tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85477447553876573072024-03-13T07:15:19.094-04:00Musings of an Everyday MissionaryBeing a missionary didn't begin when I moved to Peru, nor did it end when I returned to the U.S. Join me as I seek and struggle to live a missional life every day, whether home or abroad. Take a leap with me into the implications of earnestly desiring to walk with Jesus, and praying for the strength and courage to submit to the refiner's fire. From the heart of one raging, recovering sinner saved by grace to another...
Jeremiah 29:13Pam McCrawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13464158758638372689noreply@blogger.comBlogger50125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-51510334826854395352015-05-10T13:32:00.000-04:002015-05-10T13:33:42.816-04:00She's A Mother Too<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"A child born to another woman
calls me Mommy. The magnitude of that
tragedy and the depth of that privilege is not lost on me." ~Jody Landers</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Today I celebrate my
second Mother's Day. I'm still trying to
wrap my brain around that, because I never expected to <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">be</span> a mom (but that's another blog post). Today I also celebrate another woman who is a
mother too, though many would not recognize or honor her in such a way.</div>
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<br /></div>
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In today's North
American social climate, adoption is an accepted, beautiful thing - at least
from the adoptive family's side. Though
there was a time when a stigma would have been attached to it, nothing could
have been further from the scene of Toby's homecoming at two days old. There were smiles so big that, had they
generated electricity, could have powered a small town. There were screams and squeals of
excitement. Phones rang non-stop and
text messages flew through cyberspace at warp speed. I'm guessing more than one person among our
family and friends broke the speed limit to get to our house to see this
baby. Joy and elation abounded. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
But none of those
people were present in the hospital with us over the two days between Toby's
birth and his homecoming to witness what we saw. The scene was dramatically different. The nurses and doctors didn't smile at
Elisabeth* the way they do with "normal" mothers. There was a cold, clinical feel to everything
going on around us. Voices were lowered
almost to a whisper each time we were identified as the adoptive parents. At best you could see nurses, doctors, and
caseworkers shake their heads upon discussing Elisabeth's case; at worst some
showed visible disgust for her. After
Toby had been given over to our custody and we received instructions on his
care from a medical school resident, the doctor forced a partial smile and
said, "Maybe now he will have a happy ending." Her comment was in reference to the woman
who, 48 hours earlier, gave him life and now was giving him <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">a</span> life. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Certainly there are
adoptions that are the result of children being removed from tragic
circumstances which inspire anger and hostility for parents who abuse in any
number of ways. But that is a separate
issue. I'm referring to the significant
number of women who find themselves in crisis pregnancies, facing some of the
most heart and gut-wrenching decisions they will ever make.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
I have to say that
I've been surprised by the stark contrast in attitudes towards adoptive
families vs. the birth mothers who made the adoptions possible. The vast
majority of people who hear our story rejoice; some even put us on a saintly
pedestal. Plenty want to know and some
even dare to ask about Toby's birth mother.
Even some of the most well-meaning among the inquirers want to hear the
horrors of what his life would have been like so they can thank God that we
saved him from it, but far too many care only about the juicy details for
purposes of gossip (which is why we share only the most basic information, none
of which provide ammunition to either intentionally or unintentionally hurt our
child later). Virtually no one wants to
hear us talk about her lovingly, as a member of our family, and definitely not
as our hero. It makes family members
uncomfortable, friends feel awkward, and strangers stamp their feet in
righteous indignation. How dare we love
this woman??? We've heard people condemn
both ours and birth mothers in general for getting pregnant in the first place,
then further shame them for choosing adoption.
<span style="font-style: italic;">How could any woman just give away her
baby? What kind of person does that?</span> Whoa! Wait a minute! Weren't you just praising God for our
adoption story? The baby we adopted is
the same baby that a woman "like that" chose to relinquish. You can't have one without the other…</div>
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<br /></div>
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I don't want to come
across as cynical or to communicate that no one in our circle of family and
friends respects and cares about our birth mother, because they do. Nor am I implying that everyone is against
birth mothers and out to bash them, because they are not. But, generally speaking, our culture does
salute adoptive parents as saviors, yet we often heap condemnation, shame,
guilt, and hopelessness on birth mothers.
When faced with an unwanted pregnancy out of wedlock, Elisabeth could
have chosen abortion; she could have ended the life of the ridiculously
handsome, energetic, vivacious little boy who calls me mommy. She could have done so quietly and secretly,
keeping her pain to herself. No one ever
had to know. (I can't help but wonder
how many of those who protest abortion, writing one-way tickets to hell for
women who go through with the procedure, have taken in a woman in a crisis
pregnancy and loved her and demonstrated to her the grace that might lead to a
different decision. How many of them
have gone a step further and actually adopted a child?) She could have chosen to keep him; and while
his life probably would not have been a complete disaster, it most likely would
not have been the greatest upbringing.
This woman dug deep into her soul and examined herself in ways that most
of us wouldn't do if someone offered us a million bucks, and in doing so
recognized her inability to be a parent to him under her life's circumstances
at the time. So she did what some would
call the unthinkable. She made a plan to
bring her child into the world, then hand him over to virtual strangers,
praying that she was making the right decision, begging God to give her peace
and assure her that she wasn't delivering him into something worse than what
she had to offer. </div>
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<br /></div>
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The reality is that
I pray every day to be more like Toby's birth mother. To embody her unselfishness. To love so sacrificially that I would choose
to put another's well-being above my own, even at the cost of utter
heartbreak. I also pray that those in
our world who turn their noses up at birth mothers, or look upon them with
disdain, would begin to shower them with grace and mercy and love. To look beyond the mistakes they have made
and validate them as the beings created in God's image that they are. To embrace them and love them all the way to
the arms of the Lord and to being able to love themselves again. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
If you've walked the
path of adoption you understand. If you
haven't, you will never truly comprehend.
I am fiercely protective of our birth mother. Don't judge her, don't cause her to second
guess herself, don't criticize her, don't shame her, don’t embarrass her. Instead, be the mouth and hands of Jesus to
her. Be humbled and grateful that she
was strong enough to hold her head up and endure trial and conviction in the
court of public opinion as she was unable to hide her unwed pregnancy status. Or the fact that she left for the hospital,
but, after 18 hours of hard labor culminating in an emergency C-section, came
home empty handed, faced with the task of getting up the next day as though the
last nine months never happened. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Had you been with us
during the two days between Toby's birth and homecoming, you would have
witnessed an unimaginable mix of joy and pain.
Her pain of letting go of a little being that she truly, undeniably
loved, and the joy she felt in giving me the gift of motherhood that without
her I would never experience. My joy of
holding my baby for the first time knowing he would live and grow up in my home
with two parents who have never wanted anything more, and the absolute
devastation and guilt I felt when I walked out the hospital doors with another
woman's child. And if you knew what life
for both of us has been like for nearly two years since then you would see a
beautiful young woman healing, moving forward, relishing our letters and
pictures and sharing with us that each one increases her peace knowing that God
traded beauty for her ashes. And you
would see the moments, mostly late at night, when I cry hot tears of both
gratitude and grief, of eternal gratefulness and soul-deep empathy. </div>
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Toby has two mothers
- one who birthed him and one who parents him.
We share this honor. But the
truth is, he doesn't really belong to either of us. He is on loan from God. And God saw fit to intertwine our lives as He
writes our perfect stories - Toby's, Elisabeth's, Collins' and mine. My prayer
for her is that someday she has another child and knows the joy of little arms
around her neck and sweet kisses on her cheeks and hearing a squeaky little
voice calling her mommy. Whether she
does or doesn't is beside the point. She
already has a child. If she's not a
mother, then neither am I.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Happy Mother's Day,
Elisabeth! Yes, you are a mother too and we honor you as such. We love you! </div>
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<br /></div>
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*Elisabeth is not
our birth mother's real name; it has been changed to protect her privacy.</div>
Pam McCrawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13464158758638372689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-78110110902674542142014-03-29T23:09:00.000-04:002014-03-31T11:59:37.913-04:00Protector of the Good<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">So when I updated the blog and began
posting anew last year, I addressed the notion that the title of 'missionary'
does not apply <i><u>only</u></i> to those who forsake family, friends, and
comforts to move around the globe carrying the gospel to unreached people
groups. There are unreached people
groups living in the U.S. and every other country for that matter - possibly
even as close as the house next door to us, or residing in the same house with
us. A 'missionary' is simply a sinner
saved by grace through faith in Jesus Christ witnessing to that fact in both
word and deed. Thus we who identify
ourselves as followers of Jesus are all missionaries. What exactly does such an everyday, ordinary
missionary look like? Allow me to share
an example.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He has been a faithful, dedicated, most
trustworthy employee in Iquitos since MMI established the mission in the late
90's. He is a jack of all trades -
electrician, plumber, housekeeper, landscaper, painter, concrete mixer,
veterinarian, delivery man, personal shopper, carpenter's consultant, money
changer, adult babysitter (yes, he stayed with me more than once at El Jardin
when I got spooked and I'm not ashamed to admit it - I was occasionally a
fraidy-cat on that very large, very dark property). You name it, he's probably done it. And this goes on year-round, not just during
our typical mission team season. All of
it in service to a Christian mission, evangelical churches, resident and
visiting gringo missionaries, and his fellow Peruvians.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He arrives early, stays late, and returns
for emergencies and urgent situations (including finding a motokar at 3 a.m. to
take him to his work place when an unnamed resident missionary mistakes the
power company guys for robbers during a power outage and threatens them with a
hunting knife - who does that????). Even
when he's exhausted and ready to go home for the day, he never fails to ask what
else he can do to help and hangs around to actually do it. And you will never, ever hear him complain. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Lest you begin to think he might not
really be human, you need to know that he has an affinity for hammocks. Well, truthfully he has an affinity for
napping whether it be in a hammock or elsewhere. Give him a few minutes and a place to prop
his head and he can fall asleep faster than you can blink. Though we often joke about him being lazy,
he's really a workhorse who has perfected the art of power napping!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">As our friendship deepened over the
years, we shared our personal stories and I was privileged to see the beauty of
his heart. I cannot count the number of
times his simple counsel has calmed me down and readjusted my perspective when
things aren't going according to plan.
He finds humor in the most frustrating of situations and with his
infectious giggle always makes me laugh.
We cried and prayed together when his young son nearly died from dengue
fever (upon his son's recovery he stated numerous times that he will always
believe that prayer saved his son when doctors said there was nothing else that
could be done). When we had moments of
conflict, he would often go home, then turn around and come right back to my
house to talk to me again, because he couldn't rest while things were not right
between us. He allows me into his family
home and to know and spend time with his wife and children - an inner sanctum
that he rarely permits foreigners to enter.
And when the circumstances of my personal life get overwhelming he never
fails to look at me and say, "Don't worry.
God knows and He is in control."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Those who have been to Iquitos know him
by his last name - Villa (pronounced 'Bee-jah'). I typically refer to him as Villita
('Bee-jee-tah') or 'chancho' (Peruvian Spanish for pig - and it <u>is</u> a
term of affection, I promise!). His
given name is Edgardo Villa. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Villa walked with Collins and me through
our long-distance relationship from dating (Skype calls) to engagement to
marriage and another 16 months of living apart after marriage. As any good Peruvian would, he began asking
me as soon as he found out about our relationship if we wanted children. After Collins and I were married, the first
question to be asked after each brief visit we were able to have - "Are
you pregnant yet?" He grieved with
and for us when Collins and I found out that the answer to that question would
always be "No." And he
celebrated wildly with us when we learned that a young Peruvian woman living in
the U.S. had chosen us to be the adoptive parents of her baby boy. And he continues to share life with us; even
though I no longer reside in Iquitos we exchange emails and enjoy regular phone
calls during which he is on speakerphone talking to all three of us - especially
baby Toby.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I have spent more than 11 years in the
company of and was ministered to by this true missionary - the local who
humbles himself to become the servant of those who come to his country sporting
the title. He's not a Bible-beating,
street corner shouting, eyes closed, hands in the air kind of believer (and
just for the record there is absolutely nothing wrong with being that
person). Rather he is a quiet, constant
example of the love of Christ. Blog
space would be sadly lacking if I attempted to recount the endless examples of
Christian love and service I've witnessed in him; he would be embarrassed if I
did and upset with me for violating the sanctity of our friendship anyway. He wants no recognition and desires to be as
far away from the spotlight as possible; he embodies humility.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">The name Edgardo means "protector of
the good." I think that pretty much
sums him up. And I can think of no
better way to honor this everyday missionary who is my best Peruvian friend and
my brother in every sense of the word, than to give his name and rich cultural
and spiritual heritage to our Peruvian son.
