In This Waiting

The blank computer page in front of me mocks the scattered nature of my thoughts.  Asking me to organize or consolidate my frenetic mind seems like a tall task.  Yet, after months of not touching my blog, the invitation to post a little something is all too clear.  Rain is pouring down outside my window.  My house is fairly clean and organized.  The gift of extra time has been awarded to me by a baby who seems overly comfortable in my swollen belly.  Writing a blog post seems like the therapeutic and perfect thing to do.

This morning, I had an OB appointment which might rather have been entitled an Attitude-Check appointment.  You see, I have dreams about the birth of this little boy squirming around inside.  I really want to have this baby with as little medical intervention as possible.  I envision a lovely natural start to labor where I can while away the hours doing sweet and domestic activities in my familiar house.  I imagine the doula we hired arriving at the right moment, cheering me and my husband on as we prepare to go to the hospital for just those last crazy hours.  I determine that my birth story will defy the horror stories that I have heard one too many of.  That's my dream.

Then my dream met this morning.  I found myself sitting in an exam room with a sheet draped over my lap and the OB telling me what I didn't want to hear: Baby McDonald is just plain comfy and things not too progressed at all (well, it wasn't said in those words, but that was my interpretation).  This news at nearly 41 weeks pregnant dealt a disappointing blow to my well-laid plans.  As I swallowed my frustration, the OB continued to direct me about the plan to come to the hospital in 4 short days to begin the induction process.  It all sounded terribly unromantic to me.  I guess baking cookies and doing puzzles during labor isn't a normal part of laboring in a hospital room.  What a bummer.

As I trudged out of the clinic, my mood matched by the gray clouds hanging low overhead, I knew just how spoiled my mindset revealed me to be.  The OB had offered plenty of encouragement including the fact that the baby seemed to be doing quite well.  Nothing in that twenty-minute meeting warranted the foul attitude that slithered into my heart.  Yet, there I was, a veritable Eeyore, tromping to my car with an inward pout about how things were unfolding.

I am embarrassed to admit this.  Truly.  I don't mean to say that my frustration and impatience have no basis to exist.  Being 41 weeks pregnant has its real moments of trial.  However, when I think about the immense blessings surrounding me right now, even in this situation, I can't believe that my heart focuses on the comparably minuscule annoyances instead.  First of all, I am pregnant.  That alone is a blessing that I don't deserve.  Secondly, I have excellent medical care.  The fact that induction is possible reminds me that I live in an age where having a child is not nearly the liability it once was.  I am well taken care of and have no room to complain.  Thirdly, I have time to write this post.  I have space to dwell and think and pray and prepare.  Not all moms-to-be get that luxury.  Fourthly...

I could write on and on.  If I were to enumerate all the ways that I am blessed, this post would be painfully long.  Thus, I am reminded that living a joy-filled life has much to do with perspective and a living in the thankfulness that Christians are called to nurture.  Sometimes, it is too easy to exchange worry for worry or frustration for frustration in life.  There will ALWAYS be things that are not ideal in a given day.  There will ALWAYS be ways that I could compare my situation to someone else's and find how my lot in life is dismal.   It's just a basic human tendency.

I am old enough to know that I have to choose the proper perspective day after day and that doing so requires surrender.  I must surrender daily to Christ and allow the Holy Spirit to shape the thoughts of my heart.  Though I'm old enough to know it, I'm not always mature enough to actually do the right choosing.  I am thankful that there is grace for my deficiencies, but I want to learn how to live in more victory with my attitude postures.

As the rain continues to pour, my heart feels more calm. I am confident that Christ is refining me.  I pray you are finding those refining moments in life too...those ways that Christ is teaching you in your situation to surrender and choose thankfulness.  It is amazing how the sun shines through the rain when that happens.

No such thing as Neutral

I taught public school for nine years.  As an employee of the government, I well understood that I was to be "neutral" in my instruction.  Promoting any ideology was prohibited, yet I quickly realized first-hand that there is no such thing as neutrality in human conduct, really.  Humans have worldviews and their worldviews make sense of the world in very fundamental ways.  We operate out of those views without thought most of the time.   No fair-minded human would dispute this.  It is just impossible to completely divorce one's self from one's driving worldview.

Perhaps nothing exemplified this more clearly than the Supreme Court decision handed down on Friday, June 26, 2015.  Five of the nine justices ruled that same-sex marriage can no longer be denied in any state.  Reading the decision and the majority's opinion quickly revealed that this issue was decided based on worldview convictions.  Though justices were to be blind arbiters of the law in looking at this case, they could not resist ruling based on what they felt ought to be.  Even they, who legend says are to be the most excellent at executing objectivity, appear to have levels of bias.  This is far from shocking. They are human, after all, just like the rest of us.  We do not live like robots without feelings, sentiments, hopes, dreams, fears, thoughts, ideology.   It's what makes the human race simultaneously magnificent and convoluted.

