaware was I, that a different sort of enemy had long ago coiled itself around my beating little-girl heart and had stolen my identity, dreams, hope and purpose.
Any and all red flags on this sinking ship of mine were lost on me.
I was numb.
I barely had a pulse.

Little did I know that a daring and risky rescue for my heart was being ordered and executed as my own son's imminent battle with The Beast began.
I can almost hear the valiant call to arms with swords clashing, arrows launching and shields deflecting. Here began a frightening and exhausting, earthly fight for my child's life and an all out, unseen, spiritual war to cut me loose and lead me out of the dragon's lair.....





             

Popsicle Stick Cross

 I've been asked to pray about and share my one word for this new year.

One word that God has impressed my heart with.
A word that I will take with me all year long and know that it is mine.
My one-word-gift.
Given to me by my Father.

 I typically resist being boxed in by a request like this when I write.
Rules, scripts and boundaries suck the life out of even the smallest inclination to put my heart on paper. If you look back at my recent posts on this blog of mine, you won't find any. I have not published anything for an entire year.

I've been silent.

My life took a road that I never would have chosen, Had I been given a choice.
A road that was littered with betrayal, loss and eventually suicidal thoughts and intent.
Who chooses to watch their long-awaited-for dream be bulldozed into a pile of smoking rubble?
And who chooses to lose hope?
To lose heart?

But I realized that this request to share my one word is an invitation. 
An invitation to use my voice. To take a break on hiding my own story.
Because God made us to be known. 

For the past year I've been finding out who God is. And who He isn't.
Who I am. And who I am not.
.
Past trauma and the resulting belief that I needed to shut everything down that moved or breathed or had life in me, kept me far and away from living authentically. And it kept me from knowing the truth. That the God I thought I knew is not that kind of God at all.

God is love.

I've known that since I could hike my own tights up under my little skirt in the bathroom stall of our local church. Since I could wrap my fingers around a blue crayon and color in those exact words on my Sunday School take-home-paper. And glue those letters onto a popsicle stick cross.

But those three words were not mine to keep.
I hastily folded my paper up each Sunday and dropped it into the trash.
My cross was broken and discarded before I ever reached home.
God's love was a concept that I bravely denied. Passing it on to the next deserving kid in line.
I knew without question that I was not ok.

There were other shameful words that had been given to me that kept me from receiving any kind of good gift. Any kind of truth.
And especially any kind of love.


I've traveled a few miles since then.
And God has persisted and pursued in His desire to introduce Himself to me.
As He IS.
And to open my bolted heart on who I am.
To Him.
Beloved.

I'm Beloved.

This is who He says I am.
It has taken months upon months of personal, intimate, healing moments to be able to open my hands up and receive that word.

BE.....exist, have life, breathe, draw breath.

LOVED....cared very much for, felt deep affection for, thought the world of, devoted to.....a feeling of warm personal attachment....all arising from kinship or close friendship. 

BELOVED....much adored, treasured one who is affectionately and unconditionally loved.

What kind of God loves like that?

It is the same God who helped me learn to pull my tights on by myself.
Who shaped my unskilled fingers around a blue crayon.
And who wept at the sight of a little girl lost.
The God who rescued her and brought her to rest in His unsearchable love.

“Let the beloved of the Lord rest secure in him, for he shields him all day long, and the one the Lord loves rests between his shoulders.” Deut. 33:12

I'm linking up today with my favorite blogger, Bonnie Grey at Beloved Brews.

This picture makes me smile....

.....my husband, Jeff in Uganda holding two little girls being adopted by two American families...

When God hands me His Word through the voice of someone who says it so well, it has to be shared.
I can't keep this all to myself.
I'm generous like that.

"God has frequently to knock the bottom board out of your experience in order to get you into contact with Himself.

Faith by its very nature must be tried, and the real trial of faith is not that we find it difficult to trust God, but that God's character has to be cleared in our own mind.
Faith in its actual working out has to go through spells of unsyllabled isolation. Never confound the trial of faith with the ordinary discipline of life. Much that we call the trial of faith is the inevitable result of being alive.

Faith in the Bible is faith in God against everything that contradicts Him--I will remain true to God's character whatever He may do. 'Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him'--this is the most sublime utterance of faith in the whole of the Bible."

