Something I don't want to get used to...

Thursday, March 21^st, 2013

         As much as I enjoy the privacy and quiet(er) existence the beach property offers, I truly miss the life I grew used to living right among the people of Carries after the earthquake.   I can hardly wait until the wall is finished on the property uphill so we can be over there full time again.  We have men up there clearing the land of weeds and thorn bushes and rocks…it’s coming, slow but sure.  The men are also clearing pathways so we can drive through with the Rhino.  That is what we did yesterday. 

            Piling in the back of our wonderful all-terrain-vehicle (with foam in the tires and 4-wheel-drive, this Rhino is the best thing we could possibly have in this country – we need a fleet of them!), we drove straight up to the foot of the mountain (the eastern edge of our property).  The air is so much clearer, fresher, up there.  When we reached the top, I turned and was amazed all over again at the gorgeous ocean view our altitude provided us with.  The expanse of the land, the fresh air, the breeze, beautiful scenery…it all makes me feel so free.   We took many detours across the land, patrolling, exploring, before we finally descended. 

              We took a different route down than we normally take, straight through the village.  I was surprised when I noticed that I’d never been to this section of Lotboray (Carries) before.  All of a sudden I began seeing lots of familiar faces pop around corners of the cactus fences.  So many of the kids in my Sunday School class, and in Kids Club, lived in this area.  When my brain finally realized what my eyes were seeing, my heart felt so heavy.  No matter how long I live here, I will never get used to seeing the conditions these people live in…especially when it’s someone I see nearly every day.  I was still wrestling with my own emotions, when Kelsey looked up at me with wide eyes and asked, “Is that where Andiana (one of the girls in our Sunday School) lives?”  I nodded my head, hoping that was the first and last question, but I should know Kelsey better than that.  She glanced back over at the blue tarp wrapped around tiny tree trucks, making a square room about 15 x 15, and continued, “But how do they sleep there?  Where do they sleep?  There’s no floor?  Where do they put their clothes?”  I couldn’t find the words, and mumbled something about “in a bed like us” and “probably in a suitcase like we do.”  Kelsey frowned.  “You mean they just sleep on the floor?”  She looked away, and I could tell she didn’t expect another answer.  She was lost in thought.     

                   Kelsey’s lived here even longer than I have, and even she hasn’t fully realized or gotten used to the harsh realities.  For a moment I was overwhelmed by feelings of guilt, despair, doubt, conviction, and sadness.  Then as I looked at Kelsey again, and thought of my own emotions, I was grateful.  Grateful God had kept me from growing used to such realizations.  Grateful she is not yet used to them, either.  Destitution, pain, evil, suffering, and most of all ignorance of God’s love and truth, are things we should never be “used to” or come to expect.  I pray that He will continue to keep both of us from becoming numb, and that we can continue to see those around us as people; people who are just like us.  People who need to know they are loved.

Flowers in the desert...

       Like a tiny red flower pushing its way through the dust in a barren, gray desert is a growing, learning, changing child.  God's Word does not return void, and the last two Sundays I've seen that firsthand. 

        One apologized to a leader he'd verbally slighted.  Apologized.  A boy from Carries.  In front of his cronies.  The other appreciated a punishment I'd dealt out...he had disobeyed in Sunday School, and as a result lost his usual privilege of drawing in my notebook or looking at a pictures of a story.  Though he snuck a few peeks when I wasn't looking, every time I reminded him why he'd lost the chance that day, instead of getting angry and leaving my side to sit somewhere else, he would grin guiltily and wiggle back into his seat at my side.  He knew he didn't deserv it, and his subconscious child-nature was begging to be disciplined.  He's not used to punishments like losing a privileg.  He;s used to a belt on his backside.  He's not used to someone being tougher, more stubborn, than him.  He's used to fighting and cussing his way out of situations he doesn't like.

          These things remind me that God is working.  That hearts are changing.  These things remind me that these are children we are working with.  Children that need structure.  Children that need discipline.  Children that need an example to follow.  Children that need to laugh and play.  Children that need to have fun.  Children that need to feel special.  Children that need to be told they are worth it.  Children that need to be loved.

           These things give me the energy to remember to loosen up, to lighten up.  These things give me the energy to stop and take a breath when I am frustrated at the children, and to change the subject instead of just reacting.  To tell that little girl her dress is pretty.  To make a joke and watch them laugh.  To tickle that little boy's tummy instead of lecturing him, one more time, to sit up straight.  To let them be a little noisy once in a while.  To let them grab my hand or lay across my lap when they're supposed to be listening to the lesson.

              Sometimes I start to be afraid that many of the things I been through here have caused me to grow up too fast.  Like I've let life change me, harden me, when I always used to suffer from a Peter Pan complex.  But now I know why God has placed me in a job where I am constantly coming in contact with children.  They do keep you young - it's true.  At least, if you let them.  If you let God speak to you through them.  I'm trying.