The debate over whether justices overstepped their bounds in this case is not the point of this post.  I have read most of the 103-page Supreme Court decision along with the majority and dissenting opinions.  I have many thoughts regarding the points made therein and the outcome of the ruling, but that is for another day.  Here, I simply want to say what we all know to be true.  Worldviews inform humans. We should not be surprised.  As a Christ-follower, my worldview is shaped by the authority of Scripture and God's truth in my life.  I do not question this authority in any way and do not doubt my stance that God created marriage for one man and one woman.  

Yet, I know that to those who do not hold this view, my view is insane.  To them, it smacks of prejudice and entitlement and cruelty.  From my viewpoint it does not speak any of those things.  Thus, an impasse is created and indeed felt by those holding different worldviews.  Has this not been the case in all of human history?

So, as I reflect on the Supreme Court decision, I am not flagged.  I do not agree with the premise of the decision and do not think it pleases Christ.  I would be lying if I did not admit to sadness over Friday's decision.  However, I will not despair nor change my view of what is God's truth.  Furthermore, I am not going to hate those who disagree with me.  Christ calls us to love and to truth.  I can love those who disagree with me while standing on what I believe to be true, no matter what the cost.  

Let us stop insisting that everyone must agree as reality proves this impossible. To those who were excited about Friday's decision, please do not be surprised that Christ-followers do not join you in your celebration.  To Christ-followers, do not complain that those who don't know Christ make decisions and find victories grounded in their worldviews.  May God grant me the grace to love and to be kind and the strength to stand on His unfailing truth no matter what the cost as our nation moves forward.  

Perspective from the Couch

This beautiful January morning, I am perched on my apartment couch, gazing out at a wintry Pikes Peak.  I hear the buzz of traffic on the streets below and the ticking of the wall clock.  I am savoring the bite of my dark-brewed coffee and the gift of time.  Most of all, I am feeling compelled to think about perspective.

You see, I injured my back last Saturday.  I hurt it hardly doing anything which is a maddening thought.  I merely stretched too far on a sit-and-reach exercise, pushing my back to a point of strain.  Though I felt my back's complaint, I proceeded to do more exercises and then ran one measly mile.  I heard my back telling me to stop, but I was stubborn and pushed through the stiffness.  I didn't want to quit.  I was with others and I didn't want to say that I had to stop.  Well hello, Pride.

That stubborn choice cost me greatly.  By the end of my jog, I could barely walk, my lower back screaming foul play and causing every move to be rife with pain.  I could barely get into my car to drive home and then took embarrassingly long minutes to wince my way out of my car and up the apartment stairs. The rest of the day was consumed with downing pain meds, finding the most comfortable position and limiting movement as much as possible.  I had become a sort of invalid in just a short time.

As a result of my pride, I have missed four days of school this week and have found myself somewhat strapped to my apartment.  Normally, so much down time would be a gift.  Yet, when you feel limited in your ability to move or drive about, the gift turns into confinement.  Keeping my spirits up has been a crazy battle which has led me to ask, If I can't stand this much pain and inconvenience, how would I fair with the much-worse that so many others face daily?  This small trial has been testing my emotional and spiritual strength and I have found myself relatively weak in those regards.

So this morning as I sit on the couch that has become quite my good friend, I am convicted about my perspective.  It strikes me afresh that the human condition is naturally inclined to see the mess in a situation rather than all the things that are blessedly right.  Earlier, I flipped back in my journal and saw an old entry where I was wrestling deeply with something that is no longer a big trial in my life.  I had to shake my head in wonder.  Will I navigate life by simply trading worry for worry?  Or can I rise above and learn the art of a thankful perspective?

In that same journal, I wrote notes of thanks this morning.  It proved good medicine.  Choosing a positive perspective does not come naturally to me, but if I allow the Holy Spirit to reign in my heart, it becomes a lot easier.  To that end, I am thankful for extra time.  I am hopeful that while I sit, I will be still in spirit and dwell in the presence of God.  I am in true need of His daily redemption and am endlessly thankful that He is near.  I want to gain a healthy perspective, and He is the best Perspective-fixer I know.  Here's to sitting and dwelling and cultivating a thankful perspective during this time.

But They Laughed At Him

It strikes me as mildly ironic that a moment of sharp clarity arrived on this foggy morning.  While the dreamy mist outside hovered around the aspen leaves, one small sentence in the gospel of Matthew arrowed straight into my heart.

"But they laughed at him."  Those words in Matthew 9:24 might as well have been in all caps and a bold font for the way they popped from the page.  The context is the story of a ruler who petitioned Jesus to come heal his already dead daughter.  The ruler's faith is intensely exemplary because he understood who Jesus Christ was.  Perhaps he had seen other miracles or had simply heard of them, but he knew and believed that death was no obstacle for the Son of God.  Should Christ choose to say the word for her revival, his daughter would breathe again.  Such steady faith brought Jesus to the ruler's house.

Yet, the house was filled with scoffers, those who were bitter, unbelieving and audacious enough to laugh in the face of the Messiah.  There is really no other way to interpret the laughter of that moment.  There was no mirth, no joyful spirit to prompt such a reaction.  The laughter was not already freely flowing.  No, this laughter was out of mocking incredulity. 