Toby </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Edgardo</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"> McCraw, may the name bestow upon you the same humble
spirit and servant heart as the man who has demonstrated with his life what it
truly means to be a lover of God. </span>Pam McCrawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13464158758638372689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-51252294036386560352013-10-10T16:35:00.000-04:002013-10-10T16:38:13.258-04:00Birth Mother<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
What happens when
you give your blog a fresh face lift, become re-energized about writing again,
write and publish a 'new beginning' post, and vow to post regularly? You get a baby! And you don't post again for four months!</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Little did I know
when I penned the first post on the newly renovated blog that by the time I
published it I would be on my way to meet a young woman who would change my
life in a way no one in the world ever has or ever will again. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Young, immature,
scared, stressed, strangely calm, happy, sad, guilty, hopeful, regretful,
thankful, nervous - a handful of conflicting words that describe what I saw in
her face and heard in her voice the first time I met her. A college student in her early twenties, her
large round belly overwhelmed her tiny foreign frame, betraying a truth that
could not be hidden. At any moment she
would deliver a 6 lb. 15 oz. 19.5 inch long baby boy that she kept telling
herself she was emotionally detached from.
With an adoption plan in place, she had scoured family profile books
searching for one that spoke to her heart.
She dug for the proverbial needle in a haystack, looking for a word, a
picture, a feeling - anything that would point her to a family that she could
trust to give the unborn child that squirmed inside her, pressing his foot
against her side so hard its outline was visible through her shirt, the life
she believed he deserved. The life that
she, herself, could not provide.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
A full-blooded Inca
Indian, born of parents who were raised in the high jungle on the Iquitos side
of the Andes Mountains in Peru, she was no stranger to adoption as her own
biological mother surrendered her to gringo parents when she was only a month
old, leaving all traces of her ethnic heritage behind. As we sat in a hotel conference room
memorizing each other's faces, staring deep into each other's eyes, alternating
between laughter and tears, and sharing every detail of our lives that was
appropriate to share under the circumstances, I kept wanting to switch from
English to Spanish. She just looked SO
Peruvian, and she was, on the surface anyway.
In words punctuated by a squeaky, childlike giggle, she pointed out that
I (the blonde white woman) would be talking to myself if I changed languages
because she (the dark brown woman) didn't speak a word of Spanish. We laughed.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
That meeting was
precious time that I will never forget as long as I live. There was an unspoken bond between us and we
both knew it.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Six days later I
received a text message saying she was in labor. Seven days later this beautiful young woman
gave birth to an even more beautiful baby.
Eight days later I sat with her in a hospital room and we both cried
telling each other how much we loved each other. Nine days later she placed her baby boy in my
arms and told me that she knew deep in her heart that this was meant to be. She said God had brought beauty from the
ashes of her situation when He allowed her to carry this child so that Collins
and I could become parents. She believes
that God used her to give us what we could not give ourselves. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
Nearly four months
have passed and Toby Edgardo is insanely happy, ridiculously active, and
spoiled absolutely rotten. I did not
know it was possible to love someone as much as I love this baby. But not a day goes by that I don't think
about Toby's birth mother. While I
exuberantly celebrate every second of every day of my life with this baby, I
also grieve for her as her life goes forward without him. It is a strange mixture of emotions that
defies explanation or understanding. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
All babies are
gifts. But adoptive parents are acutely
aware of that fact in ways that biological parents probably are not. Another woman carried and birthed a child. Knowing she could not care for him the way
she knew he should be cared for, she loved him so much that she put her own
selfish desires aside and entrusted Collins and me to raise him as our own. She <span style="font-weight: bold; text-decoration: underline;">gave</span> me her most precious possession believing I was worthy
enough to be called "Mommy" by <span style="font-style: italic;">her</span>
little boy. But there's more…</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12.0pt; margin: 0in;">
There's a bond
between this birth mother and me that goes even deeper than the baby that we
share. Because on a raw, bare naked,
vulnerable, nothing hidden soul level, what has transpired here is God. Not an act of God, or the will of God, or a
blessing from God. God Himself
happened. God knows that we are a
depraved people and we make monumental messes of our lives every day that we
breathe. But love overtakes Him and,
finding us worthy amidst our blackest sinfulness, He selflessly gives us a baby
- His baby - His son - and trusts us to receive the gift and value the
pricelessness of it. He gives us what we
are unable to give ourselves. He trades
beauty for ashes. </div>
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<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt;">Toby's birth mother
is the bravest, most selfless, strongest, most courageous person I have ever
known. Though she would deny it, she is
a picture of Jesus. She knows a depth of
love and a level of sacrifice that I cannot comprehend. Motherhood demands a dying to self in ways
that no other experience in this life can compare to. On days when I want to throw my own private
little hissy fit, stomping my demanding foot, shaking my indignant fist, and
crying out in a sleep-deprived, unshowered, still have my pajamas on at 3 pm,
puffy bags and dark circles under my eyes, don't remember when I last brushed
my teeth or hair desperation/hysteria, a pair of big, dark eyes looks at me,
sparkling, while a toothless, mouth-wide-open grin spreads across a face of the
smoothest, richest, most flawless caramel colored skin I have ever seen. And in that little tan face topped with jet
black hair, a stark contrast to the fair skin and blonde hair genetics donated
to me, I'm reminded of a birth mother who resembles my Savior in more ways that
she may ever know. </span>Pam McCrawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13464158758638372689noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-48772458339057250042013-06-07T01:39:00.002-04:002013-06-07T02:07:03.003-04:00Not a Title, But a Way of Life<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
The
plane touched down on the narrow strip of concrete in the middle of the jungle
for my first trip to Iquitos in June 2002.
As I walked across the tarmac to the terminal with my church's mission
team I heard the whisper of the Holy Spirit say that this very foreign, very
uncomfortable zone would one day be my home.
In July 2004 I was no longer just a mission team member as in the two
previous years - this time I was the trip leader. Leading added a whole new dimension to the
experience, which began with half of my team, myself included, getting
involuntarily bumped off our flight from Atlanta to Lima. Fast forward to 2005 - Amazon Mission
Fellowship was born of a loose but committed group of pastors and Peru missions
veterans devoted to seeing the ministry continue and I gladly accepted a spot
in this group. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
I
continued as trip leader in 2006, but rather than just a week with my church
mission team, I spent my first summer in Iquitos acquiring Spanish and learning
the ins and outs of hosting the summer teams.
At home in the U.S. this was the year I was elected as an elder in my
church and began a three-year term on the missions committee. In the summer of 2007 I coordinated and
hosted the mission teams with the help of a returning intern. This was also a big year for AMF as we
officially formed our organization with officers, board members, bylaws - the
works; I became the first President of Amazon Mission Fellowship. Along came 2008 and I was a solo act. Now in my third full summer, I lead my own
church team as well as hosted six other teams.
This would be the year the familiar voice of the Holy Spirit would speak
again with only two words - "It's time" - and I understood. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
In
2009 AMF got the exciting news that we were now a legitimate non-profit
organization recognized by the U.S. Federal Government. That same year I uprooted myself - walked
away from an 18 year teaching career, left family, friends, and home, packed my
things and created a new existence for myself in the Peruvian Amazon. Usher in 2010 and I had a year of life in the
jungle under my belt and had learned a great deal about the significant
differences between being in a foreign country for one week vs. two months vs.
year-round. The summer of 2011 was the
busiest one to date. By this time AMF
had grown from one U.S./Peruvian sister church relationship to five
partnerships in addition to two new churches beginning to invest in the mission
and a group that partnered with the local schools for handicapped
children. In June 2012 I had come
full-circle. Ten years after my first
trip to Iquitos I spent what would be my final summer (at least for awhile)
helping so many precious friends - gringo and Peruvian alike - grow their investments
in each other.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
They
tell me that this is the process by which I became a missionary. I disagree.
I submit that I gained the title of missionary on November 20, 1997 when
I acknowledged myself as a sinner in need of a Savior and became best buddies
with Jesus. Call me crazy, but I'm
pretty sure I still carry the title, even though I no longer live in Peru. And I don't just live in the U.S., but
(brace yourself) in South Carolina! Yes, I hear the collective gasps as those
of you outside of the Palmetto State perpetuate the false notion that Jesus
would never come here.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
Whether
on the banks of the Amazon River or in small town South Cackalacky (and if you
don't believe that's legit vocabulary feel free to consult the urban
dictionary), people are lost, hurting,
searching, looking for a better way, longing for the love that is found only in
the arms of Christ. So how are they
supposed to hear the Truth? Find the
answer? It's gonna be pretty tough if <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span> missionaries are <span style="font-style: italic;">only</span> those who live and serve in foreign countries. Last time I checked I wasn't in heaven
(though South Cack is VERY close!), and if heaven is home, then that must mean
I'm currently living in a strange land.
The question is, am I <span style="font-weight: bold;">serving</span> in
this foreign place? Am I putting myself
out there among the poor, the lonely, the downtrodden? Do I know the homeless, the drug addicts, the
abused? Could I tell you where the
widows, the helpless, and the hungry live?
Or do I wear my nice clothes while driving my nice car to my nice church
where I mingle with other nice people and hear a nice sermon before going to a
nice restaurant for lunch after which I will take a nice Sunday afternoon nap?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in;">
I've
got a lot of work to do processing the experience of Peru. Significant chunks of that work will play out
here on this blog through the retelling of stories and the analyzing of one of
the most amazing legs of my journey, through which God fully intends to show me
(and you if you're brave enough to go with me) what a missionary really
is. Think you've got what it takes to
tackle it with me? I invite you to come
along - no, I <span style="text-decoration: underline;">dare</span> you to!</div>
Pam McCrawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13464158758638372689noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-28495466481265778022012-06-03T15:40:00.001-04:002012-06-03T15:55:11.135-04:00Why I Do What I Do<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia;">Life is fragile. We become more acutely aware of this fact when death touches us. And it seems like I've had more than my fair share of encounters with death lately.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">In December 2010 my husband's paternal grandmother passed away. I returned to Iquitos in January 2011 to learn that my friend Johnny from the AIDS hospice lost his fight on New Year's Eve. A few months later I was at the Iquitos hospital when a gurney carrying a small mass covered with a sheet wheeled past me; Margarita informed me it was Jessica, another friend from the AIDS hospice. In January 2012 a Peruvian friend and Young Life staffer in Lima lost his wife to a sudden massive heart attack just three weeks after the birth of their second child. Days later we said good-bye to my husband's maternal grandmother. Barely a month after that I was enjoying a leisurely evening of watching TV while Skype chatting with Collins when all of a sudden I gasped at the breaking news on CNN - Whitney Houston was dead. Fast-forward a couple of days to Margarita receiving a phone call summoning her to Lima due to the untimely death of her brother. Then came the passing of America's oldest teenager, Dick Clark. In April some dear missionary friends in Paraguay shared the news that the wife and biological son of one of their missions colleagues had been killed in a terrible car accident just as they were finalizing the adoption of their daughter. And most recently, in May, a former student, dear friend, and shining example of man died tragically in a motorcycle accident. Some were family members, some precious friends, some friends of friends, some famous icons - yet in one way or another, the death of each of these people affected me in a very personal way. A few leave me lamenting the passing of an era, while others cause me to question why and still others shatter my heart into a million pieces as I grieve the gaping holes they have left behind.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Physical death isn't the only kind of ending that life hands us. We experience the loss of relationships - friends betray us, relocate to another city, state or country, or they just kind of fizzle out and disappear. Hopes and dreams crash and burn - circumstances outside of our control inject themselves into our lives and derail our carefully made plans. Jobs come and go - often at someone else's discretion leaving us wondering how we will provide for ourselves and our families. Material possessions are here one minute, gone the next - whether lost through the tragedy of natural disasters, pure accident, or our own ignorance and stupidity, stuff just doesn't have any staying power. The truth we must all come face-to-face with eventually is that possession is only an illusion. Nothing is really ours. People, desires, money, things - they only pass through our lives, lingering for varying amounts of time, and then they're gone. And one day we, too, will be gone.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Pretty morbid picture, huh? It would be if that were the end of the story. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Enter Jesus. The Good News. The Gospel.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">In Him there is no death. Only life. Abundant life. Eternal life.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">In Him we find forgiveness and salvation. In Him all losses are recompensed and all brokenness is made whole. In Him our emptiness is filled and wrongs are made right. Because of Him there is hope and joy and peace in the midst of devastation. Because of Him the tomb is empty and death of any kind only has a temporary sting. In the words of Bill and Gloria Gaither:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>God sent His son, they called him Jesus;</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>He came to love, heal and forgive;</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>He lived and died to buy my pardon,</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives!</em></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>Because He lives I can face tomorrow,</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>Because He lives all fear is gone;</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>Because I know He hold the future</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>And life is worth the living,</em></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><em>Just because He lives</em>!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">This week I celebrate my 10th year of serving in Peru that began with my first mission trip here in 2002. I also embark on my 7th summer of hosting mission teams, facilitating partnerships, and helping build relationships among U.S. and Peruvian churches. Additionally I open my 4th year of living in the Amazon, beating out a daily existence with some of the most beautiful people on the planet. There are those who think I'm crazy for having followed God into this place for this season of my life. I can only say, yes I am - crazy about the God who rescued me from hopelessness and gave purpose to my life. Crazy to tell others the reason why the overwhelming physical and emotional losses in my life haven't destroyed me. Crazy in love with my Savior who loves me right back no matter how imperfect I am. Crazy to share that death has lost its sting and is <em>not</em> the final answer.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Jesus says, "I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world" John 16:33 (NLT). He doesn't promise that life will be easy, fair or free from pain and suffering. What he does promise is something much bigger and greater - peace and hope. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Because there are still people in this world who think the morbid picture is all there is…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Because we are not promised tomorrow…</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Because life is fragile and fleeting and time is of the essence...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">...<em>that</em> is why I do what I do.</span></span></span><br />Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-46240847675861505352012-04-12T03:44:00.001-04:002012-04-21T16:29:02.331-04:00Eating Leaves<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia;">I tried not to laugh - really, I did. But I couldn't help myself. Actually it's Villa's fault because he laughed first, then he had the nerve to tell me what he was laughing about. What other choice did I have?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #333399; font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: black;">After more than five hours on the river visiting villages, we landed safely back in Iquitos just in time to head off to El Bucanero for a late lunch. El Bucanero is one of my favorite places because the dining room is totally enclosed in glass and overlooks the Itaya River. The view is breathtaking. Because of the impressive scenery and most excellent cuisine, it is also a tourist hot spot. We arrived in time to get one of the tables closest to the windows situated directly on the river. Moments after we ordered, in came a large group of North Americans. A typical gringo group, they were loud, and oblivious to the fact that they were annoying the</span> <span style="color: black;">Peruvians who were trying to enjoy a tranquil meal as they competed for airtime while running back and forth from their tables to the window to take pictures of the two iguanas lounging in the tree outside. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia;">With my back to the gringos (because I, myself, am no longer considered a gringa; according to the locals I am charapa - one of them), I was savoring my favorite Peruvian meal - tacu tacu with lomo saltado (a mix of rice and beans topped with strips of marinated beef cooked with onions, peppers, and french fries). I was gazing out across the engorged river, commenting on how early and quickly the water had risen this year, when Villa began to chuckle. I asked him what was so funny, and he leaned in and said, "That gringo is eating leaves!" Then he lost all control and proceeded to laugh so hard he could barely breathe. Not wanting to draw any more attention to us than Villa was already garnering, I resisted the urge to turn around and see this phenomenon for myself - for a few seconds anyway!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia;">Casually turning my head to the side, as though I was searching for our waiter, I caught a glimpse of this poor, innocent, naïve gringo sawing away at the stalk of the bijao leaf that enveloped his fish. Fortunately I was no longer looking when he began to chew on the stalk, evidently with horrible (yet oh-so-funny) facial expressions which Villa described to me in vivid detail - as much as I could understand through his uniquely contagious laugh and gasps for air. It didn't take long until I was laughing hysterically too.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia;">I honestly felt bad for this nameless North American; he <em>had</em> to know we were laughing at him (well, Villa was laughing at him - I was laughing at Villa). Then I wondered how many times over the years I have been the subject of onlookers' comic relief. What cultural faux pas have I committed? Without a doubt I know it has happened, probably more often than I like to believe. I feel my neck and cheeks burning hot with embarrassment at the mere thought. Then another thought - if my lack of Latino sophistication gives someone an opportunity for side-splitting, stomach-aching, soul-cleansing, perspective-changing laughter, then so be it. It <em>is</em> the best medicine!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: Georgia;">Proverbs 17:22</span></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-3623798320971579432011-12-24T09:50:00.001-05:002011-12-24T09:55:49.572-05:00Feliz Navidad<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Christmas 2011 - my first one as a married woman. Certainly this holiday is special as my husband and I celebrate together, blending the favorite aspects of our respective families' traditions with new ones that are uniquely ours. Recently we were sharing our favorite Christmas music and why our chosen songs were meaningful to us; after reflecting on this conversation, I would like to share a piece of our hearts and our stories with you, even as we share it with each other for the first time. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Collins has a particular affinity for <em>O Holy Night</em>. For him the song triggers fond childhood memories of going to church on Christmas Eve and listening to a close family friend, his 'Aunt Judy,' belting this song out in her amazing soprano voice during the annual candle light service. As he grew older, however, he began to pay attention to the lyrics and one particular verse came to hold significance for him. He explained to me that the words point to the promise that is fulfilled in the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Christ - nine brief lines sum up the gospel. Here are those words:</span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">f<span style="font-family: Cambria;">rom <strong>'O Holy Night' </strong></span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>Truly He taught us to love one another,</em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>His law is love and His gospel is peace. </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother. </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>And in his name all oppression shall cease. </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we, </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>With all our hearts we praise His holy name. </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we,</em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>His power and glory ever more proclaim! </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>His power and glory ever more proclaim!</em></span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;">The song that speaks to my heart most powerfully is <em>O Little Town of Bethlehem</em>. Though I knew it from years of childhood church services, the first time I remember taking notice of it was back in the late 80's when Amy Grant released a jazzy rendition on her holiday album. It was a favorite of mine and my college friends because it was so catchy. I didn't consciously ponder the lyrics at that time, but I'm certain God used them to penetrate my heart unknowingly. It is no coincidence that, years later, after I had given my life to Christ, my church's tradition was to sing one verse of the song each week of Advent, culminating in singing the entire carol at the midnight candle light service on Christmas Eve. During those years the words took on new meaning - one verse in particular - because it speaks to the way I came into relationship with Jesus - quietly, silently, very unassumingly: </span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;">from <strong>'O Little Town of Bethlehem'</strong></span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>How silently, how silently</em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>The wondrous gift is given!</em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>So God imparts to human hearts</em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>The blessings of His heaven.</em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>No ear may hear His coming,</em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>But in this world of sin,</em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>Where meek souls will receive him still,</em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><em>The dear Christ enters in.</em></span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;">As I have observed Advent with my Peruvian brothers and sisters this year, my heart has been filled to overflowing each Sunday as we sang <em>Noche de Paz</em>, the Spanish version of <em>Silent Night</em>. Throughout the past three years, I have heard many familiar tunes played and sung, but the words are always at least slightly different. Some of them are as close to a literal translation as possible, while other lyrics must be altered significantly to convey a meaning that can be understood by Spanish speakers. For me, the words always seem so much more powerful in Spanish - I attribute that to the fact that I am in love with the language, and, as a result, I hear the words with fresh ears because they are not in my native tongue. I am struck most by the simplicity of the words that are so heavily charged with implication for all of humanity:</span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;">from <strong>'Noche de Paz' (Silent Night)</strong></span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;"><em>Noche de paz, noche de amor, </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;">(Night of peace, night of love,)</span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;"><em>Todo duerme en derredor; </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;">(All around everyone sleeps;)</span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;"><em>Sobre el santo niño Jesús </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;">(Over the holy baby Jesus)</span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;"><em>Una estrella esparce su luz, </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;">(One star disperses its light)</span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;"><em>Brilla sobre el Rey </em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;">(Shining over the King)</span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black; font-family: Cambria;"><em>Brilla sobre el Rey.</em></span></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">(</span><span style="font-family: Cambria;">Shining over the King.)</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: Cambria;">And so I share a little piece of us (myself, Collins, and my Peruvian family) with you. As I read over this I am aware of how unbelievably blessed I am: first in the fact that God would choose to put on human skin and become part of finite time and space so that we may have opportunity to join Him in eternity, second that He has allowed me to marry a man who finds His life's meaning in the same place I find my own, and third that I am privileged to be welcomed into a culture that is not <em>my</em> own as though I were one of <em>their</em> own. This, my friends, is a true gift of Christmas.</span></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-21650403164400162642011-12-19T12:00:00.001-05:002011-12-21T08:36:17.328-05:00Financial Security<span xmlns="">No other time of the year brings my financial insecurities and issues to the foreground like Christmas does. I'll spare you the soapbox lecture on gross consumerism, abhorrent materialism, and outright greed - all of which turn me to a most brilliant shade of florescent lime green and color me 'GRINCH.' After literally spending <em>years</em> getting out from under a mountain of debt, I am sensitive to even the slightest bit of economic pressure. My most recent money woes began with getting married earlier this year so that there are now two people to be considered in all matters financial instead of just one (not to mention two families to buy Christmas and birthday presents for). Then they branch out to a constantly declining foreign currency exchange rate (which means the dollar is steadily losing its value against the Peruvian Nuevo Sol and effectively destroying my budget), to a loss of donors (not a good thing when 100% of your salary is based on fundraising), to rising insurance premiums (the likes of which take a bigger bite out of my budget than any other single line item), to a basically non-existent retirement account (kissed that good-bye when I left teaching). Add it all up and it amounts to absolute panic. </span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">I have been in 'freak-out' mode for a while now. Being the chronic worrier that I am, I seldom rest in the promise of 'manna.' Thankfully my husband remains grounded and frequently talks me down off the ledge when chaos rules my brain. He reminds me of the fact that, thanks to God's supernatural provision almost twelve years ago, I became debt-free in just six years rather than the ten years my financial advisor projected. He points out, again, the evidence of God's faithfulness in my pre-mission field fundraising, making it possible for me to move to Peru a year sooner than I originally planned. And he readjusts my point of view so that there, in plain sight, are the countless little ways God meets our every need - things like that unexpected check in the mail from someone who is not a regular donor, or the women's Bible study group whose shopping spree stocks me with a year's worth of shampoo, toothpaste, dryer sheets, and blueberry muffin mix, and the list goes on. Then I feel ashamed. Why are things like this impossible to forget when times are good, but so hard to remember when things seem bleak?</span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">God obviously knows that I've been engaged in a spiritual struggle over finances lately. Not willing to pass up an opportunity to humble me and screw my head back on straight, He orchestrated a string of 'coincidences' that have taken my eyes off of myself and lifted my gaze up and away once again. The first proverbial smack in the face was the Holy Spirit leading me into a study of the book of James:</span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">1:27 <em>- Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep oneself from being polluted by the world.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">2:5 - <em>Listen, my dear brothers: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith…?</em></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">2:15-16 <em>- Suppose a brother or sister is without clothes and daily food. If one of you says to him, 'Go, I wish you well; keep warm and well fed,' but does nothing about his physical needs, what good is it? </em></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">4:1-3 - <em>What causes fights and quarrels among you? Don't they come from your desires that battle within you? You want something but don't get it. You kill and covet, but you cannot have what you want. You quarrel and fight. You do not have, because you do not ask God. When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">4:13-14 - <em>Now listen, you who say, 'Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.' Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while then vanishes.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">5:1,3 - <em>Now listen, you rich people, weep and wail because of the misery that is coming upon you…You have hoarded wealth in the last days.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">5:16 - <em>Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous man is powerful and effective.