Nothing too grand...

Sometimes we get caught up in our own wisdom, even when going about "serving God." At least, I do. But this week, I read the story of Jesus being anointed with spikenard, and I noticed it in a different way. I realized afresh that God's economy is so different than ours. Whereas we tend to be "practical" (as practical as we can be with our extremely limited view of things), He seems to value the intent and appreciate beauty and extravagance in our love. A huge amount of money spent upon Him is not considered a waste, but the widow's two small coins is worth more to Him than hundreds of dollars from the rich.

In this light, the story of the anointing was very interesting. I heard myself in the onlookers’ complaint: “Why has this perfume been wasted? For this perfume might have been sold for over three hundred denarii, and the money given to the poor.” (14:4,5)

 But Jesus’ response was so different than they expected, than I expect. Yes, He commands us to care for the poor, to give up all we possess. But above that, or rather at its core, He commands us to love extravagantly. He does not see as a waste what we lavish on Him. “…You always have the poor with you,” He said, “and whenever you wish you can do good to them; but you do not always have Me.”

This, to me, tells me that although He does want to use me to meet needs in this world, my driving force is not the need, but love for my Master. I am His servant, not the salvation of the world.

That is freeing to me. He commissions me to love; to love Him, and to love others, and to love Him by loving others and love others through Him. It is not a waste to Him for me to lavish all my love on one little baby, or give all my money for one cause, even if it’s not ‘top priority’ by others’ standards. Not that He won’t lead us in wisdom, but it will be His wisdom, not our own, and it might seem backwards to this world.

Come to think of it, this concept is so clear in all of Jesus’ earthly ministry. He came to save the whole world, but He did not “maximize His time” so as to reach the largest number of people possible while He was here. In fact, He didn’t even hold campaigns or organize the healings. It seems He just went about each day doing the Father’s business. Whatever the Father was up to that day, whether speaking truth to a large crowd, stopping to talk to one desperate woman, taking little children into His arms and blessing them, or talking to His small group of disciples, was what He did. 

So, in view of that...

I'd better be going. Changing diapers might seem a little off-topic when on the subject of annointing the feet of Jesus, but I don't think it is at all. :)

We got to go visit the little girl from the orphanage with the broken leg the other day. She's in the hospital now, being taken care of better; but still pray for her please!

The Orphanage

A couple of days ago, we visited an orphanage in a village just a little down the coastline from here. Heather said she wanted us (and the team who is visiting her right now) to see what a “real orphanage” is like here in Haiti before they see the way it is at the crèche, to give us perspective.

It was… heartbreaking.

The pastor gave us a tour. I think he’s also the director of the orphanage, along with his son. He speaks pretty good English and greeted us all very warmly and cheerfully. But it’s… just hard to put it all together.We walked through a little tin gate into the “courtyard” where the children live. A chinsy blue guitar leaned against a concrete trough full of trash and draped with rags. Trash was everywhere. There must have been pigs next door, because the place reeked.    

It’s hard to describe what it was like in there, but you can probably imagine. You’ve heard it described; it is just like the tragically poor orphanage your mind would conjure up. But… it is real. The dirt on your sandals is real. That junky tent to your left, with piles of wet, dirty clothes thrown about and muddy water leaking into its floor, is real. Worse; it’s where real little boys sleep at night.

I know those rows of girls sitting still on wooden benches might not look it, but they’re real, too. So is the little girl lying inside the bedroom—the one bedroom where all 30-some girls sleep on a few bunk beds—with a broken leg. I knelt down beside her and asked her name. Her smile is gorgeous. I asked in my broken Creole if I could pray for her, and she nodded and gave me another smile. I told her I’d have to pray in English, since I don’t speak much Creole, and she just nodded and smiled again.

So here comes the hardest part to truly believe: the little boys, sitting also in rows on wooden benches but under a different patch of roof… they’re real little boys. They are real little boys that God carefully formed and created in His own image, with a specific plan and purpose, boys who were made to laugh and sing and grow into strong men… and here they sit. Looking into their eyes, you almost wonder if anyone is in there. The hopelessness of their broken spirits is stunning.

That breaks my heart. I know it breaks God’s.

And you know the worst thing about this situation? It’s appalling to see their “bedrooms”, their living space, and the emptiness in their eyes. It’s unbelievable to know that they don’t always have enough to eat, that they’re lucky to eat once a day. It’s horrible to see the big locks on their bedroom doors. But it’s worse to know that, at least for some of these places, it doesn’t have to be.

I cannot judge this particular pastor or his son. I don’t know the full situation. But I did find out yesterday that many, many bad orphanages like this in Haiti are like little personal collections of kids; they will not allow adoption. Why? Because if they keep their poor orphans, then people like us can come and see and be horrified and help out. They can get sponsorship money, and gifts.

Doesn’t that just make you mad?

I am not mad at these orphanage directors. Like I said, I don’t know the full story and I don’t think they live very well either; but this situation has to change.

I ended that day on my face before God, pleading with Him for these little lives. I think many of us who saw this sight did the same. We were touched, sobered, broken… and challenged. Like Heather reminded us, that brokenness should lead us to action. It is possible that bringing this to the attention of the government would result in shutting down the orphanage and moving all the precious kids to Heather’s crèche and hopefully to adoption; that would be wonderful. And for right now, and for most of us, what we can do is fight—spiritually. We can pray.

Will you join me?

We eat well here in Haiti.