Interestingly, Jesus asked the others to leave before they even demonstrated this negative response.  My best guess is that Jesus already knew their hearts and knew that they didn't believe.  Then, when he told them that the daughter was not dead but alive, they mocked Him as any logical human being would.  Why would one believe what is obviously untrue?  Yet, the ruler had.  The ruler had looked at facts and believed the impossible.  What is the difference between the scoffers and the ruler?

The difference is that the ruler knew who Jesus was and believed.  The others no doubt knew who Jesus was as well and had likely experienced the same exposure to Christ and His work as the ruler had.  Yet, they refused to believe or to have any faith in the Messiah Who had already proven His immense power and authority.  The result?  They missed out on witnessing a miracle. 

How sad this is!  What damage we incur when we do not have faith!  Yet, as I read this story, I could hardly be condescending toward those who laughed.  After all, the girl was dead!!!  It was an impossible situation, was it not?  Yes, they knew of Jesus' power, but surely He would not heal this girl!  That was their thinking, not so unlike my own in so many ways.

If given a choice, I would choose to be like the ruler.  I would choose to have logic-defying faith in the transcendent Lord of the universe.  If given a choice, I would never laugh in the face of my gracious Savior who has proven faithful over and over again.  But wait.  I do have a choice!  How is it that I demonstrate fear, worry, and unbelief so often instead of a simple faith in the God of the impossible?  I don't know, but I am deeply convicted.

I don't want to miss out on the miracles of Christ in my own life and in the lives of those around me.  I don't want to miss out on the power that He so readily demonstrates to those who believe Him at His Word.  I don't want to be put out of the house because I ridiculed the God who created me.  I want to be like the ruler and not like the scoffers.  As this foggy morning carries on, I pray that it may be so.  

On Flipping Decades

I remember the first time I watched that monumentally ridiculous chick flick 13-going-on-30.  I remember pondering just how old 30 seemed to be.  It loomed as a distant age residing far away in the murky future.  The mystery of who I would be by the time I actually arrived there was an enigma indeed.  The prospect of being so "old" felt no more real than Frodo and the land of hobbits and elves.

Crazily enough, that day has arrived.  The time for flipping decades and closing a chapter of my life has come.  In some ways, it strikes me as silly that we mark our lives by numbers and assign some sort of weight to age.  Yet, we are human and age does not leave us unscathed in the experience of this world.  Time does pass and our lives and bodies tell the story of years gone by.  We cannot bear the same youth that we did a decade ago.  This truth makes the acknowledgment of time and age vividly relevant.  It is fitting that we understand the imprinting power of time.  However, contrary to what the birthday card industry might indicate, this need not be a woeful thing.

The older I get, the more deeply profound life becomes.  I feel more aware than ever of the absolute desolation of a fallen world.  Yet, I see more clearly the redemptive work of a powerful God in the lives and stories of those who trust Him.  The bittersweet richness of life roots deeper in my soul than it did when I was 20.  In thinking of my great uncle, who is going to turn 103 this year and celebrate his 80th wedding anniversary with his wife in a few days, I wonder just how deep his root system has burrowed compared to mine.  I cannot comprehend it, but this is what makes getting old an incredibly exciting journey.  There is no other way to gain poignant insights and a multi-faceted understanding of life than to live and to let years and experience teach.

So it is that I will enjoy this day and think on all that God has given me in 30 brief years.  I am humbled by His grace and power in my life and am endlessly thankful that I can journey confidently on, knowing that no matter how much time is left for me here, I have a loving Savior who is guiding and guarding my way.  What a glorious truth.  I am ready to dig these roots deeper still.

Life is Rich

The sights, the sounds, the smells of fall and football usher in a nostalgia that runs its course in the deepest of my veins.  Childhood memories of packing up our family van with blankets and mittens to head to the Friday night game in frigid Wyoming air flood my senses.  I once again trot across the high school parking lot by my dad, his strong, protective hand on my back.  My young fist thrusts out to receive the red stamp after he gives the cash, and my excitement mounts as we round the track to climb into the grand stands.  Friendly, chill-kissed faces of long-time friends and acquaintances greet us as we scout out the perfect bleacher spot.

The loud speaker crackles, the larger-than-life football players shift and strut on the line, and the cheerleaders sparkle under the beaming lights.  The students crowded in their own section beckon admiration and awe, and the band bedazzles me with peppy sounds and sure steps.  I soak it in and dream of being older.  The details of the sport escape me for I am taken by the environment of this Campbell County Camels football game.

The trip to the concession stand for popcorn or hot chocolate or Laffy Taffys finally arrives.  After munching and sipping and reading jokes on the wrappers, I fidget.  When the allure of the game fades, I scamper to the grassy fields around the real field and play football with my brother and friends.  As the fourth quarter expires, I begin to feel a sleepy head and inescapable cold.  I am ready to pack up our van again and head home, full on a night full of community spirit and fellowship.