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">WOW! The Lord skipped right over my superficial issues and went straight to the state of my soul. As a result, Collins and I have had some pretty heavy conversations about our (well, mainly MY) attitude about money and feeling the need to hoard every penny, afraid of what unexpected expenses the future might bring, when we're already living on salaries so small that were we each living alone Collins would just be getting by and I would have already been evicted. We determined that we are holding on too tight and decided that the proper course of action is to pry our fingers off of some money and give sacrificially, trusting God to meet our needs as we meet the needs of others. This is a leap of faith, folks, but we're stepping out on that limb nonetheless - and I'm a little scared. Scratch that…I'm terrified!</span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">But God didn't stop there. Over the course of the past week I had the pleasure of spending time with some Peruvian pastor friends. We covered a variety of topics throughout our lengthy discussions, but no matter what theme we strayed to, our conversation always seemed to come back to money. It started with a discussion centered around a pastor who was angry that his gringo friends, who visit his church several times a year, were not giving him money. His perception is that they are white and North American, therefore they are wealthy (relatively speaking he is correct!). He attempted to manipulate them (the gringos) by refusing to open the church and hold services for several weeks, then threatened to abandon the church altogether. A member of his congregation dared to approach the pastor and point out the error in his thinking. This man told his minister that their duty as Christians is to look to God, not man, for provision. Now there's an idea - trust God - look to Him to meet my needs. Hmmm...</span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">Yet another pastor, with whom I was whiling away the morning, spoke of church members who not only refuse to tithe, but will not give any amount of money to the church. Regular home visits with his congregants yields the same story; family after family informs him that if they put change in the offering plate, then they will go hungry at least that day, possibly longer. His response? He quoted Malachi 3:10 and challenged them to put God to the test . He told them that they don't know how to give and, as a result, they don't receive; if they want to be blessed, they must first be a blessing. Ok, now God really had my attention. For the people in these jungle villages, <strong><em>any</em></strong> giving is sacrificial, so who am I to refuse to dig deeper into my pockets and give until it hurts?</span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns="">And just yesterday I was reading <em>The Christian Atheist: Believing in God but Living As If He Doesn't Exist</em> by Craig Groeschel. The chapter entitled <em>When You Believe in God but Trust More in Money</em> drove home the lessons God has been teaching me in recent weeks. I invite you to ponder the following statements with me:</span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><em>"Instead of comparing ourselves with our neighbors, we need to compare ourselves with the rest of the world. More than half of the people on earth live on less than two dollars a day in conditions of incredible squalor and hardship. The reality is that most of us in North America are filthy rich."</em></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><em>"I always told myself, one day when we have a certain amount saved, then I'll feel secure. Yet each time I crossed that imaginary line of security, my line moved. What before seemed like more than enough suddenly didn't feel like close to enough. After serious prayer and reflection, I realized what I was doing. I was placing my trust in money instead of in God."</em></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><br />
<em>"Americans are not known for being sacrificially generous. In fact, 21 percent of consistent American church members don't give <strong>anything</strong> to their church - not a single cent. Seventy-one percent of Christians give less than 2 percent of their income. Yet the Bible is clear that Christians are called to give generously, lest they start trusting money until it becomes their god."</em><br />
<br />
<em>"Hearing that you should give a full 10 percent often induces involuntary seizures. 'What!?' people exclaim, dumbfounded. 'To give 10 percent would mean I'd have to totally rearrange my life!' Exactly! You get to rearrange your life around God!"</em><br />
<br />
<em>"The Christian Atheist justifies himself: 'Sure, I'll give…as long as it doesn't lower my standard of living.'"</em><br />
<br />
And the crowning statement - the one that addresses the primary issue that drives me into 'Grinchdom' every year as the news reports millions of dollars of sales and people buy thousands of gifts for those who already have everything they could ever need or want anyway, and as I feel the financial pressure to buy those same types of gifts, spending money that, for me, is not disposable and would be better spent on things of eternal significance - is this:<br />
<br />
<em>"At Christmas this year…we sat down with our kids and proposed a much different plan than their usual wish lists for the latest and best toys, games, and clothes. We asked the kids if they would consider not giving or receiving presents this year. Instead, we would give what we'd normally spend to support an orphanage…After hearing about the children who have nothing, my six - who have almost everything - happily voted unanimously in favor of this decision. It was probably the best Christmas we've ever had."</em><br />
<br />
It's a lot to chew on, I know. But it seems to me the choice is very simple, albeit difficult: trust God or not.</span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-85936185344189007012011-11-24T14:28:00.001-05:002011-11-24T14:43:40.677-05:00Blessings<span xmlns="">Today is just another work day in Iquitos, Peru, but back home in the U.S. you all are celebrating Thanksgiving. It's that time of year again when we pause to count those things for which we are thankful - family, friends, jobs, children, grandchildren, church families - the things we deem 'good' in our lives. But when is the last time we thanked God for our troubles? I know, I know - you think I've lost my mind. Or have I? In my recent study of the book of James, I was greeted immediately with these words from the opening chapter<em>:</em></span><br />
<br />
<span xmlns=""><em>Consider it pure joy, my brothers, </em><em></em></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><em>whenever you face trials of many kinds, </em><br />
<em>because you know that the testing </em><em></em></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><em>of your faith develops perseverance.</em><br />
<em>Perseverance must finish its work </em><em></em></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><em>so that you may be mature and complete,</em><br />
<em>not lacking anything. </em><br />
<br />
<em>James 1:2-4</em><br />
<br />
Are you kidding me? I'm supposed to be joyful in the hard times of my life? I should trust that something beneficial is being accomplished in my misery? If you're like me, you are 'thankful' to fast forward through those moments/days/seasons of life. Yet the reality of the Scriptures is that God not only allows difficulties to befall me, He goes a step further and works in those trying times to further mold me into the person He intends me to be. If trials are blessings, then the past couple of years have left me with my cup overflowing. I should be one of the most grateful people in the world; and I am. <br />
<br />
In January 2010, my husband and I took our first steps onto the path that would eventually take us to the altar. But before we said our "I Do's," we faced many months of criticism, judgment, and outright opposition to our relationship. My character, integrity, and entire Christian walk came under scrutiny. Gossip raged about me and my life became like a specimen in a lab with numerous 'scientists' jockeying for position around the microscope to take a look at me and perhaps even poke and prod me as well. While we were loved, encouraged, supported and defended by many in our respective families, in our church family, and among our friends, those who stood against us often did so in a very public, deeply hurtful way. It was a tribulation that would tear at the very core of our beings and test our faith like nothing else ever had. Collins bore the brunt of the attacks as he was on the front lines in the U.S., while I grieved and ached from a distance here in the jungle. We shared our individual and collective pain frequently with each other, and more than once wondered, out loud, why God was leading us in this direction when it was clearly filled with so much heartache. Innumerable prayers and days of poring through the Scriptures revealed to us that the accomplishing of His good and perfect will would not be pain free, nor should it be in light of the price that was paid for our salvation.<br />
<br />
Now, nearly two years later, we are beginning to emerge from the desolation of the desert. Every day - 'poco a poco' as we say in Spanish - we realize just how blessed we have been by the trials we faced because they drove us straight into the outstretched arms of Jesus, both as a couple and as individuals. He became the only solace for our pain and we gained a most valuable insight - that we, one man and one woman, are ultimately unable to meet the most profound, soul-level needs of the other - only God can fill those voids, satisfy those yearnings, and bring peace in the midst of turmoil. As a result, on April 16, 2011, our marriage began firmly and completely rooted in God as our foundation. It is virtually impossible <span style="text-decoration: underline;">not</span> to be grateful for this truth that we could not fully grasp were it not for ' our light and momentary troubles' (II Corinthians 4:17). I invite you to join Collins and me in counting <strong>all</strong> that we encounter in our lives as blessings - the good as well as the not-so-good.<br />
<br />
And so I leave you on this Thanksgiving day with lyrics penned by my precious friend, Laura Story:<br />
<br />
<strong>'Blessings' - by Laura Story</strong><br />
<br />
<em>We pray for blessings; we pray for peace</em><br />
<em>Comfort for family, protection while we sleep</em><br />
<em>We pray for healing, for prosperity</em><br />
<em>We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering</em><br />
<em>But all the while You hear each spoken need</em><br />
<em>Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things</em><br />
<br />
<em>CHORUS</em><br />
<em>'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops</em><br />
<em>What if Your healing comes through tears</em><br />
<em>What if a thousand sleepless nights </em></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><em>Are what it takes to know You're near</em><br />
<em>What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise</em><br />
<br />
<em>We pray for wisdom, Your voice to hear</em><br />
<em>We cry in anger when we cannot feel You near</em><br />
<em>We doubt Your goodness; we doubt Your love</em><br />
<em>As if every promise from Your word is not enough</em><br />
<em>And all the while You hear each desperate plea</em><br />
<em>But long that we'd have faith to believe</em><br />
<br />
<em>Repeat CHORUS</em><br />
<br />
<em>When friends betray us; when darkness seems to win </em><br />
<em>We know the pain reminds this heart that this is not, this is not our home</em><br />
<em>It's not our home</em><br />
<br />
<em>'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops</em><br />
<em>What if Your healing comes through tears</em><br />
<em>What if a thousand sleepless nights </em></span><br />
<span xmlns=""><em>Are what it takes to know You're near</em><br />
<em>What if my greatest disappointments, or the aching of this life</em><br />
<em>Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy</em><br />
<em>And what if trials of this life: the rain, the storms, the hardest nights </em><br />
<em>Are Your mercies in disguise</em><br />
<br />
<strong>***Laura Story, originally from Spartanburg, SC, is an up and coming artist on the Christian music scene. She won a Dove Award in 2008 for Inspirational Album and has since been nominated twice for Female Vocalist. You can find her music on iTunes and YouTube, or you may visit her website at laurastorymusic.com.*** </strong><br />
<strong></strong></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-67931919413758907832011-11-17T21:32:00.001-05:002011-11-17T21:40:33.337-05:00Picture It…If You Can<span xmlns="">I would love to be able to supply you with photographic evidence of this, but Villa ran before I could stop laughing and get a steady enough hand to take the picture. But I think a mental image will do you just fine!<br />
<br />
Today we have had a true 'rainy season' day. The morning consisted of intermittent showers interrupted by sunshine and extreme humidity. By around 1:30 p.m., though, the sky opened up and the torrential tropical downpour began. At first I was kicked back, enjoying the soothing effects of the rain - hanging with my pups and doing a little reading - when Villa returned from lunch. About the same time, the wind picked up and I decided I should probably make my rounds of the house to be sure none of the rooms were getting wet due to open windows. I shrieked and panicked as soon as I got to the room that serves as both the pharmacy and the Medical Missions office. I flashed back to my British Literature and caught myself quoting Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem <em>The Rime of the Ancient Mariner </em> - 'water, water everywhere.' And there was water alright - LOTS of it - but the wind had nothing to do with it. It was raining down the inside of the exterior wall as well as through the ceiling rendering the accountant's computer thoroughly doused. <br />
<br />
While I was in the house trying to do technological damage control and get the computer out of the water, wiped down, and in front of a fan to dry out (I have no idea if the computer will ever work again - and given that I'm not fond of the mix of electricity and water it won't be<em> me</em> who tests it), Villa scaled the roof to discover that an overabundance of leaves had clogged the gutters and the pile up left the rain nowhere to go but through the roof, soaking the ceiling tiles, thus creating a one inch pool of water in both the office and an adjoining bedroom. Villa cleaned the roof off and I began alternately soaking and wringing the mop to get the standing water taken care of (this job was way too big for a few towels).<br />
<br />
When all was said and done we were both sopping wet. Not a problem for me - I live here and so do my clothes; Villa, however, is not so fortunate. Having been on the roof during the worst of the downpour, he looked like he'd just emerged from the Amazon after a swim. I offered to throw his clothes in the dryer, but he said he didn't have anything else to wear, so he asked for a towel and headed to the pond house to wring out his clothes before he headed home. About 15 minutes later he appeared at the back door wearing only the towel, socks, and tennis shoes (he'd gone onto the roof barefooted so these were dry), and holding his clothes in his hands saying that after he showered the clothes were just too cold and wet to put back on, wanting to know if I would give them a spin in the dryer. I said of course I would, but first I needed to get my camera to take a picture of him and I exploded laughing. As I bolted for the camera, he dropped his clothes in the doorway and, holding the towel securely in place so as not to scar me for life, took off running for the pond house again. I tried to tail him, but afraid of falling again and actually getting hurt this time I couldn't keep up with him in my flip-flops on the slick concrete and he got away. I was laughing too hard to get anything other than a blur anyway. After that he hid and wouldn't come back; he yelled from a distance, somewhere out of sight, for me to leave his dry clothes sitting on top of the dryer and he would come get them and put them on. Ordering me to go back in the house, to close the door, and to stay away from the windows he said, and I quote, "I don't trust you with that camera because you will send the picture to everybody in the U.S. and they will laugh at me." What can I say? He's got me pegged.<br />
<br />
Did I mention that I absolutely love this life here?</span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-10713414889568405932011-10-30T17:26:00.001-04:002011-10-30T17:37:14.810-04:00Slippin' and Slidin'<span xmlns="">Life in the world of full-time foreign missions is a regular, daily exercise in intensely spiritual and emotional experiences; both the highs and the lows come with the territory and lead me into fuller, deeper communion with God - for that I am grateful. But not everything about mission work is heavy. There are everyday occurrences that require laughter as a coping mechanism (i.e. dealing with cultural and language issues), and others that are just outright hilarious. <br />