~Oswald Chambers~

For the record, I had to look up the word "sublime": -of such excellence, grandeur or beauty as to inspire great admiration or awe.

Stand Still

Relentless Love....

Coming and going....

Like the waves that roll up on a rocky beach in Maine.

And when the tide is coming in, the water of those waves comes closer and closer to where I am standing.

Almost touching my bare feet.

Not quite.

But it will.

If I stand still long enough.

The water will reach me.

To Be Continued......

Romania Bound!

My son, Zachary, is a junior at Malone University in Canton, Ohio majoring in social work and English and he has joined a team of fellow students and professors who are traveling to Sighisora, Romania from May 16th to June 6th!

This mission will enable Zachary and his teammates to work alongside Veritas with many opportunities to serve needy and at-risk children and youth, disadvantaged elderly, and people of all ages with disabilities. At the Veritas website you must click on the British flag in the upper right hand corner to read through the site in English!

He will be staying with host families in Romania and have the opportunity to get to know them personally. This trip is a perfect fit for him as he loves interacting with people! Projects and activities will include after school programs, home visits, an elderly club, public school English classes and work projects at various sites.

This is Zachary's first missions trip out of the country and he.....is.....EXCITED! His team has been working hard to sell candy and sandwiches around campus to raise funds for this mission. We are also having a ham and chicken pot-pie dinner on April 27th at our church and Zach will be there ready to serve you!

He needs 2,500 dollars to reach his goal to cover his costs of travel and in country expenses. If you can't make it to the dinner and would love to help a young college student step into serving the people of Romania, please donate HERE! 


As his parents we are proud of Zachary and his heart for people of all walks of life and for God. Thanks SO much for giving towards this trip and for your friendship and love towards our family!

"I Am Not Shy..."

  Eleven year-old Wamaitha  is one of the children I sponsor in Kenya through Compassion International. This little girl came into my life at a time when I was NOT looking for another child to add to my Compassion family. I was instead heavily involved in advocating for Compassion and seeking to get others involved with this ministry. Michelle Wright from Blogging From The Boonies and a fellow advocate for Compassion, posted a challenge on Facebook to go to the website, find a child who had been waiting longer than six months and then share that child through social media in hopes to find them a sponsor.

I took that challenge, clicked the link to waiting children, and there she was. Bilha Wamaitha. Age ten. Kenya. Waiting for a total of 780 days (which I calculated after discussing her history on the phone with a CI representative.) The plan was to post her profile to FB and reel in a wonderful friend and sponsor for her. And instead she became mine.

I don't really know what it was........the red socks......her shy countenance......her long wait......God's insistence....

I just knew that this one was my girl and there was no way I was going to be able to actively look for a sponsor for her. She was already home.

I have received several letters from her and her personality has been developing as we correspond back and forth. I just love these little details she has given me...

"Personally I am not shy but I don't like talking in public."
"My dad washes cars for others and earns money to feed us."
"I fear being extracted a tooth."
"I am afraid of mosquitoes which cause malaria."
"I would like to visit you in your country."

Recently I was given the opportunity to send her a gift....whatever I could fit in a gallon-sized zip-loc bag.....to travel with a fellow Compassion sponsor on her trip to Kenya. This is an incredible opportunity as we are not allowed to mail packages to our kids due to mailing restrictions. The only way to send them something other than flat paper items is to travel a million miles TO your child, or send something with someone else who is going that way!

One word.....RARE.

So I knew I wanted her to have a doll. And the doll needed to have a few outfits. I also stuffed a few clothing items in for Wamaitha and some candy to fill up the small pockets of air left. I could barely zip-loc it, but I got it closed, mailed it off to my traveling friend.......and completely forgot I ever sent it.

Until Saturday when I opened my mailbox and found a letter from Wamaitha with this picture of her with her new doll.

In her letter she thanks me for the "beautiful gift which made me so happy" and she tells me she named her doll Julie Wambui.
 I like that.
 It rhymes.
But what I love most is that SMILE.

She also drew me this picture of a helicopter which I thought was pretty impressive!

  YOU have that same opportunity to bring light and hope and joy into a child's life. I am positive that the smile is there whenever she receives a letter from me......that a gift is not a necessary part of the equation. I can't close this without inviting you to join me in Changing The Story for one needy child through Compassion International. 