Those are the good ol' days.  Those are memories to cherish.  Last night, I went to Rampart High School's homecoming.  This is the school my middle school feeds.  As I strolled to the stadium, blanket in hand, I was reliving those Wyoming childhood days all over again.  And this time, in a different era and location, I was looking at the football players, cheerleaders, and band members as a loving mentor would.  I could hardly believe the pictures of the strong and manly seniors, staring at me from the glossy program.  Many of those students I taught as little 6th grade boys in my very first year of teaching.  Time had passed and they had grown up even though I have little changed in appearance myself. 

Nostalgia of a different sort hit me then.  The sentiment of feeling that I had the privilege of teaching these students in their formative years washed over me.  I felt almost sad that they would be graduating this year.  I felt sad that I can't be close to all of my students forever, watching them grow and having dibs on each step of their lives.  It is hard to explain and it is bittersweet in such a strong way.

Nostalgia and sentimentality are glorious and yet I don't know what to do with these emotions at times.   It is almost cathartic and therapeutic for me to linger in these moments, yet I sometimes feel helpless to know how to resolve the bittersweet in mind.  Anyone human relates to this.  So, in the end, I am left with the realization of how incredible and precious life is.  I have been given a rich lot in life and I have a gracious God to thank.

What if?

The world of the hypothetical is fascinating.  I think we as humans like to entertain the world of the "what if's" even though such a place can be uncomfortable.  When watching an interview on T.V., it is interesting when a host throws a guest a hypothetical situation in hopes of hearing how he will navigate it.  Most often, the guest will refuse to enter into such mind games recognizing that it usually does no good to speak in hypothetical terms because, well, it's not reality. 

Were I able to so easily refuse this world of the abstract possible, I may save myself some brain power.  Yet, I find it is stimulating to think about what could be or what could have been.  Watching the Olympics this week has continually triggered such thoughts.   What if I had been born here, been blessed with this gift, been created with that body, been given that passion?  It is crazy and somewhat ridiculous to think about.  After all, I cannot imagine spinning once around the uneven bars, let alone propelling myself into the air to spin and twist in a fancy dismount.  I can't envision jumping once over a hurdle, let alone running at top speed at those looming obstacles.  As it stands, I am not even remotely in the realm of Olympic athleticism, as much as I would like to think I am.

There is a part of me that wants to nurse the small pain that bites in such thoughts.  The gnawing question of whether or not I have made use of my life presents itself in these musings.  How does anyone measure the worth of a life's calling, of a life's work?  As I look to start another year of teaching, I peer inward and wonder whether what I do makes any difference.  I often describe my job as a constant pouring of time and energy into a proverbial black hole.  It frustrates me that the usefulness of life cannot be determined by a scientifically accurate method.

This is where my walk with Christ proves to be a comfort once again.  Knowing that He can use all people in any sort of situation reminds me that the outward measure of success is often fallacious.  True...I don't have a Visa commercial in honor of me as do volleyball greats Misty and Kerri. While they deserve such recognition, it does not mean that my life or the life of any "average" human is less precious, valuable, or useful than theirs. 

The world of the hypothetical might be fun, but, like the interviewing guest, I need to watch how often I let myself live within that realm.  What if I learned to live fully in the reality of my life?  Now there is a hypothetical question worth pursuing.

Gettin' Schooled

For the last few days, I have been hanging out with one of my dear college friends in Clayton, MO.  Clayton is an incredibly upscale neighborhood in St. Louis.  The town is completely enchanting with rich history, gorgeous landscaping and inspiring architecture.  It should come as no surprise to me, then, that some things are a bit pricey here.

Yet, like a foolish simpleton, I didn't entertain that thought at all when I decided to drop three basic dresses off at a dry-cleaning joint nearby.  A couple of them were not clean and they were all wrinkled due to traveling in my suitcase.  Because I am planning to wear them for wedding festivities this weekend, I decided it would be best to fork over a few bucks to get the garments spruced up a bit.  

So, yesterday I walked a few blocks to the nearest cleaners and surrendered the items to the man behind the counter.  Nothing about the place gave me any hesitation, and true to the idiotic tendencies I had that day, I didn't inquire about the price.  In old-school cleaners style, there didn't seem to be any prices posted.  I wasn't worried.  In my experience, getting things dry-cleaned is not too pricey.  It's true that I don't probably do it often enough to really know the ballpark figures and I generally go to the burger joint of cleaning companies, but I just expected it to be $20 at most for all three dresses.  (Please, go ahead and laugh now if you know better).

Today, I explored the city while my friend worked (by the way, she wasn't with me yesterday when I dropped off the clothes.  Too bad because she probably could have supervised this situation.).  I had a grand but exhausting time riding the metro and walking miles up and down streets around the city.  By mid-afternoon, I was ready to head back to the apartment, so I swung by the dry cleaners.  

All seemed right until the cleaning agent spoke the total: $62!!!!!   What?!?!?  I tried not to drop my jaw when the unsuspecting man behind the counter dropped the bomb.   I was super surprised, but what could I do?  It was my fault that I had not checked into the prices beforehand.  I had no option but to give the man money and walk out the door.  Out of spite, I grabbed not one, but two candies from the counter jar as I left.  Ridiculous and unethical, I know.  The initial feelings of hurt pride and frustration quickly melted into hilarity.  I just had to shake my head and laugh at myself.  I suppose that's the most sane thing to do in a situation like that, right?  It's just money.  It's okay.  There are worse tragedies in the world.  