<br />
If we had seasons here we would be entering spring, but since we are situated only about 3.5 degrees below the equator - so close we can almost touch this imaginary line - the climate here is pretty consistent year round (other areas of Peru are jealous when they are in the throes of winter). Instead we jungle people distinguish our seasons using the terms 'rainy' and 'dry' (which is subject to questioning because we often have as much rain during the 'dry' season as we do in 'rainy'). We are entering what is considered the official 'rainy season.'<br />
<br />
Last week brought several days of torrential rain to Iquitos. On Thursday morning, during a particularly potent downpour, I was scheduled to meet with the architect in charge of the new construction here on the Jardin property at 7 a.m. Having spent so much time on this property over the past 5 years, I am well aware that the dampness and dense foliage in here produces algae, and this said algae makes itself at home on concrete surfaces. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that algae and rain make a very slick combination. Because I am aware of this, however, I was being overly cautious as Villa and I headed out the back door of the main house and across the property to the construction area. Walking gingerly, I paid close attention to the sidewalk, avoiding spots with the potential for disaster. But on this day, caution would not be enough…<br />
<br />
The gigantic rain drops pelted me, slapping my jacket with a steady rhythm, as the fatal moment arrived. It happened so fast, yet it was as if I was moving in slow motion. Mere steps away from my destination, I placed my flip-flop clad foot down and began what can only be described as a half-split, followed by a partial back-bend and full leg extension, accompanied by a backstroke motion (ensuring that my upper back hit the concrete first), followed by the painful thud of my rear, winding down into a rocking motion, and ending with me lying flat on my back in a full stretch (arms overhead, elongated body and all). I'll allow you a break here to recover from the hysterical laughter you are now experiencing as a result of the mental picture of my crash.<br />
<br />
In reality the fall took about 15 seconds (or less) from start to finish, but it seemed more like 5 minutes as I watched Villa reaching out for me in his unsuccessful attempt to catch me, or at least help break my fall while shouting "No, Pamelita, No, Pamelita, No Pamelita!" Perhaps the highlight of my slippin' and slidin' was lying on the algae coated concrete (my legs actually came to rest in a sopping wet pile of deteriorating leaves) in the pouring rain, most of my clothes and body now covered in muck, listening to the construction workers cheering and clapping. Evidently I delivered an award-winning performance. <br />
<br />
Luckily my sense of humor was not injured in the least - my first reaction was to laugh. Other than a sore wrist and a still-aching tail bone, no harm was done, and three days later I chuckle heartily when I think about how I must have looked on my way down. <br />
<br />
You'll be happy to know that business did not suffer - I picked my filthy, dirty self up, walked over to the engineer, shook his hand, and met with him as planned. </span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-10479864630046618712011-08-29T23:04:00.002-04:002011-08-29T23:08:41.244-04:00And So Goes My Life…<span xmlns="">It has been a little more than a week now since the last gringo mission team departed from Iquitos, and it feels very strange to be in the house and on the property alone after 12 weeks of guests. I'd like to be able to say that things have slowed down a bit, but so far that hasn't happened. Bringing a mission team season to a close and getting adjusted to work without gringos again is more involved than you might think.<br />
<br />
While life here may remain busy, it is never dull, routine, or boring. Just this morning, as I was getting my day started around 7:30 a.m., I heard the dogs going berserk. Such behavior at that time of day usually indicates that some scared animal (typically a cat) has either gotten trapped and cannot get away from them, or is already in the process of an untimely demise. So out the back door I went, whistling and calling their names. As I exited the house, I saw Dolly pawing at the door of one of the storage rooms, barking ferociously with Tamy jockeying for position and a chance to illustrate the euphemism "fighting like cats and dogs." About that same time I heard "meow," and another "meow" coming from inside the storage room. But something sounded weird, unnatural about this cat. Thinking that it had already been attacked and managed to get away from the salivating beasts that roam my yard so it could pass from this world in a somewhat peaceful manner, I grabbed Dolly by the collar, dragging her away from the door while Tamy followed. <br />
<br />
The next sound I heard was laughing; it was a very familiar, unmistakable giggle. I turned to see Villa emerging from the storage room where he had been hiding and "meowing." It seems he needed some entertainment to get the week started properly and thought the best way to achieve that was to taunt the dogs. Who does that??? He even went so far as to tell me that he plays practical jokes on the dogs all the time when I'm in the U.S. and it's just the three of them living here together. I have no idea exactly what that means and I don't want to know! <br />
<br />
Suffice it to say that Villa continues to recover nicely from his gall bladder surgery. <br />
</span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-54612096519988428802011-06-12T11:59:00.003-04:002011-06-12T12:19:34.168-04:00I Got Married!While there are not enough pages in cyber space to recount the journey I've taken during the last 18 months, suffice it to say that a lot has been going on in my personal life - which, at least in part, accounts for the decreased number of blog posts. <br />
<br />
In January 2010 my entire world was turned upside down. While I was in the U.S. celebrating the holidays with my family and friends, Collins McCraw informed me that after six months of prayer he was sure that I was the woman he was supposed to marry. For so many reasons this was a complete shock to me, not the least of which was that I had moved to Iquitos to start a new life and a new career here. Isn't that just like God? To interrupt my plan with His own?<br />
<br />
Collins and I embarked on a journey that would change us, and many people around us, forever. We have faced obstacles and encountered hardships that we never imagined would come our way; and we have known joy and deep peace like no other time in our lives as well. We have learned what it means to keep our eyes focused on God and move forward one step at a time while a storm is raging around us. A number of years ago an older woman that I was in a prayer meeting with approached me and told me she had a word from the Lord for me. She held my face in her hands and looked intently, deliberately into my eyes as she spoke the simple but profound words that I have never forgotten: "The waves are crashing all around you dear one. You will feel like you are drowning. But have no fear, because you will look at Jesus and you will walk on water. Tears come at night, my love, but joy surely does come in the morning." Other than recognizing the biblical images and references in her words, I had no idea why she was speaking them to me. At that point my life was on an even keel, I was happy and content, and everything was going my way. Not too far into the future, though, the waters would become choppy and I would go back to those words repeatedly to get me through that particular moment's trial. But it wouldn't be until Collins and I began our relationship that I would understand the fullness of her prophetic phrases.<br />
<br />
As I begin anew with my blogging efforts, parts of my story with Collins will surface as God reveals to me, one piece at a time, the purpose of that leg of the journey and how it fits into the big picture of His perfect plan for me. I have come to understand in a new way that the events of my life are not compartmentalized into personal and professional; they are not categorized into friends, family, colleagues and enemies. Rather they are all intricately woven together to create a work of art. God takes even the most severely broken pieces of my life and turns them into something stunning. The exchange of beauty for ashes is breathtaking.<br />
<br />
God has always known the deep desire of my heart to find a soul mate and to be married; but, he also knows my tendency to lose sight of Him and to allow my priorities to become disordered. So He delivered the answer to a lifetime of prayers in such a way that He, and only He, would receive the glory. He took me down a path that would not allow Collins to become the object of my worship. I can say with absolute certainty that you would not be looking at the picture below if I had not kept my eyes fixed completely on God over the past year and a half. I know Collins would say the same.<br />
<br />
"You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart." ~ Jeremiah 29:13. My life's verse has taken on a whole new meaning for me and that is that God is present even in the darkest moments, but I can't see Him if I'm not looking for Him. While it is true that in the marriage relationship a man and woman are to pursue each other and make each other a priority, it will all be wasted energy if each is not first actively pursuing the most significant love of all in a deep and abiding relationship with the God of the universe. <br />
<br />
I leave you today with these words:<br />
To God be the glory for the things He has done…<br />
A Dios sea la gloria por lo que hizo por mi…<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DvXl0F_TDc4/TfTmrrfdfII/AAAAAAAAAIA/wNzUvo6xQt8/s1600/IMG_0621.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DvXl0F_TDc4/TfTmrrfdfII/AAAAAAAAAIA/wNzUvo6xQt8/s320/IMG_0621.jpg" t8="true" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">April 16, 2011</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-85525616617961415532011-04-01T18:41:00.002-04:002011-04-01T18:55:55.206-04:00Johnny<span xmlns=""><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kfWf6l0Q4P0/TZZWZwe3fuI/AAAAAAAAAH4/lPFDfB9jjus/s320/Johnny.jpg" width="240" /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I met Johnny two years ago on my first visit to a local AIDS Hospice House here in Iquitos called <em>Casa Hogar - Algo Bello Para Dios</em>, which roughly means "Home -Something Beautiful for God." At that time Johnny was HIV-positive, but had not yet developed full-blown AIDS. I do not know how Johnny contracted the deadly virus, and I didn't ask, because it was none of my business; all I know is that he <em>had </em>to be good medicine for the patients because he had a brilliant smile that brought light to a dark place. Johnny was a very young man, in his 20's, and appeared healthy, but he knew what the future held for him. For that reason he came to the hospice every day to help attend to those who were suffering and facing imminent death. He knew that one day, sooner than he would like, he would need that same care, and so he gave what he knew he would want to receive were it him lying in one of those beds: a smile, a kind word, a ministry of presence, in addition to help with bathing, dressing, and eating. Living in a city where access to antiretroviral medications is virtually non-existent, and being so poor that he couldn't afford them anyway, Johnny's fate was sealed. But he didn't let that stop him from loving and being loved, from helping and being helped. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I looked forward to my visits to the hospice because I knew I would see my buddy. Though I took the time to sit and chat with all the patients, I always spent a little extra time with Johnny. It made me happy to be around him. How ironic.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Throughout the two years that I knew him, I watched Johnny's health begin to deteriorate. I watched him move from being a volunteer worker at the hospice, to a patient in one of the beds. I saw his physical body change from that of a healthy young man, to a skeleton with skin. The one thing that never changed, however, was that contagious smile. The last time I saw Johnny was in December and he was bedridden, in constant pain, unable to swallow and therefore couldn't eat, and unable to talk, with his only sounds being grunts or moans. When I walked into his room, in spite of his suffering, his face lit up with that signature gigantic grin. Though he couldn't answer me, I talked to him anyway. I told him I knew he was in pain, and watched as he shook his head yes while the tears rolled out of his eyes down the side of his face. I prayed for him, told him I was going to the U.S. to be with my family for Christmas, but that I would see him when I got back to Iquitos. As I walked out that day, I knew in my heart that he wouldn't be there when I returned.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On my first visit to the hospice in 2011, I learned that Johnny slipped into eternity on New Year's Eve. Man, do I miss him. I was over there just this week and had the privilege of not only talking with the patients, but also presenting each one with a new mattress, a sheet, a pillow, a towel, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of bath soap, and a package of laundry detergent. (A huge thank you to Betty Fleming's Sunday School class at Fountain Inn Presbyterian Church for their donation that enabled the purchase of these items for the AIDS patients!) It was a happy time of being able to give and enjoy watching them receive, but, for me, there was an emptiness. There will always be a gaping hole that Johnny left when he passed away.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The caskets lined up in a row along a wall down one of the halls in the hospice house are a poignant reminder that life is fleeting. It reminds me of the urgency of our call as Christians to spread the Gospel. And it has caused me to wrestle with the questions: "What exactly am I doing to really witness to others and share Jesus with them?;" "Can I do more?;" "Did I love my family, my friends, my enemies today in the way I should?;" "Will I have regrets if they are not here tomorrow?;" and "Will I be greeted with the phrase, 'Well done good and faithful servant' if I should be called home today?" If I'm honest, I'm not totally thrilled with some of my answers to these questions, which poses the ultimate question, "What am I going to do about it?"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Adios, Johnny. My life would be less today if I had never met you. You are missed. </div></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-86771523526019565172010-11-21T12:30:00.015-05:002010-11-21T12:43:55.070-05:00Gratitude<span xmlns=""></span><br />
<div style="margin-left: 22pt; text-align: left;">Where does the time go? It's hard to believe that Thanksgiving is only a few days away, that Christmas is just around the corner, and that another year is quickly drawing to a close. Yet once again it is that time of year when we pause to count our blessings. As I begin my 2010 list of thanks, I find myself pondering exactly what it means to be grateful. After looking up the word in the dictionary and tossing around ideas of how others might define it, I'm going to function from the following definition that I have crafted from my brainstorming and research:</div><div style="margin-left: 22pt;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-left: 22pt;"><strong>grateful</strong> - <em>adj.</em> - deeply and abidingly appreciative and thankful to God for His deliverance and His blessing </div><div style="margin-left: 22pt;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-left: 22pt;">God has abundantly and extravagantly blessed me:</div><ul><li><div>With a biological family that loves and supports me - my parents, brother, sister-in-law, niece, aunts, uncles, cousins, and the precious grandparents who touched my life for such a very short time before they went home ahead of me. In some shape or fashion they all helped raise me in the way that I should go, then they set me free to wander, to stray, to struggle, and to return, rejoicing and suffering with me, all the while understanding that I belong to God and His plan for my life is perfect.</div></li>