Leave me a comment if you do decide to get involved as I'd love to hear about it! 

 

Shafik

The Good Samaritan Children's Home in Uganda was my home away from home for almost two weeks in September of 2012. This orphanage houses a family of children and volunteers who grabbed me by the hand and plucked me from the dusty taxi that delivered me from the airport, straight into their bustling, chaotic, joyful lives without a chance for me to even straighten my rumpled, travel-worn skirt.

There were very few introductions. I was family now and everyone called me "Mum" or "Mummy Julie".

 The children filled every vacancy on the personality spectrum: Edith was the perfect hostess, carrying my bags, smoothing my blanket-covered mattress and smiling shyly when I offered her a stick of melted gum. Jonothan ran circles around me and darted in front of my camera lens with his tongue hanging out. This made his friends giggle which only encouraged his antics to a new level of little-boy clown acts. And Sharon was like a little rabbit....curious about my fly-away hair and white legs, even sniffing me from time to time, but off and running if I let on that I was aware of her hand on my arm or her fingers touching the beads of my bracelet. If I ignored her, she continued her exploration. If I turned my head towards her she was gone, often in a fit of laughter with her girlfriends trailing behind, in awe of her bravery.

And then there was Shafik.

He caught my attention amidst all of the chatter and giggles,

 and the little hands grabbing onto mine,

 and all of the looks in my direction, of amazement and wonder mixed with healthy doses of caution.

I noticed Shafik because he refused to notice me.

I watched him often from my first day there. Studied him because he carried himself so differently from the rest; head down, shoulders hunched, his sandal-clad feet producing a slow shuffle on his way from one random point to another. Everything about him was drawn in. Like nobody was home in his little body. And no one was welcome to knock, either.

He reminded me of myself.

And for that reason I wanted to know more about him.

I inquired about the little three-year-old who wandered the courtyard.

"Who, Shafik? He's not three. He is five years old. Here, let me show you some photos."

And they placed in my hand a stack of images that made everything going on around me kind of fade into black and white.

This first photo showed the place where the Ugandan authorities found and rescued Shafik, from adults who were withholding clothes, warmth, food and of course dignity and love. He was covered in filth and waste from his own body and from the pigs that were sharing the same space with him. Shafik was literally eating dirt to survive.

 His guardians were arrested and Shafik was taken into custody and later placed in the care of the Good Samaritan Children's Home. When they brought him to the orphanage he continued to pluck away at and eat dirt until he realized that warm posho and beans were served daily in this strange but safe place.

His body bore the marks not only of malnutrition, but also savage abuse, no doubt at the hands of his "caregivers". I know little more about his story. How long had he been mistreated this way? Where were his parents? How did the authorities become aware of his need for rescue?

 This little boy had every right to be withdrawn and guarded. I felt like I understood now why he seemed like he was perpetually lost. Achingly alone. A backpack full of wrongs done to him hanging off his shoulders. I didn't need any more evidence to convince me of his "victim" status.

With those photos in my hand, I stepped towards the window that looked out onto the courtyard full of children. And this time I saw Shafik , who was unaware that I was watching him, laughing with another little boy over a piece of trash that they had turned into some form of entertainment. His teeth were rotten, but he had a fantastic smile, made even more brilliant by what I now knew about his story. His movements were animated as he ran his "toy" up and down the sides of a low wall, speaking and pointing in a flurry of Ugandan commands and shouts of glee.

I stepped outside, mesmerized by this sudden display of life from Shafik. His eyes flickered up momentarily to mine and then the shades went down, removing his welcome sign from the front door.

I knelt down and spoke to him in English, telling him that I liked his pink sandals and touching his head with a gentle pat. Everything about him said, "You cannot be trusted. I have no idea why you are here but I hope you go home soon."

I knew then that I was looking at a bodily representation of my own heart. The way that I withhold the best of me for a select few, not trusting that there is ever a safe place to relax and just be. And it's one thing to know that I have issues with trust, but another thing entirely to kneel in the dirt and see myself in living color in the form of an African orphan.

God knows how to get my full attention.

He had me in a place where my heart was already overwhelmed with His love for these children and I was in no position to argue with the message He was folding up and quietly tucking under my door.