Just goes to show you that a girl my age can still get schooled.  All I know is I better look $62 worth of clean and pressed this weekend.  I better look mighty good. 

We just need a little John Wayne

As a pigtail-sporting child, I was mesmerized by John Wayne.  I remember watching him in a few movies and feeling admiration and intimidation at observing his no-nonsense approach.  It seemed to me like John always knew what was what.  The truth of a situation and subsequent course of action were crystal clear to him.  Forget about popular opinion!  He discerned what it would take to get rid of the bad guy and that was that!  Go get 'em, John!

The idea of absolute truth is controversial.  Mention the fact that you believe in such a thing and some people will ex-communicate you, at least in their minds.  It is not popular to have standards, especially any standards that might make others feel badly.  We wouldn't want to hurt any one's feelings!

The problem with being so overly worried about other's feelings is that there is no way to draw the line once that becomes your standard of truth-deciphering.  I mean, really!  Please don't discipline your child and tell her that touching a hot stove is dangerous because that would seriously cramp her style!

This tolerance mentality is dangerous in and of itself for obvious reasons.  Worse yet is the militant tolerance that demands that everyone else be tolerant.  It is counter intuitive and self-defeating to champion such a dictate, and it demonizes those who dare to admit that they believe in absolute truths.  Circular reasoning begins now.

Absolute truth can only really be believed if one believes in a Higher Power.  For the Christian, believing in Christ means that our views of right and wrong are based on the revelation of Scripture.   In society today, that is perhaps the most dangerous philosophy to embrace, at least to the relativistic, tolerant-preaching crowd.  How dare Christians have standards!!!

I wonder what John Wayne would think if we decided to redo his movies with a tolerance message featuring a noodly waffler of a man riding around and deferring to all but those ridiculous standards-braying cowboys.  One glance at his face and I'm guessing he wouldn't like it.  Not one bit.

The Question of the Human Condition

"No one can make himself pure by obeying laws. Jesus Christ does not give us rules and regulations— He gives us His teachings which are truths that can only be interpreted by His nature which He places within us."  ~Oswald Chambers

What is the human condition? 

Is it the desire to do right?  Is it the need to promote self?  Is it an inevitable bent toward evil?  Is it the soiled slate of a purely born life?  When all is stripped from the exterior of human existence, what lies there?

Just a few days ago, a crazed madman burst into a Denver movie theater and let a firestorm of terror and bullets rain down on the unsuspecting crowd.  What ensued reads something like a terror novel smashed onto the pages of reality in what was a senseless and no doubt demonic act.  Though the event itself lasted a short time, the grief and the questions will linger for years.

How could a human do such a thing?  How???

Then, the age-old worldview question becomes painfully relevant.  What is the human condition?

Counter intuitive though it may seem, my belief that man's condition is a naturally fallen one gives me comfort.  Comfort because it reminds me that though humans have great capacity for evil, there is One who interceded on man's behalf and made a way for us to be supernaturally cleansed.  The truth of Jesus Christ and his saving power does not lesson the grief left in the wake of heinous human acts, but it does remind me that there is an all-powerful God who can reach into human chaos and give peace and life and healing.

My prayer tonight is that every grieving soul will not look to empty and fallacious human goodness for relief and balm, but that they will look to the all-loving, supernatural power of Jesus Christ. 

"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."  ~Matthew 11:28

The Deepest Root

Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Finishing a good book is bittersweet.  No matter if it's fiction or non-fiction, there is a mixed emotion that accompanies the ending of a mind-stimulating read.  A few days ago, as I digested the last sentences of Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxas, this feeling of rich sadness was especially keen.  I felt that I was saying goodbye to a treasure.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, simply put, was a phenomenal man.  I know he would not wish me to idolize him.  If he were alive, he would stress that Christ was the power behind anything he accomplished.  Bonhoeffer was obsessed with his relationship with Christ and, more profoundly, with being obedient to Christ.  Yet, he was not a piously abstract and isolated Christian.  To the contrary, he was a very present and concerned believer who sought to be used for good and for the glory of God at a time when doing so was not easy in his country.

The story of Bonhoeffer's life reads like a thriller.  So many aspects of his story, so intricately entwined with Nazi Germany, are beyond belief.  Yet, it is the calm assurance and action of a man so hounded by stressful and dire circumstances that presents itself as the most astoundingly consistent thread in his life.  How can someone so harried by impossible situations ever remain calm and loving?  Wouldn't he become bitter, scared, crazed, angry or suicidal like so many others of that time?  No. He had a root system that ran too deep, a spiritual grounding of faith in Christ. 

