She's A Mother Too

"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

Today I celebrate my second Mother's Day.  I'm still trying to wrap my brain around that, because I never expected to be 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.

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.

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 a life.

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.

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.  How could any woman just give away her baby?  What kind of person does that?  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…

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. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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.

Happy Mother's Day, Elisabeth! Yes, you are a mother too and we honor you as such.  We love you!

*Elisabeth is not our birth mother's real name; it has been changed to protect her privacy.

Protector of the Good

So when I updated the blog and began posting anew last year, I addressed the notion that the title of 'missionary' does not apply only 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.

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.

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.

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!

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."

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 is a term of affection, I promise!).  His given name is Edgardo Villa. 

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.

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.

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 Edgardo 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. 

Birth Mother

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!

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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. 

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 gave me her most precious possession believing I was worthy enough to be called "Mommy" by her little boy.  But there's more…

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.

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.  

Not a Title, But a Way of Life

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. 

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. 

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.

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.

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 real missionaries are only 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 serving 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?

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 dare you to!

Why I Do What I Do

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.

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.

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.

Pretty morbid picture, huh? It would be if that were the end of the story.

Enter Jesus. The Good News. The Gospel.

In Him there is no death. Only life. Abundant life. Eternal life.

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:

God sent His son, they called him Jesus;
He came to love, heal and forgive;
He lived and died to buy my pardon,
An empty grave is there to prove my Savior lives!

Because He lives I can face tomorrow,
Because He lives all fear is gone;
Because I know He hold the future
And life is worth the living,
Just because He lives!

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 not the final answer.

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.

Because there are still people in this world who think the morbid picture is all there is…
Because we are not promised tomorrow…
Because life is fragile and fleeting and time is of the essence...
...that is why I do what I do.

Eating Leaves

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?

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 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.

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!

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.

I honestly felt bad for this nameless North American; he had 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 is the best medicine!

Proverbs 17:22

Feliz Navidad

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. 

Collins has a particular affinity for O Holy Night. 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:

from 'O Holy Night'    

Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.
Sweet hymns of joy in grateful chorus raise we,
With all our hearts we praise His holy name.
Christ is the Lord! Then ever, ever praise we,
His power and glory ever more proclaim!
His power and glory ever more proclaim!

The song that speaks to my heart most powerfully is O Little Town of Bethlehem. 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: 

from 'O Little Town of Bethlehem'

How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of His heaven.
No ear may hear His coming,
But in this world of sin,
Where meek souls will receive him still,
The dear Christ enters in.

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 Noche de Paz, the Spanish version of Silent Night. 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:

from 'Noche de Paz' (Silent Night)

Noche de paz, noche de amor,
(Night of peace, night of love,)
Todo duerme en derredor;
(All around everyone sleeps;)
Sobre el santo niño Jesús
(Over the holy baby Jesus)
Una estrella esparce su luz,
(One star disperses its light)
Brilla sobre el Rey
(Shining over the King)
Brilla sobre el Rey.
(Shining over the King.)

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 my own as though I were one of their own. This, my friends, is a true gift of Christmas.

Financial Security

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 years 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.

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?

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:

1:27 - 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.

2:5 - Listen, my dear brothers: Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith…?

2:15-16 - 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? 

4:1-3 - 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.

4:13-14 - 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.

5:1,3 - 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.

5:16 - 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.

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!

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...

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, any giving is sacrificial, so who am I to refuse to dig deeper into my pockets and give until it hurts?

And just yesterday I was reading The Christian Atheist: Believing in God but Living As If He Doesn't Exist by Craig Groeschel. The chapter entitled When You Believe in God but Trust More in Money drove home the lessons God has been teaching me in recent weeks. I invite you to ponder the following statements with me:

"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."

"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."

"Americans are not known for being sacrificially generous. In fact, 21 percent of consistent American church members don't give anything 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."

"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!"

"The Christian Atheist justifies himself: 'Sure, I'll give…as long as it doesn't lower my standard of living.'"

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:

"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."

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.

Blessings

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:

Consider it pure joy, my brothers,
whenever you face trials of many kinds,
because you know that the testing
of your faith develops perseverance.
Perseverance must finish its work
so that you may be mature and complete,
not lacking anything. 

James 1:2-4

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. 

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.

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 not 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 all that we encounter in our lives as blessings - the good as well as the not-so-good.

And so I leave you on this Thanksgiving day with lyrics penned by my precious friend, Laura Story:

'Blessings' - by Laura Story

We pray for blessings; we pray for peace
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep
We pray for healing, for prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering
But all the while You hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things

CHORUS
'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise

We pray for wisdom, Your voice to hear
We cry in anger when we cannot feel You near
We doubt Your goodness; we doubt Your love
As if every promise from Your word is not enough
And all the while You hear each desperate plea
But long that we'd have faith to believe

Repeat CHORUS

When friends betray us; when darkness seems to win
We know the pain reminds this heart that this is not, this is not our home
It's not our home

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near
What if my greatest disappointments, or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy
And what if trials of this life: the rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are Your mercies in disguise

***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.***

Picture It…If You Can

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!

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 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner - '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. 

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 me 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).

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.

Did I mention that I absolutely love this life here?

Slippin' and Slidin'

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. 

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.'

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…

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.

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. 

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. 

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.

And So Goes My Life…

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.

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. 

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!

Suffice it to say that Villa continues to recover nicely from his gall bladder surgery.

I 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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

"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.

I leave you today with these words:
To God be the glory for the things He has done…
A Dios sea la gloria por lo que hizo por mi…


April 16, 2011



Johnny

            

I met Johnny two years ago on my first visit to a local AIDS Hospice House here in Iquitos called Casa Hogar - Algo Bello Para Dios, 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 had 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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

Adios, Johnny. My life would be less today if I had never met you. You are missed. 

Gratitude

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:

grateful - adj. - deeply and abidingly appreciative and thankful to God for His deliverance and His blessing

God has abundantly and extravagantly blessed me:

• 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.

• 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.

• 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?

• 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.

• 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.
  
  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.
  
  I have been delivered and I have been blessed, and for this I am deeply and abidingly appreciative and thankful to God.

Ladder Climbing Dog

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:

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 - except 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).

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 thinks 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).

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).

Just another "typical" day in the jungle. Now back to work...

Close to Crisis

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.

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.

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.

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!

Itaya River at the Boulevard
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.

Itaya River at Puerto Huequito
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.

Itaya River at Puerto Huequito
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.

Bella Vista Port on the Nanay River
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.