</ul><ul><li><div>With a spiritual family that was in place before I ever knew I needed one or cared whether or not I had one, and remains in place, lifting me up at times and in ways of which I am totally unaware - First Presbyterian, Calvary Baptist, and First Baptist Churches, Ware Shoals, SC; the Baptist Student Union at Wofford College; Westminster Presbyterian Church, Spartanburg, SC; First Presbyterian Churches of Huntington, WV, Jefferson City, MO, and Sumter, SC, First Scots Presbyterian Church, Charleston, SC, Middle Octorara Presbyterian Church, Quarryville, PA; the Presbyterian Churches of Peru in Iquitos, Santa Clara, Nuevo Valentin, Gallito, Quistacocha, Santo Tomas, Tamshiyacu, and Santa Maria. These individual fellowships, for me, form one body that, past, present, and future, surround me with grace and mercy.</div></li>
</ul><ul><li><div>With an opportunity to work and serve on two continents, in two countries, using two languages, living in two cultures, thus multiplying both my trials and my rewards. But without the first, what good, really, is the latter?</div></li>
</ul><ul><li><div>With a foreign family - Edgardo Villa, Margarita Diaz, Ina Lopez, Maria Lopez, Maria Helmi, Jorge and Martha Foinquinos, German and Enith Rios, Clever and Reina Rengifo, Guillermo and Graciela Flores, Edward and Soila Huaman, Rony and Maria Pilco, Ricardo and Lupe Jara. These and countless other Peruvians open their hearts, homes, and respective families to me, taking me in as the lone white person among the brown people, and loving me as one of their own, proving day after day, minute by minute that genuine love is blind and in Christ we are all one.</div></li>
</ul><ul><li><div>With one man - Collins McCraw - who loves me more than I deserve to be loved by another human being. He turned my life upside down back in January and started us down a path toward unconditional love and lifetime commitment. He comes alongside me and joins me in a mutual pursuit of the God who made us and saves us. God has chosen him to be the answer to and ultimate fulfillment of thirteen years of my heart's cry for a mate. This relationship has not been easy and has come with a great price and significant sacrifice, making it all the more valuable. It is not difficult to submit myself to the man who has already, in so many ways, laid down his life for mine.</div><br />
I thank God for all of this and so much more. I am especially grateful for the many trials and tribulations of this year, and 2010 has had more than its fair share of them. Yes, I know it sounds strange to make such a statement and I even find myself looking at the previous sentence and wondering who in their right mind could say that. Yet it's only in the tough times that deliverance can be experienced. I have learned so much more about who I am, but more importantly about who God is. The refiner's fire is painful, no doubt, but there is also no denying the beauty that is a result of the burn. <br />
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I have been delivered and I have been blessed, and for this I am deeply and abidingly appreciative and thankful to God.</li>
</ul>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-44898991606610384262010-10-28T11:21:00.002-04:002010-10-28T11:26:09.064-04:00Ladder Climbing Dog<span xmlns=""></span><br />
For those of you who wonder what my "normal," "day-to-day" life is like in Iquitos, here's a glimpse into my morning so far: <br />
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The municipality contacted me to tell me that the trees growing inside El Jardin are hanging over the wall on the street side, making a nice, shady canopy for those traversing the sidewalk. The problem is, they are also sitting on power lines. Obviously, because the trees originate on the Jardin property, it is our responsibility to cut them. And if we don't do so immediately we will be facing a fine and still have the responsibility to cut them. Now, that all makes perfect sense and I don't disagree - <em>except</em> for the fact that the previous time this happened, the municipality took care of the tree trimming because of the danger in working around the power lines. (Thus the reason I have not arranged for them to be cut; naturally I assumed it would be taken care of once again.) When I tried to explain that to the man he assured me that such a thing had NEVER happened because they do not operate that way (so now I'm crazy - which might be a legit point - and I imagined the trees being cut along with the conversation that lead to them being cut by someone that I did not hire to do so).<br />
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Anyway, rather than argue with the guy over the municipality's 'rules' (subject to change depending on who you talk to), Villa and I started scrambling to find a tree trimmer. So we find one, negotiate a price with him, and get him started working, because I sure don't want to pay a fine (which would be some ridiculous, arbitrary amount based on what someone <em>thinks</em> this white girl is worth). Now the tree guy is busy hacking away at branches with his machete, Villa is supervising (of course), and I sit down in front of my computer to begin catching up on the emails I was not able to send/answer yesterday due to a 5 hour power outage (a regular occurrence these days). <br />
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I'm reading and typing when something in my peripheral vision gets my attention; I turn my head to the left to see Dolly's front legs stretched out so that her paws just reach the fourth step of the tree cutter's ladder, one hind leg is extended, barely touching the first rung, and the other hind leg is firmly planted on the second step as she continues to climb in pursuit of the man and his falling branches. With visions of a broken spine and imminent euthanasia resulting from less than adequate ladder scaling skills, rather than run for my camera, I ran for the dog. With all four of her feet planted safely on solid ground again, I almost wish I'd grabbed the camera first so that you skeptics would believe this actually happened (anyone who has met Dolly does not doubt the veracity of this story).<br />
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Just another "typical" day in the jungle. Now back to work...Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-9708873393274011452010-08-30T12:11:00.002-04:002010-08-30T13:27:30.790-04:00Close to Crisis<span xmlns=""> It's all the talk around town - on the TV news, in the papers, on the streets; Iquitos is approaching a water crisis. Due to lack of significant rainfall over the past couple of months (and, I'm sure, other geological, ecological, and environmental factors that I neither know about nor understand), the rivers are essentially drying up. According to local record keepers, the rivers are the lowest they have been in 40 years. <br />
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The consequences of this are numerous. Those who fish for a living are having difficulty getting into deep enough water to be able to catch anything. The river taxis and other boats are losing business - with each passing day it is harder to get into or out of the ports, or close enough to the villages and towns along the rivers to allow passengers to disembark (this in addition to general hazards in the rivers caused by the shallowness of the water). And Sedaloreto has already begun shutting down the city water system for brief periods of time each day in an effort to conserve water; the next step will be outright water rationing (for people who own the large water tanks this isn't too dire of a problem because they can retain enough water to bathe and cook each day - the problem will come for the poorest of the poor who only have small containers in which to store water in their homes). These and a host of other problems are lurking. <br />
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Please pray for significant rain. We need more than the light 15-20 minute showers we've been getting about once a week. We need those torrential downpours, the ones that last for hours and that the jungle is famous for. Though we are not at alarm stage yet, at this point we have to begin thinking about and preparing for the future.<br />
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For those who have never been here before, the following pictures won't mean much to you, but for the rest of you, well, you're in for a surprise!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/THveRhzd3rI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/cnpyIjQ6uCE/s1600/Boulevard+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/THveRhzd3rI/AAAAAAAAAHQ/cnpyIjQ6uCE/s320/Boulevard+2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Itaya River at the Boulevard<br />
The land here is very green and beautiful, but it is typically under water. The ground is dry and solid as it has baked in the sun for weeks now and people walk out past the trees trying to get to what is left of the river out there to get water for washing and cooking. The picture was taken standing in front of the Medical Missions property on the Malecon - where the original Iquitos Presbyterian Church was located.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/THvjnooTJEI/AAAAAAAAAHg/BJibgia7B4U/s1600/Huequito+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/THvjnooTJEI/AAAAAAAAAHg/BJibgia7B4U/s320/Huequito+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Itaya River at Puerto Huequito<br />
This is the port the mission teams typically use for river travel. Notice the houses floating in the shallow inlet, blocked from moving by the sand bar that has surfaced. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/THvg3zrx_WI/AAAAAAAAAHY/Z9Hmwa5aMbo/s1600/Huequito+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/THvg3zrx_WI/AAAAAAAAAHY/Z9Hmwa5aMbo/s320/Huequito+2.jpg" /></a></div>Itaya River at Puerto Huequito<br />
Past the sewer outlet (large concrete structure in foreground) you can see grounded boats here as well. Also you can see how far out the sandbar extended as well as the size of the riverbank past the sand bar.<br />
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</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/THvmMODCADI/AAAAAAAAAHo/Wyo66xRYzsk/s1600/Nanay+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/THvmMODCADI/AAAAAAAAAHo/Wyo66xRYzsk/s320/Nanay+2.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bella Vista Port on the Nanay River<br />
If you look in the upper left hand corner you'll see the white building that is the Iquitos Boat Club - looking to the right of that you will see the grounded boats sitting on dry land. The distance across the Nanay to Santo Tomas is narrowing as the river dries up.<br />
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</td></tr>
</tbody></table></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-80322084357969616092010-08-23T17:09:00.002-04:002010-08-23T17:20:38.844-04:00I Slept Through an Earthquake<span xmlns=""> I've always known that I was a fairly sound sleeper (and I can snore pretty well too, so I'm told, though, of course, I don't believe it), but evidently my slumber is a little deeper than I realized. The neighboring country of Ecuador recently experienced a significant earthquake - somewhere between 6.9 and 7.1 - about 100 miles southeast of the capital city of Quito, putting its epicenter fairly close to the border of Peru. Thankfully the depth of the earthquake was estimated to be 115 miles below the Earth's surface, so direct impact and damage was minimal. The quake occurred just before 7 a.m. on a Thursday morning.<br />
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A day or two later Villa asked me if I had felt the house shaking on the Thursday morning in question. Naturally I looked at him and started laughing, because I assumed he was yanking my chain, as he frequently does. He swore he was serious, but then Villa has been known to tell a fish tale a time or two. When Ina arrived I asked her if anything strange had happened at her house early that Thursday morning, and without hesitating she said, "Yes, both of my girls and I woke up because our beds were shaking and we later heard on the news that there was an earthquake in Ecuador." Ok, so Villa got to Ina earlier and she was playing along. Better to do my research elsewhere. So, as I went about my business for the day, I started asking around and, sure enough, the answers were consistent with Villa's story; people reported feeling the floors in their homes tremble or being awakened because their beds were moving. Margarita also confirmed that the tremors awakened her patients in the hospital. Not a big deal, nothing scary, no dishes crashing to the floor, no glass shattering, nothing like that, just a very noticeable, however slight, movement of the tierra. And I slept right through it.<br />
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But there's another part to this story. Around 3 a.m. on the morning of the earthquake I woke up terribly thirsty. Villa and I had shared one of our favorite dishes for dinner the previous evening - fried rice with chicken, pork, and shrimp, doused in soy sauce, and all the salt and MSG was kicking in. As I stood in the light of the open refrigerator door gulping water from my old Young Life nalgene bottle, I heard the soft patter of water hitting the ground. I thought to myself, as I walked toward the window over the kitchen sink, <em>'how nice, we haven't had rain in several weeks now, we need it.</em>' But as I arrived at the sink and looked out said open window, nothing was falling from the sky and the ground was perfectly dry, but still I was hearing drops of water. I didn't have to investigate long to find out where the sound was coming from, because as soon as I stepped into the screen porch room, there in the dim illumination of the lights on the path leading to the front gate was the answer. Dolly, my now 7 month old yellow lab, was hopping and jumping and splashing, having herself a grand old time in the fountain of water spewing forth from the small pvc tube of an old irrigation line she'd managed to locate and chew holes into. Like a pig in mud, literally, she couldn't have been enjoying herself more. I had no idea how long the water had been gushing, and visions of a whirling meter sent me running straight to Villa's room to wake him up and tell him we had work to do. Thus began the clean up and repair.<br />
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It took us until 4:30 a.m. to dig up more of the pipe, cut it off, add another, new piece of pipe to the cut off part, use matches and some kind of really sticky stuff to melt and seal up the end of the tube, then bury it again, all the while trying to keep Dolly out of the huge mud puddle she'd created (she thought that our descent to our hands and knees on the ground in her pool meant we had come to play with her). At this point we were soaking wet, covered in mud ourselves, and ready to keep digging a much bigger hole to put Dolly in - well, I was; Villa found the whole deal to be quite humorous. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, I went back to bed somewhere in the vicinity of 5 a.m., thoroughly exhausted. Is it any wonder I never felt the earth move?<br />
</span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-1699069960142321972010-07-10T11:38:00.002-04:002010-07-10T11:49:19.413-04:00Missionaries and Narcs<span xmlns=""> Few, if any, of the many experiences I have had in Iquitos over the past eight years compare to last week's accosting on the high seas - or the high river (well, low river right now). Anyway, we're cruising down the Amazon, headed back to Iquitos after a hard day's work in the jungle village of Gallito. A few people on the boat are conversing over the scream of the outboard motor, some are catching a few zzzz's, while others are quietly contemplating a week well-spent and marveling over God's exquisite landscaping. Out of nowhere, a boat intersects us in the middle of the river. Our driver eases off the gas, then kills the engine, and, as we float closer to the mystery boat, the outlines of automatic and semi-automatic weapons take shape as extensions of the muscular arms holding them, pointing them skyward, followed by the menacing stare of a very large, very black, very serious Shepherd breed dog.<br />
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The large yellow letters on the black vests worn over black shirts and atop black pants and black combat boots (can you feel the sense of foreboding I felt at the moment?) by the handful of stern-faced, albeit handsome, Latino men on board indicated that they were with the Peruvian National Police - narcotics agents patrolling the Amazon for drug traffic. Most people would be thinking<em>, no problem - we aren't drug mules, so we're in the clear</em>. But panic struck me immediately as I tried to maintain a worry-free expression for the benefit of the mission team on my boat. First, we were carrying what can only be referred to as a 'butt-load of contraband.' As several of the mission team members were medical professionals, they had been conducting a basic medical clinic in Gallito, and on our boat were two large military green duffle bags loaded down with bags of ibuprofen, acetaminophen, naproxen, cold/flu/allergy meds, antiparasitics, vitamins, antibiotics just to name a few. Granted nothing was illegal, but when you have pale skin in a foreign land, legality doesn't necessarily mean much at times. I was deathly afraid the narcs were going to ask to see the contents of the bags, at which time I was going to have to step up and try to explain. <br />