It is this hallmark of his life that has impacted me most.  It is this compelling example of his that urges me to write of this book in hopes that you will read it too.  You would not be disappointed.  Let the following passage from a sermon of his give you a glimpse into the extraordinary life and legacy that is Dietrich Bonhoeffer (found on pg. 531 of the book):

"No one has yet believed in God and the kingdom of God, no one has yet heard about the realm of the resurrected, and not been homesick from that hour, waiting and looking forward to being released from bodily existence.
Whether we are young or old makes no difference. What are twenty or thirty or fifty years in the sight of God? And which of us knows how near he or she may already be to the goal? That life only really begins when it ends here on earth, that all that is here is only the prologue before the curtain goes up - that is for young and old alike to think about. Why are we so afraid when we think about death? ... Death is only dreadful for those who live in dread and fear of it. Death is not wild and terrible, if only we can be still and hold fast to God's Word. Death is not bitter, if we have not become bitter ourselves. Death is grace, the greatest gift of grace that God gives to people who believe in him. Death is mild, death is sweet and gentle; it beckons to us with heavenly power, if only we realize that it is the gateway to our homeland, the tabernacle of joy, the everlasting kingdom of peace.
How do we know that dying is so dreadful? Who knows whether, in our human fear and anguish we are only shivering and shuddering at the most glorious, heavenly, blessed event in the world?
Death is hell and night and cold, if it is not transformed by our faith. But that is just what is so marvelous, that we can transform death."  

Image from: http://shatteredbygrace.wordpress.com/quotes/dietrich-bonhoeffer/

 

Where the Fire Has Been

Anyone who knows me really well knows that fire worried me greatly when I was a child.  My fear that our house would burst into flames prompted my parents to purchase a special ladder for me in the event that I had to evacuate my second-storey bedroom. It was a kind gesture by my folks to allay my anxiety and was perhaps also an attempt to lessen the number of middle-of-the-night visits I made to their room out of sheer fear.

Perhaps more comical was the angst I experienced at the thought of burning at the stake. In school, I read about different men who had died in such a fashion, and terror gripped my heart that anyone ever had to go through that.  My friends laugh about this quirky fear from my childhood (as do I), but it was no laughing matter to me when I was young.

It just so happens that I have been living in a town threatened by flames over the past week. Although I have long outgrown my irrational fear of fire, I didn't sleep so well one night this week, thinking about the flames licking down the mountain and wondering if the brave firefighters would be able to halt the affront. This week has been horrendous for many people, and yet, as in any tragedy, it has also provided an opportunity for the community to pull together and unite.  I have been immune from the property damage, but my heart breaks for those who have lost homes, memories, and more. The only thing that gives me hope when I think on a situation like this is Christ.

A few weeks ago, a pastor at Woodmen Valley Chapel referenced a story about a man and his family caught in a prairie fire. I don't know if the story is fiction or not, but the analogy is profound. The family was desperately trying to outrun a raging prairie fire, but the father knew they couldn't do it. The flames were too fast. As a last resort, he stopped to light the brush in front of him on fire. Counterintuitive though it may seem, it was actually brilliant because when the brush in front had burned to nothing, the family stood on the charred ground. The flames coming from behind then skirted them because they were standing where the fire had already been.

My pastor said that this is a picture of Christ, who took our punishment for sin and took the "fire" for us. Therefore, if we trust in Him, we can stand where the fire has already been and be unscathed by the most devestating of flames. Before any of this fire tragedy began in our area, that phrase was ringing through my head and I had already planned to somehow paint that phrase or otherwise display it in my room. It has become even more significant with the face of intense fire only miles away.

Fire is frightening, both literally and figuratively, but Christ is bigger than both forms. I will continue to pray for our community in the aftermath of this storm. The best news for any of us, no matter what the circumstance, is that Christ will walk with us through the fire, any kind of fire, if we but turn to Him.

Isaiah 43:2 -- "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze."

Picture: http://www.wellsphere.com/healthy-cooking-article/faith-filled-friday/1444132

Another First

I like firsts.  I like experiencing things I've never yet met in my lifetime.  Let me tell you about the "first" I had today.

When we had a wintry, dreamy snow day a month ago, my co-worker Amanda and I decided we needed to plan a getaway for the first part of our spring break.  Mesmerized by the fluffy flakes calmly circling to the earth out my window, I giddily scoped out Keystone condos that we might reserve for our much-anticipated vacation.  We found a nice but reasonably-priced place (remember, we're teachers :)) and we committed to it, excited for skiing adventures in the mountains.

Fast forward a month to this last weekend.  Let me preface the rest of the story by saying that we have had unseasonably warm temperatures in Colorado of late.  There have been more than a few times recently when I might have felt a bit confused about what month it actually is.  Wait...is this really March?

By the time we were ready to hit the road yesterday for our spring break extravaganza, Amanda and I knew that things might be different than we envisioned them a month ago.  As we wound our way into the hills, we laughed nearly every five minutes about the fact that we didn't see a lick of snow anywhere on the piny slopes around us.  Even Pike's Peak only wore some emaciated streaks of white instead of the usual snowy covering of this time of year. 

When we arrived in Summit County, we took a leisurely stroll through Breckenridge, finding the weather balmy enough to enjoy a meal outside while folks in light jackets, shorts, and even flip-flops ambled along the sidewalk near us.  The sun pelted down a blanket of warmth as we munched on fresh chips and guac.  Wow.  We asked ourselves and others what the skiing would be like in such conditions.  I had never seen mountains so dry nor Rocky Mountain temps so inviting at this time of year.