"Let me love you."

That evening I ended up in the Baby House where the government children, those recently removed from their homes because of neglect or abuse or abandonment, were filing in for their nightly scrub down. I was ushered into a back room and handed a stack of towels and a small jar of Vaseline. As the children came from being doused with cold water, a quick lathering of soap, and a thorough rinse, my job was to towel them dry, apply that Vaseline from head to toe and help them into their night clothes. (Usually these were the same clothes they had worn that day and the day before. Sometimes something stiff and clean, albeit for the opposite gender, from the clothesline.)

Shafik was among the huddled children waiting in line for my attention. They were getting scrubbed and rinsed faster than I could dry, grease and dress.

He hesitated when he saw me and his eyes widened but the house mother urged him forward with a less than gentle nudge.

I can't even begin to give words to what transpired in the next few minutes. Here was Shafik with no choice but to allow me to help him get ready for bed. I don't know how either of us got through the towel drying, and the putting on of Vaseline and then night clothes. I was aware of every jagged line and scar on his head and back and I was as careful as I could possibly be. His bloated belly was in sharp contrast to his thin arms and legs. He kept his head down and his eyes locked onto the floor.I was astounded at both his bravery and the almost tangible walls this kid had constructed. The other children around us were in constant motion; grabbing towels from each other in a playful way, helping each other find their missing socks, chanting out little songs and sitting next to me on the bed, giggling.

With every moment that I had with Shafik there in that room, I purposefully tried to convey safety and love.

 I only had a few minutes.

 I spoke to him quietly, knowing that he probably did not understand my accented English, but speaking it out loud anyways. " Shafik, you are a good, good boy. You have a lot of friends here who are looking out for you now. I hope you sleep really well tonight. I love you.".

I kissed the top of his bristly head.

And when it was time for him to move on to make way for the next child......

 Shafik stood still.

So I took a risk....

slowly lifted him onto my lap

 and instinctively began to rock him.

The other children stopped to watch this unusual exchange. Some of the boys snickered while the majority of the kids just stood at my side, watching, and kind of rocking along with me. Shafik let his head rest on my shoulder. His body relaxed just enough for me to take notice.

"Let me love you."

It was the same message from a God who, I was understanding, wanted my trust as much as I wanted Shafik's. A God who sees our suffering and our wounds and our fears and never stops waiting nearby for us to let Him hold us.

"To do for yourself the best that you have it in you to do- to grit your teeth and clench your fists in order to survive the world at its harshest and worst-is, by that very act, to be unable to let something be done for you and in you that is more wonderful still. The trouble with steeling yourself against the harshness of reality is that the same steel that secures your life against being destroyed secures your life also against being opened up and transformed." Frederick Buechner

The very next day and every day after that, Shafik took every opportunity to show up beside me. He never made himself known or asked to be held. He just kind of backed up to me and stood still.

 Waiting.

And I held him every time.

"He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters.....He brought me out into a spacious place; he rescued me because he delighted in me." Psalm 18: 16, 19

 I could tell this was a new experience for him. That he was still unsure, but it felt good enough to return for more.

He began to come in first for bath time and bedtime. And he looked me in the eye and smiled.

He invited me in.

"It might come as a surprise that Christ asks our permission to come in and heal, but He is kind, and the door is shut from the inside, and healing never comes against our will. In order to experience His healing, we must also give Him permission to come in to the places we have so long shut to anyone. He knocks through our loneliness. He knocks through our sorrows. He knocks through events that feel too close to what happened to us when we were young...a betrayal, a rejection, a word spoken, a relationship lost. He knocks through many things, waiting for us to give Him permission to enter in." John Eldredge

Shafik is leading the way for me.

And maybe it is the way for you, too.

A little boy who recognizes that despite his experiences and scars, there is still a safe place to be found. That he is loved. That it's okay to look up.

More To Say

   Anyone who knows me well knows that I enjoy putting pen to paper. I make lists, plan parties, set goals and write my thoughts into half-filled journals scattered throughout the house. You can't get past my kitchen without seeing something scrawled in my hand on random pieces of notebook paper, receipts, envelopes and post-its. And I'd much rather write with a pen than type on a keyboard. But even typing gives me another outlet for writing that brings me a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment that I can't seem to find anywhere else.