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The other fear that plagued me in the moment was that we would be petitioned for a 'propina' in order to be released and sent on our way. 'Propina' literally means tip or gratuity, but also doubles as a polite way of saying bribe money. It is not uncommon for police officers (or anyone for that matter) in Peru to solicit propinas to do the job for which they are already being paid (but I will refrain from climbing onto my soap-box and preaching a laborious sermon on the injustice of that brand of crime). I knew that, if such talks began, there was only one way for the negotiations to go - south. If they were so inclined to demand bribes, the amounts would not be small; after all, these police officers were looking at a boat full of middle-class, white North Americans who, by Peruvian standards, would be classified as very wealthy on the socio-economic scale. I all but held my breath and prayed mightily that whatever the boat driver was saying to the head-honcho on the police boat would be an adequate explanation of who we were and what we were doing, would appeal to his sense of moral integrity, and would not result in me having to talk (because stress-laden, pressure filled situations like that guarantee a total loss of my ability to communicate effectively in Spanish).<br />
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Thankfully, within a few minutes we resumed our trek to Iquitos. After the collective sigh of relief, the trepidation turned to excitement over what had just taken place. Events like this, after they are over and everything turned out ok, make the best mission team stories. And the frighteningly exhilarating thrill of it all just might be what encourages a few hesitant bystanders to take the plunge and join next year's team on their Amazon Adventure! <br />
</span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-77854648406986617032010-06-15T22:14:00.004-04:002010-06-16T00:01:39.772-04:00Happy Anniversary…To…Me!One year ago today I began my new life as a missionary in Iquitos, Peru. I cannot believe it has already been a year. My how time flies. As I reflect on the past 12 months, a lot has happened, but today I find myself thinking about the funny stuff - the humor that has made the tough days easier, the good times even better, and has ultimately made this foreigner feel like she is at home. So I'll share with you a few glimpses of the lighter moments of this last year: <ul><li>Countless nights I've been unable to sleep because my German Shepherd and Yellow Lab ran a cat up a tree and decided the best course of action was to sit at the base of the tree and bark to lure it down again, totally unmoved by my 3 a.m. threats to cut their tails off if they didn't hush.</li>
<li>The morning I went out to feed the maccaw only to find it hanging upside down by one foot after getting its leg wrapped up in some twine; it later bit both me and Villa as we were trying to get it unwrapped - some kind of thanks for saving its life.</li>
<li>Learning that the word "foca" means seal, as in a sea animal, and that the word "foco" means light bulb, and being told that it is not possible to purchase a foc'a' at the hardware store.</li>
<li>Over all the noise from the motokars in the street, hearing a horn playing, of all things, <em>Dixie</em>. I felt like I was being secretly video taped for a bad episode of <em>The Dukes of Hazzard</em>.</li>
<li>Visiting with the wife of one of the pastors after she had surgery - and just in case I didn't believe that she'd actually been operated on, she called for her daughter who brought out a large jar which contained her uterus.</li>
<li>Consulting with Villa on his "plan of war" to catch the neighbor who insists on putting his trash in front of our house instead of his own.</li>
<li>Observing the high class tastes of my Yellow Lab, Dolly, as she dives in the pond behind the house to retrieve snails; she then diligently works to crack the shell and extract her very own doggy escargot.</li>
<li>Coming back to Iquitos after a visit to the U.S. to find my washing machine would no longer work. Further investigation by the technician revealed that a couple of mice had taken up residence inside the machine while I was gone and chewed through most of the wires.</li>
<li>Watching Villa make what he referred to as 'poison sandwiches' to put in the storage room to kill our pet rat.</li>
<li>Shining my flashlight on the pond at night to locate the orange eyes of the alligator my friend Todd put there; then, witnessing its demise as one of the elders from the church next door removed it after I promised he could take it home and have it for dinner.</li>
<li>Laughing uncontrollably with Villa in church the next day when the preacher used an alligator story as an illustration in his sermon.</li>
<li>Rescuing a toad frog after Dolly, the Yellow Lab, decided he might be a toy for her to play with and was pawing him to death.</li>
<li>Chasing Dolly around the yard every time mail is delivered if she gets to the gate before I do. Let's just say that when she greets the mailman, the yard is soon decorated with very small pieces of water bills and bank statements.</li>
<li>The day I forgot the gate was bolted and didn't have my key to open it for one of the pastors. He didn't know I could see him through the peephole and later told me he thought God was speaking out loud to him in a woman's voice when he heard me calling his name telling him to wait for me to get the key.</li>
<li>Getting up in the morning to find feathers all over the door mat after Tamy, my German Shepherd, decided to have a bird for breakfast.</li>
</ul>And these are just a few of the lighter moments that have made this one of the most amazing years of my life. I wish I could put into words everything about this time that has forever changed me. Not only do I have a much greater knowledge and better understanding of my Peruvian friends, but also of myself, and especially God. My 'head knowledge' has grown, and my 'heart knowledge' has deepened. I am totally humbled by this incredible opportunity that I have been given.Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-71155240706978478112010-06-02T21:33:00.004-04:002010-06-02T22:05:37.536-04:00Poignant Quotes<span xmlns=""><span style="font-family: inherit;">Cross-cultural relationships can be tricky, even difficult, but they can also be some of the most rewarding. It doesn't matter if those relationships are established among different cultures within the U.S., or if they develop as a result of foreign missions experiences in other countries. Any time people of different cultures, ethnicities, family backgrounds (or whatever else may be the basis for the differences) come together, unless there is an effort to get to know, to respect, and to understand each other, conflict will ensue. I do think, however, that if you are traveling to another country for the purpose of mission work, disaster relief, or any other area of service to those in need, especially if you are North American, you have a responsibility to step out of yourself and see things from the perspective of the locals you've come to serve. For many years now, long before I ever moved to Peru to live and work in the foreign mission field, I've been reading everything I can get my hands on about cross-cultural ministry and relations. Not surprisingly, there are threads of similarities, common themes that run throughout the literature, and we, as North Americans in search of ways to serve humanity, would do well to heed the suggestions and warnings made by those who've both walked the path before us, and remained behind to clean up the messes we make, however unintentional those messes may have been. For it is only when we step outside of ourselves that we can truly serve.<br />
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I recently read for a second time Duane Elmer's book <em>Cross-Cultural Servanthood, Serving the World in Christlike Humility</em>. I will share the bibliographical information on the book at the end of this blog post, but first I want to share what I think are some of the most poignant points of the book. These statements and passages have now made me uncomfortable twice, causing me to stop, to think, to ponder, to evaluate. If you are involved in cross-cultural ministry, whether in the U.S. or abroad, I hope you, too, will take the time to consider how the following quotes might apply to you. After all, our goal is to propagate the pure Gospel. My personal goal is to do so with as little interference from me as possible. <br />
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"Many [locals] said that they valued the [foreign] missionary presence and the love they felt from them. But many said…, 'Missionaries could more effectively minister the gospel of Christ if they did not think they were so superior to us'" (15).<br />
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"You can't serve someone you do not understand. If you try to serve people without understanding them, you are more likely to be perceived as a benevolent oppressor" (20).<br />
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"We [North Americans] see them with less economic goods, less hygiene, less schooling, less housing, less infrastructure, less spiritual maturity, less knowledge, and less 'toys.' We believe that we can help them. So we set out to tell them how it ought to be done. By that, we mean <em>how we do it in the West</em>. This 'telling' approach…rarely works at all anywhere today. But…people see it for what it is: pride" (92).<br />
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"We [think] we don't have to get close to our hosts, even while in their culture…We'd be better off getting on with the task rather than 'wasting time' talking with people and sharing their life experiences…since we already 'know' what they need. We turn others into objects…[In doing so] we create dependent relationships. Others rely on us for goals, direction, resources, nurture and status. Such dependency eventually turns bitter because it daily robs people of their dignity" (94-95).<br />
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"Unless we too connect deeply with the people of our host culture, we will neither see nor interpret their situation accurately: their pain, their values, their structures, their social limitations, their dreams…our well-meaning help won't fit their reality. The Christ we show them will be more North American than the true Christ…" (104).<br />
<br />
"Witness not grounded in the local cultural realities has historically led to the claim that Christianity is a 'white man's religion' or 'foreigners' religion.' Jesus fits comfortably into all cultures, but we have to learn how to express him in the local context…We must also be careful not to mistake our own cultural values with biblical truth" (109-110).<br />
<br />
"God says that truth is available through the Scripture and through creation…That means we may learn about God as we learn about other cultures. He has not revealed all of his knowledge and wisdom to the Western cultures alone or to any one culture. But each culture can make a significant contribution to our understanding about who God is and how he works in this world" (131).<br />
<br />
"By choosing to be a servant, we relinquish power, control, and unilateral decision making in favor of listening, learning, and understanding, and emerge with a decision that reflects the wisdom of God and his people" (172).<br />
<br />
I love foreign missions. I am in awe of those who serve abroad, giving up country, family, home, and numerous luxuries, whether for only a few years or for a lifetime; I aspire to be like them. I think short-term mission teams are great; they have the capacity to add to the body of Christ, but also to spiritually grow believers in both the host and visiting countries. I think Christians are at their best when they are reaching out to help those in need. Unfortunately, though, we (by 'we' I mean North Americans - gringos, if you will) do assume an air of superiority, most of the time without even realizing that is what we are doing. The attitude may be wholly unintentional, yet it is entirely devastating. I've been guilty of it myself. But (as our friendly highway patrolmen like to say when pulling us over) ignorance is no excuse. If we wish to be true disciples of the Gospel, we <em>must</em> make a conscious effort to leave behind all of our notions of how things 'should' be done, ideas about intelligence being directly related to levels of education, preconceptions about how worship 'ought' to be conducted, and schedules that are inflexible, leaving no room for relaxing and socializing - check these things at the U.S. border; you can pick them up again when you re-enter the country. Additionally, we<em> must</em> let go of the fears that plague us and either keep us from going, or hinder God from working through us, such as: fear of flying, fear of spiritual inadequacy, fear of language barriers, fear of unfamiliar foods, fear of insects, fear of hot/cold weather. If God has called you to go, He will equip you. As more than one friend has told me during this first year of my service in Peru, God does not expect us to be perfect, just faithful.<br />
<br />
May we all, like Jesus, have the heart of a servant. </span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 27pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Elmer, Duane<em>. Cross-Cultural Servanthood, Serving the World in Christlike Humility</em>. </span></div><div style="margin-left: 27pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Downer's Grove, IL: InterVaristy Press,2006.</span></div><div style="margin-left: 27pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">ISBN - 10 0-8308-3378-1 or ISBN - 13 978-0-8308-3378-8 </span><em><br />
</em></div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-16123926738306810652010-04-07T14:43:00.002-04:002010-04-07T14:49:40.758-04:00Hot Dogs<span xmlns=""> <p>It used to take a lot to get me excited, but that was before I moved to Peru. </p><p>I hate grocery shopping just as much, if not more, here in Iquitos than I did in Spartanburg. At least in the 'Burg I can enjoy one-stop shopping at my friendly neighborhood Super Wal-Mart. In Iquitos, I make my shopping lists (yes, I said list<strong><em>s</em></strong>, plural) according to the market or supermarket where the necessary items can be found. Fresh fruits and vegetables are best purchased in the open-air markets where the vendors sell their locally grown produce. Spices (the American ones I'm familiar with) are located in a specific mini-market, which is the equivalent of a gas station store in size, only with more variety and options. A tienda (small store) inside the Belen Market has the best prices on toilet paper, paper towels, and household cleaning supplies. Super Mercado Piramides is the closest thing to an American grocery store here; it is a larger store with aisles and real grocery carts to push, and is the best place to find ground beef, fish, and chicken (the locals would disagree with me on that, but I <em>am</em> a gringa and I like to buy such things from a nice, refrigerated display case where I don't have to see the remains lying around from the untimely deaths of said animals while flies hover over the "fresh" meat). If I want a modest selection of imported items I go to Los Portales, a smaller version of Piramides. </p><p>It was at Los Portales two weeks ago that I spied, for the first time, actual American hot dogs (as opposed to their Peruvian counterparts whose color alone encourages you to say, 'No thanks, I think I'll pass') and real hot dog buns to boot. It was all I could not to start screaming "HOT DOGS!!!" at the top of my lungs, and start running around in circles doing my best impression of Macauley Culkin in <em>Home Alone</em>. I promptly purchased said hot dogs and buns. Later that day I whipped up some chili, chopped up an onion, made sure I wasn't running low on mustard, and had the biggest, messiest hot dog ever. I thought I was in heaven. </p><p>Villa is a human guinea pig, or garbage disposal as the case may be. In his words, "Pamelita, you know I can't say no to food, no matter what kind it is." A couple of days ago I bought more hot dogs and buns. Upon seeing the buns on the kitchen counter, Villa inquired as to what they were for. When I explained, he wasted no time letting me know that he wanted to try an American hot dog, so yesterday we had lunch together. Suffice it to say that Villa has fallen in love with yet another gringo institution (all that's left pretty much is apple pie and Chevrolet, because he already likes baseball and we just crossed hot dogs off the list - for those of you who remember the commercial). </p><p>Though I <em>can</em> cook, I am not <em>a</em> cook; but I have often heard it said that a cook loves watching people enjoy her meal as much as she likes preparing it. I have to say, it made my heart swell with pride to see Villa eat hot dogs until he nearly made himself sick. So far his list of foreign foods includes tacos (complete with my homemade guacamole which he loves to eat straight out of the bowl with crackers), Italian style pasta salad (thanks to my mom for mailing me packages of pepperoni), and, now, hot dogs. He informed me today that I should search for a new recipe while I am in the U.S. and bring all the necessary ingredients back to Iquitos and make him a new gringo dish when I return. It is a simple thing, but it makes me happy. </p><p>Bon appétite! Oh wait, that's French. How do you say it in Spanish?