Regardless of the bleak skiing conditions, we strapped on our gear this morning with eagerness, ready to hit the slopes no matter what.  The parking lot at the resort was nearly empty and the gravel beneath the wheels completely dry.  The hills opposite the ski slopes looked like summer terrain and dust whipped around the moisture-deprived ground.  When we finally made it to a slope, we found ourselves skidding over icy, groomed snow (as my friend Amanda affectionately terms corduroy snow) then suddenly slogging through seas of slush.  These yo-yo conditions were all over the slopes.  Wander to far from the main path and you would find yourself ejected into July with not a trace of snow to be found.

Riding up the chair lift was perhaps the most hilarious aspect of the day.  Below our skis, we gazed at completely dry ground.  The dirt floor of the mountain and the forest bed of pine needles, rocks, and wood fragments peered back at us.  Not even a remnant of snow was in sight over large patches of earth. 

It is of no wonder, then, that I saw things I have never seen while skiing like resort workers picking their way down the mountain in hiking boots, picking up litter.  Things like the biggest fake tree I've ever seen bolted into the earth right near the top of a ski lift, complete with technical equipment of some kind near the top.  I had no idea that ski slopes had fake trees.  I guess that's because they are usually covered with SNOW, not standing naked for the world to see.  The things you learn when you snow-ski in summer conditions!

After a few hours of this strange adventure, we decided to head back to our condo for some relaxation.  Please don't get me wrong:  I am by no means complaining!  The fresh air was still marvelous today and the lack of the normal crowd made me feel like I had the mountain to myself.  I still got some sun and even enjoyed a pricey mountain burger on the slopes. And as a result of crummy snow, I've had more rest and relaxation hanging out at the condo than I had planned for and it was much needed.

So, even though things are not as we dreamed a month ago, this unexpected turn in events has been a huge blessing in disguise and I am soaking up every minute of calm and hiatus.  God is good, and He knows how to give good "firsts".

All These Things

"But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you." (Matthew 6:33 KJV).

I have a confession.  I haven't been seeking first the kingdom of God lately.  I've been seeking "all these things."  That verse from Matthew 6:33 can roll off my tongue in no time, but I can't seem to get the message to penetrate my heart. 

Lately, "all these things" have wrapped their burdensome weight around my mind and have bid stress to course through my veins like a toxic wash.  It's not that "all these things" are bad in and of themselves.  Instead, it's that I find myself needlessly focused on them, causing unwelcome foes to seep into my bones... worries, fears, questions, doubts.  I feel frustrated by their intrusion.  And then, I remember.

"Seek ye first."  I hear those words whispered in my ear, cutting through the panic that sets in when "all these things" turn traitorous and cause my mind such unrest.  "Seek ye first."

I hear myself say, "Yes, Lord.  For then 'all these things' will fall into place...if I seek Your kingdom first."  That remembrance floods my heart with peace.  All I have to do is keep my eyes on Christ.  All He asks is that I follow Him and listen for His voice.  When I do, like a dissipating storm, "all these things" will shrivel from the gluttonous power I was granting them before and will no longer dominate my very being.

I find that the truths of Scripture seem to instruct me little nuggets at a time.  Right now, "Seek Ye First" as well as "All These Things" are two three-word phrases that have continually rung in my heart, reminding me that there really is a godly way to prioritize living. 

Lord, teach me to get this right.  Teach me to seek You and Your kingdom first.  Then, as "all these things" fall into their proper place, may I be quick to give You praise.

The Teacher Learns

As I prepared for my time with children in Ukraine, the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 kept coming to mind.  It was one of those times in life when I truly felt God leading me.  The more I thought about it, the better it seemed.  There were multiple truths to pull from the story, many of which would probably strike a chord with the children I would be seeing.  The event takes place near a lake.  Ukrainians live near the Black Sea.  The event involves fish and bread.  Ukrainians love fish and bread.  The story involves a little boy.  I would be working with children.  Most importantly, the story beautifully portrays the compassion and power of Christ, making it the  perfect segue into sharing the good news of Christ's sacrifice for mankind.  It seemed to be the perfect fit.

As it turns out, it was the perfect fit for my own heart while I was in Ukraine.  I pray that some of the precious kids who came to our programs were impacted by what they heard.  I may never see that harvest, but I do know that Christ used that story to teach me new and deeper truths.  Allow me to explain.

The story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 (which can be found in John 6 in addition to the other gospels) showcases a little boy.  When a huge crowd of followers flocked to Jesus at the end of a long day, they were a hungry and exhausted group.  Jesus' disciples, coming off as either annoyed or alarmed, pleaded with Jesus to send them away so they could find food and get some rest.  However, Jesus had compassion on the crowd and saw that they were not only physically hungry, but spiritually and emotionally hungry as well.  He told his disciples to feed them, knowing full-well that the disciples would find that suggestion outrageous and impossible.