For breakfast we often get spaghetti with mayonaise and ketchup, or some kind of chicken soup porridge, or a sandwich. Lunch is nothing to sneeze at; several times a week we eat at the buffet here. And then for dinner, there is a variety of things that could show up. Rice with beans and a sauce with vegetables, rice with beans and a sauce with hot dogs, rice with beans and a sauce with fish, rice with beans and a sauce and chicken, rice with beans and a sauce with pork... you get the picture. So just for amusement, I decided to keep a photo journal of a week of dinners. I got a little messed up by a suprise dinner of spaghetti, and then I forgot to take a picture one night (which is too bad because it would have gone with the flow quite nicely: rice with beans and a sauce with fish), but you can kind of see what our daily fair is like.

And then for dinner seven, I'll admit... we went and ate at a little local restaurant. :) We got both ends of the fish. It was delicious. :)

Here are the amazing girls I get to serve alongside, and some of the precious children we get to love on and cuddle and play with. I am a blessed girl.

The other evening, when we went out to eat at that local restaurant, I stopped to take a picture of this little boy as we walked by. He was accross the road and I had the camera zoomed in, so I didn't think he'd notice; but when I went to take the picture, he looked at me, stopped, and waited until I was done before continuing his walk along the road. Adorable.

It is very sobering to see the "real Haiti" out there in the little town we live near. It is such a dark, hopeless world that most of these people live in. Even having seen a lot of poverty and "third-world-culture" in other places, the quality of life here--or lack of it--amazes me. Walking by tiny little shacks and big abandoned-looking buildings and piles of trash, I waved at little children and mothers and grandmothers and fathers and uncles who sat, some under a tree braiding someone's hair, some talking, some waiting for a bus, some just sitting and waiting for the day to be over. Most people smile and wave back, probably amused by the sight of these funny white girls and their strollers and glad to have something to smile at.

Oh, Jesus... what can I do?

What are You wanting to do here?

What do You want to say to this little boy? What do You want to give to this older woman?

Show me... and use me. You're all I have, and You're all they need.

You have me here for a reason, so

here I am. ..

Rewind a few weeks... recap on the Mexico trip

In case anyone was wondering how it went in Mexico and wanted to know a few more details... here's a little report. It was an amazing trip--thank You, Jesus!!

https://www.dropbox.com/s/7lvt8k925z80ee9/Mexico%205-12%20Trip.pdf

I have more sympathy, now, for people in foreign countries who can’t speak the language. It’s frustrating, let me tell you. And I realize that I don’t know the half of it; I still usually have an English-speaker within range. But it’s a very pathetic, awful feeling to just have to sit there and smile and look stupidly at someone, having so many things you’d like to say but not being able to come up with a single one that they could understand.

“Hi! How are you?” They gush sweetly at you.

“Good! And you?”

“Good!”

You search your brain for another conversation topic, then whip out, “What’s your name?” They tell you, and you tell yours, and there it ends. No “nice to meet you!” or “have a nice day!” or any such nicety. Just another smile, a nod, and possibly an out-of-place “good morning” if you can remember that.

That’s the kind of relationship I have with the cleaning ladies here. Silienne and Nonaise are precious ladies who come bubbling into our room in the mornings to sweep and mop, clean the bathroom, and make the beds. (Don’t worry; we do make our beds. But the cleaning ladies do it too, all perfect-like.) They come in wearing their cleaning uniforms, charming cotton dresses with white aprons and headscarves, and they always greet us with such warmth and excitement that you’d think we were old friends. Truth be told, the total of all the conversations we’ve had over the last two weeks is probably quite a bit shorter than this paragraph. They speak no English.

Nonaise is older, perhaps in her 40’s, rather short and heavy set; she wears a light mint-colored dress. She has four pitit, or children, from what we can gather. Silienne’s dress is orange, and she looks just beautiful in it, with her wide, beaming smile and sparkling dark eyes. She is younger and thinner than Nonaise, and is the oldest of several children. I think she might also have a child of her own. She has agreed to help in learning Creole, so we usually have a short little conversation when we see each other, sometimes centering on the question of whether she can help me learn (one of the only questions I know how to ask) and ending with her repeating a smiling statement several times to a helpless, shrugging me but probably thinking that these crazy Americans must not be too bright, after all.

I’m getting a little taste of what it feels like to want to talk to someone, want to show interest in their world, and tell them about Jesus, and be unable to. Definitely gives some motivational push to the idea of language learning. And a fresh gratitude for what language I can speak. It’s nice to be able to communicate.

Speaking of language, I think about my friends at the deaf school in Mexico, and the process of translating into sign language. In pondering this the other day, I gained a fresh wonder and appreciation for what Jesus did when He came down to earth. You see, translating into sign is so much more than just transferring words in a dictionary from one language to another; you have to actually take a thought and make it understandable to a person from, in many ways, another world. Kind of like converting energy: you can’t just plug your toaster into a waterfall and expect it to toast your bread, no matter how much energy might be present. First you have to convert it into a format it can understand: electricity.

That’s what Jesus did; He was the Master Translator. He not only gave us His Words in the language that we speak, but He showed it to us, lived it in our world. He translated the mind-blowing idea of God into something we could see and, at least partially, understand. Amazing.

But then there’s another layer to this. We, those who have received the translated message and have that very God living within us, are now translators to those around us. If all goes according to plan, the people in our little worlds—our family, our work, our schools—they should be

reading the message in their own language

when they look at our lives.

My tiny little friend

So here is Daniel. One year old, all of eight pounds, battling Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and who knows what else... but so precious you just can't help but love the tiny guy. Just look at that smile!

He lives in an apartment a few doors down from ours, and whenever we can, we go and "steal" him for a walk or just a little cuddling and attention. I don't think he gets much of that; at least, not enough.

What a privilege to be able to reach out and actually wash the feet of the Jesus we love through ministering to His little ones. "...to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me." (Matthew 25:40) I know, we hear that all the time.

But think about it! Really?

How are you going to treat Jesus today?