   For me, the past three months, maybe even four, have produced little as far as the written word goes. Especially when I look at my journals and this blog, showing a major slow down in entries and posts. I think I can easily track the shift to my return from Africa and the founding of Love Mercy Uganda, which is a bit of a head-scratcher, since that trip and those experiences and this new mission have more than saturated my heart with enough material to write a book. The big, thick, door stopper kind of book.

   Maybe there is just too much this time to lay it out there for you guys to get a real sense of what happened...or of what IS happening. I struggle myself to keep up with what God is speaking and orchestrating and unveiling, and even then it's not all on stage or in the wind and the earthquake and the fire, but in that still small voice of His that roots me to doing nothing but sitting still. And I don't get much writing done that way. 

   I write standing up, shifting from one foot to another, or on my way from the mop bucket to the toilet brush and even while I'm driving. I write in my head while I'm out shoveling snow or walking to the mailbox.

  Sometimes I'm sitting....but not much comes out when I TRY to write. 

   But I'm here at Come To My Rescue because I sense a shift that has occurred somewhere along the way that is allowing me to write again. I am an extreme editor of anything that I publish, always wanting to make sure I say it right and say it well or not say it at all. And I don't think that is going to change.

  But what might change is how much of me I allow into my writing.

  Because I have changed.

  And the lenses that I see the world through have been upgraded to a new prescription.

  It's hard to say whether you'll notice the difference or not.

  What matters I guess is that I have more to say. More to tell you. And my voice is more my own now. Or better yet, I'm more of who He intended me to be from the beginning.

   I'm looking forward to writing from this new place I'm in and letting Him use what I often see as rubble from a torn down, abandoned warehouse, but what He has clearly shown me to be some pretty valuable building material.

   I'm intent on cooperating with Him.

   Some of you will know exactly what I mean. The rest of you can catch up as we go along.

   Stay tuned for Anna's story. An abandoned one-year-old girl from the streets of Uganda who God is using to fit me with those world-altering new glasses I told you about.....who fulfilled a promise from a God I still haven't figured out....

   And Shafik.....a little boy who refused to give me anything but a backward glance and downcast eyes.....who reminds me every day what it means to take a risk.....to forgive......to look up.

   Both of these stories I thought were mine to keep. Stories too personal and telling for me to publish. But they are on the edge of my writing heart and they are meant to be shared, not hoarded.

   He has once again......Come To My Rescue.

Bravo!

We traveled four and a half hours one way to see a musical production called "A Year With Frog and Toad".

A bit of a drive for an hour and a half of college kids portraying darling forest animals and two loyal amphibians who live out a years worth of ups and downs in this thing called friendship.

And a huge test of parental restraint from pushing the eject button on one fourteen year old girl and one eight year old boy squished in the back seat of a tiny rental car, jockeying for ownership on every square inch of seat and objecting to every possible infraction of every possible rule that ever crossed the lips of every good intentioned parent this side of heaven.

Not to mention the fact that we will be making the same exact trip in a few days to transport one of those college kids home for a Hawbaker Hallmark Thanksgiving, complete with a  twenty-six pound, dried out turkey, bloody battles for the remote and hot chocolate made with water instead of milk.

"WHO DRANK THE LAST OF THE MILK!?" 

But oh, the trip was so, so worth it.

Zachary is our oldest son. A junior attending college in Ohio majoring in Social Work and English, with a long line of choir and theater credits trailing him.

I've been his mother for twenty-one years.

I did not know he could sing like this.

Or dance.

Or even that he could pull off the greatest portrayal of Toad, from the Frog and Toad series of children's books, ever.

He had me in tears while everyone else was chuckling at the action going on on stage.

I wanted to stand up and wave my hands and say, "He's mine! The toad is mine! I'm his mother!"

I couldn't believe the people around me weren't laying bunches of flowers in my lap in honor of my abilities to birth such a fantastic actor.

Suffice it to say.....I was and am proud.

We were not allowed to take photos during the show, and so the following pictures, I cannot take credit for.

What I can take credit for is that my son belongs on Broadway.

Well done, Zachary. Would travel three times what we did to watch you on stage, providing we leave your siblings home with Grammy. Maybe they can even move in permanently.