<br /></p></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-27556792478517771732010-03-02T20:32:00.006-05:002010-03-02T22:11:21.053-05:00La Reina y La PrincesaI am currently working on my next soul-searching, thought-provoking blog post, but more than a few of you have asked to see more pictures of the reigning Queen and Princess of El Jardin. I'm happy to report that they are finally beginning to get along, however there are still moments when the Princess aggravates the Queen just a little too much. Overall, though, they seem to like each other these days, except at meal time of course - my girls will still wage all out war over food.<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S43G3g22u-I/AAAAAAAAAHA/EFbEHfXd0lk/s1600-h/Play+Time.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 243px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 182px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444226181575916514" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S43G3g22u-I/AAAAAAAAAHA/EFbEHfXd0lk/s200/Play+Time.jpg" /></a> Nothing like a little kiss (or is it a bite?) to show some affection. Notice the potted plant in the background. Once upon a time there was taller greenery there before the tiny canine lawnmower decided to destroy it. Of course that doesn't even compare to the tree Ina potted that she planned to transfer to the yard. I liken it to a Charlie Brown Christmas tree as it is now merely a twig with a few leaves remaining on top.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S43G3T-hKZI/AAAAAAAAAG4/GiEtkSHs-lA/s1600-h/Mud+Bath.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 247px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 181px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444226178118396306" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S43G3T-hKZI/AAAAAAAAAG4/GiEtkSHs-lA/s200/Mud+Bath.jpg" /></a>Dolly follows Tamy everywhere, including into the pond for a swim. I couldn't help but laugh when my little mud-covered piglet emerged. The first time was a true Kodak moment - subsequent swims, not so funny, especially when she darted through the kitchen door and ran through the house, leaving a trail of sludge behind her.<br /><br /><div><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S43G2ycG9qI/AAAAAAAAAGw/NwbWwQGTJ20/s1600-h/Sisters.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 241px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 171px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444226169115702946" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S43G2ycG9qI/AAAAAAAAAGw/NwbWwQGTJ20/s200/Sisters.jpg" /></a>Tamy's moment of surrender. Poor girl can't even take a nap without Dolly climbing all over her - or using her as a pillow. <div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S43G2hSzlDI/AAAAAAAAAGo/OOVsWg7j17E/s1600-h/Total+Relaxation.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 235px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 167px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444226164513281074" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S43G2hSzlDI/AAAAAAAAAGo/OOVsWg7j17E/s200/Total+Relaxation.jpg" /></a>I like to refer to this as "Total Relaxation." When you can roll over onto your back, legs in the air, prop yourself against a tree, and never move despite people laughing and taking pictures of you, then you really don't have a care in the world. Oh to sleep like that - well, not <em>exactly</em> like that (wouldn't be very lady-like)!</div><div></div><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 231px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 170px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444226162586721138" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S43G2aHem3I/AAAAAAAAAGg/0xIt3railaU/s200/Ear+Biting.jpg" />If only I had a camera with the ability to take pictures in rapid succession you would be able to see what happened next. After one too many nibbles on the ear with those razor-sharp puppy teeth, the Queen had reached her limit and sent the Princess running to hide behind me, yelping all the way. There's never a dull moment in the kingdom of El Jardin. </div></div></div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-6025532741159542872010-02-05T10:41:00.003-05:002010-02-05T21:45:34.243-05:00Hola, Dolly!<p>I am a new mommy! Before anyone gets too excited, let me say that my infant has four legs, a tail, blonde fur, floppy ears, brown eyes, ferocious breath, and teeth as sharp as razors. This baby cries all night (well, she did the first 3-4 nights), whines when she can't see anyone, chews on whatever is in her path at the moment, and eats/sleeps/goes potty on a fairly regular schedule (not including her in-house accidents). Her name is Dolly and she is my six week old yellow Labrador puppy. </p><p>No, nothing happened to Tammy, my 7 year old German Shepherd. <em>She</em> thinks something has happened to her, like she's committed some terrible sin whose resulting punishment is the presence of the new, hyperactive, barking bundle of energy, but she is fine, save a mile-long jealous streak. </p><p>We (meaning myself and Todd Garrett - head of Medical Missions of Iquitos) made the decision to get another dog for several reasons. First, Tammy has been the watch dog of the El Jardin property for a long time now and can teach the new puppy what to do. We didn't want to wait until Tammy passed on to doggy heaven, taking all her good guardian secrets with her. Second, the property here is fairly large - two dogs can canvass it better than one. Finally, after a string of break-ins on my block from October to December, what better time could there be to install a new four-legged alarm system? I began my dog search prior to going to the U.S. for the holidays. Thanks to Villa, I was able to get in touch with the man who gave us Tammy, and, as luck would have it, he had recently bred two yellow labs and said the puppies were due to be born around Christmas. </p><p>Upon my return to Iquitos a couple of weeks ago, I got a phone call saying my puppy was ready to come to her new home. Boy, was I in for a rude awakening! The last time I had a newborn was about 17 years ago, so to say I had forgotten how much attention puppies require is a gross understatement. After two sleepless nights due to sound barrier breaking wailing and howling, trips outside every couple of hours in order to avoid unwanted clean-ups, and playing referee between the new addition and the current queen of the yard to keep one from literally killing the other, I didn't know whether to cry, scream, take her back to her canine mother, or all of the above. But now, a week later, things have settled down a bit. Tammy and Dolly are getting used to each other (though they definitely are not friends yet), Dolly is sleeping through the night on the screened porch (until she's big enough to join Tammy outdoors), and I have learned the value of grabbing an afternoon power nap (when the baby sleeps, mommy sleeps). </p><p>What's in a name? Tammy (pronounced Tommy based on the Spanish pronunciation of the letter 'a') is short for Tamshiyacu. I'm not really sure who named her, but she shares her name with the jungle town that one of our AMF sister churches is partnered with. When Todd and I first began discussing getting another dog for the property, I immediately thought about what I would name her (since I knew I would get another female). Naturally I began with a list of Latino names - and even though I really liked some of them, none really felt right. Then one night I was in the shower with music from my iPod blasting (as is my custom) when an old, well-worn tune had me tapping my foot and shampooing simultaneously. I sang along, loudly (as is also my custom - when there are no guests in the house), the familiar lyrics of <em>Here You Come Again</em> by none other than Dolly Parton, who just happens to be one of Todd's favorite singers (no kidding - who knew she was <em>anybody's</em> favorite?). And so the story goes of how Dolly (the dog) came into her name. </p><p>And now, for the moment you've all been waiting for, the pictures. I have tried to get some shots of Dolly and Tammy together, but Tammy will not be still long enough. At this point she allows Dolly about 30 seconds of aggravation time before she jumps up and runs off to hide. Hopefully in the future…</p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 199px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 143px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434823679887652434" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S2xfV4iVtlI/AAAAAAAAAGY/ev7GbbC2BFQ/s200/Dolly+Sleeping.jpg" /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S2xfVJK2uJI/AAAAAAAAAGI/ECgntmBkyGU/s1600-h/Sitting+Dolly.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434823667172685970" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S2xfVJK2uJI/AAAAAAAAAGI/ECgntmBkyGU/s200/Sitting+Dolly.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S2xfUuoMGwI/AAAAAAAAAGA/ztaQ93ATbds/s1600-h/Iquitos+-+Summer+2008+001.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434823660047964930" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S2xfUuoMGwI/AAAAAAAAAGA/ztaQ93ATbds/s200/Iquitos+-+Summer+2008+001.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S2xfUWwZy8I/AAAAAAAAAF4/NOCsOloNys4/s1600-h/Dolly+by+Her+Box.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434823653639965634" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_vh_GVDXfRig/S2xfUWwZy8I/AAAAAAAAAF4/NOCsOloNys4/s200/Dolly+by+Her+Box.jpg" /></a><span xmlns=""> <div><p>…meanwhile, it's hard to beat unconditional puppy love! </span></p></div></div></div>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8547744755387657307.post-63024189351994860972010-01-25T20:41:00.002-05:002010-01-25T20:56:04.297-05:00Breath of Heaven<span xmlns=""> <p>Happy New Year! Well, it's not new anymore, but as this is my first entry of 2010, can you humor me? </p><p>Way back in 2009, when Thanksgiving quickly rolled into the month of December, I began to experience my first ever bout with writer's block - a condition which has plagued me for nearly two months. For weeks now I have written and erased repeatedly, stared at a blank screen, and finally, exasperated, turned off the computer hoping for better days. I wouldn't say I'm prolific again yet, but I do have a few thoughts brewing to share with you. Here goes... </p><p>While I realize Christmas past is gone and Christmas future is literally eleven months away, I feel the need to revisit my 2009 Advent season to put the proper perspective on my 2010 blog season. </p><p>It was mid-December, less than two weeks before Christmas, and I could hardly contain myself as I approached the Plaza de Armas. To my utter delight, the lamp posts that surround the square were elegantly wrapped in white lights, a giant Christmas tree, tastefully decorated in oversized ornaments, stood majestically, shadowing the life-size nativity scene, which could not have been complete without the tribal jungle natives standing guard on either side of the Baby Jesus (next to the Magi of course), while the glass front of the lobby of the El Dorado Five Star Hotel glowed, looking like a picture from the holiday edition of <em>Southern Living </em>magazine. An enormous smile spread across my face and I squealed with excitement, which made my Peruvian friends laugh. The scene was so simple, yet so beautiful. I felt like a little girl again and Christmas was something special - I cannot remember the last time I felt that way. </p><p>As you might imagine, Christmas in Peru is quite different from the way we celebrate in the U.S. While U.S. stores are already stocking their Christmas paraphernalia and malls are decking their halls before the last piece of Halloween candy is eaten by a young trick-or-treater (maybe before the first piece is even purchased), you won't find any evidence of the holidays in Iquitos until after December 1, and then you only catch an occasional glimpse - the real decorating doesn't begin until December 15. (I cannot begin to explain how refreshing it was to not be sick of Christmas before Thanksgiving!) Though from time to time you will see images of the white-bearded guy in the big red suit, the myth of Santa Claus is not perpetuated here. The Peruvians, however, do believe each child should get a new toy for Christmas (notice I said toy - singular), and those who are able buy extras and give them to less fortunate friends and neighbors who cannot afford gifts for their kids. In the 2-3 days prior to Christmas, long lines form in every neighborhood and at many churches as adults ladle out steaming hot chocolate into the cups the children bring with them in events known as "chocolatadas." The markets are lined with various brands of "panetton," the fruit bread that is traditionally eaten with the holiday meal at midnight, when Christmas Eve becomes Christmas Day (those who can afford it also have another round of hot chocolate). Christmas Eve is a time of reflection, particularly for those who are spiritual; many Christians spend at least part of the day in church. Commerce ceases on Christmas Day and people emerge from their homes to hang out in the streets all day with their neighbors. It is an opportunity to be together; not a time for opening presents or running themselves ragged with a hectic schedule of meals and travel, but a time to really enjoy family and friends. </p><p>That's it. If you're like me, you're surprised by the simplicity of it all. The pace is slow (not unlike the rest of the year); there is no holiday rush. Certainly I was anxious to get back to the U.S. to be with my family and friends on Christmas, but I am glad I opted to remain in Iquitos until December 23, to experience Advent in a new, refreshing way. </p><p>This year (oops, last year) I found myself listening to one particular song over and over again, haunted by the melody while pondering its words. It is written from the perspective of the Virgin Mary as she contemplates her magnanimous role in God's ultimate plan of salvation. It occurred to me that this is not just Mary's story, but the tale of every one of us who claim to be believers. We, too, carry Jesus inside us; we have an awesome responsibility to take Him into a lost and dying world. It is a daunting task to say the least, and I (like Mary) question God's wisdom, even His sanity, when He chose me to bear witness to Him, knowing how often and how completely I would mess up. In the midst of her fear and loneliness, Mary realizes that her own strength won't get her very far. Consider the words of the song penned by Amy Grant: </p><p><em>I have traveled many moonless nights; cold and weary, with a babe inside.<br /></em><em>And I wonder what I've done-<br /></em><em>Holy Father, you have come and chosen me now, to carry your son. </em></p><p><em>I am waiting in a silent prayer; I am frightened by the load I bear.<br /></em><em>In a world as cold as stone, must I walk this path alone?<br /></em><em>Be with me now...<br /></em><em>Be with me now… </em></p><p><em>Breath of heaven, hold me together; be forever near me, breath of heaven.<br /></em><em>Breath of heaven, light in my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy,<br /></em><em>Breath of heaven. </em></p><p><em>Do you wonder, as you watch my face, if a wiser one should have had my place? </em><em>But I offer all I am for the mercy of your plan; help me be strong...<br /></em><em>Help me be...<br /></em><em>Help me… </em></p><p><em>Breath of heaven, hold me together; be forever near me, breath of heaven.<br /></em><em>Breath of heaven, light in my darkness, pour over me your holiness, for you are holy,<br /></em><em>Breath of heaven. </em></p><p>"Be with me now…, help me…, pour over me your holiness…" - simple words; a profound prayer. As the first month of 2010 is already drawing to a close, and as I get back into my Peruvian routine, recovering from a very hectic month of traveling, meetings, and fundraising, I want , no, I desperately need, the breath of heaven.<br /></p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><br /> </p><p><em><br /></em> </p></span>Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com0