Then entered some sweet little boy who happened to have five loaves of bread and two fish.  Though that would hardly make a dent in the crowd's hunger, the boy offered the food anyway, showing a level of faith and trust that the disciples themselves lacked.  It would have been easy for the little boy to think, "Why bother?"  Yet, for whatever reason, he put forth the minuscule portion he had, not worrying about what real difference his puny offering would make.

As it turned out, Jesus used that small offering to feed the whole crowd, miraculously turning an insignificant offering into an abundant feast.  Amazing. Jesus Christ, God incarnate, used what might have seemed useless to bless a desperate crowd.

As I taught this story five days in a row, the truth of this ministered to me.  Going into the trip, I wondered if there were any way God would use me in Ukraine.  After all, I didn't know the language, and thus it seemed silly for me to prepare and teach a Bible story when there were believers who knew the language who could do it more easily and perhaps more effectively.  Yet, as the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 indicates, God doesn't always work in ways that are obvious.  Sometimes, he chooses to use weak and strange means of shedding his grace. 

Every time those doubts invaded, I would remember to forget my questions and to offer my measly bread-and-fish service to the people of Ukraine.  After all, it doesn't matter who I am.  It matters Whom I serve.  My Lord is Jesus Christ and He holds more power than I can imagine.  He can use whatever I offer him in pure and simple faith.  So, though I often felt underqualified and a bit out of my comfort zone while in Ukraine, I know that I learned a valuable lesson there from the lesson I taught the children: I serve an all-powerful Savior and He works in wondrous ways.

How do you say "Yum" in Russian?

Sunflower fields in full bloom are magnificent.  In Ukraine, they're everywhere.  Graceful stalks of green crowned by yellow-fringed brown orbs wave gently in the breeze, turning their luminous faces toward the light.  I never realized Ukraine grew so many sunflowers, but, apparently, sunflower seeds are considered the national snack.  The plants are also used for producing sunflower oil. 

Ukraine is often considered the bread basket of Europe.  Rich soil readily grows all kinds of produce.  I wasn't in the country long before I knew this first-hand.  Farmer's markets were everywhere.  Fresh produce was abundant.  I tasted some of the best tomatoes, watermelons, cucumbers, potatoes, apricots, corn, plums, and melons while there.

In the last village we visited, multiple apricot trees graced the grounds near the church (which was a bright pink color :)).  The little orange fruits were fully ripe and were falling from the trees, creating a mushy carpet beneath the sprawling limbs. 

Luba, one of the translators, immediately went about collecting in-tact fruit from the ground.  Such an  activity seemed automatic for these people.  It was not the first time I had seen one of our translators reach for fruit from a random village tree.  A few days earlier, my translator, Anna, plucked a petite pair from a tree and handed it to me to enjoy.  It should be the most natural thing in the world to eat fruit right from any ol' tree, but for some reason, I felt hesitant.  It was just a bit foreign to me. 

One of the apricots that had ripened near the pink church was offered to me.  Brushing the dirt off of the fuzzy skin, I sank my teeth into its flesh and was greeted with a burst of flavor.  I had never eaten an apricot that was so tasty!  If you look closely at the photo to the right, you'll see hundreds of apricots in this tree in addition to a village boy who had climbed up high to harvest them.

A couple of the Ukrainian woman with us gathered a huge pail of fruit from the tree and paid the man who owned it.  I was so intrigued!  How fun to be on a little day trip, and, on a whim, harvest enough apricots to make a gallon of apricot jam!  These Ukrainians know how to live!

Another very common sight were grapevines.  Often, there would be a carport-like structure next to a village house.  Growing on the iron skeleton would be luscious grape vines.  Picture-perfect clumps of grapes served not only as a means of food but of decoration as well.  I never had the pleasure of trying these grapes as they were only just beginning to ripen.  That's not to say that I wasn't tempted to reach up and pull them from their shady home. 

Not suprisingly, we had no shortage of amazing food to eat while in Ukraine.  In addition to a wide variety of fresh produce, Ukraine is known for its love affair with borscht, a soup that has many varieties but usually contains beets and other vegetables.  On the three village days that we were fed by local Ukrainian women, we were fed borscht.  I loved it!



One day, our hostess served us huge bowls of the steaming soup.  After putting a dollop of homemade sour cream on top and grabbing a slice of homemade bread, I devoured the goodness.  It tasted even better as we sat outside under the shade of a huge tree and listened to the testimony of the village pastor.  Thinking that was all we would be served, I chowed down on the soup and helped myself to more homemade bread.

When I had finished my bowl, the sweet hostess pulled it from in front of me and returned with a steaming bowl of potatoes and chicken.  The bowl was filled to the top and it was a papa-bear-sized dish.  I felt a bit overwhelmed.  I was nearly full, but I didn't want to disappoint my hostess or give her the wrong impression, so I ate as much as I could.  The food was so fresh and so delicious that I wished for a second stomach.  After eating half the portion, I knew I had to stop the feasting.  Turning to my translator, I asked her to apologize profusely for my inability to finish the portion, but to tell the hostess how much I loved the food. 

I'm pretty sure I gained a few pounds over the week in Ukraine.  The food was so plentiful and mouth-watering and both our Ukrainian and American hosts and hostesses lavished it on us at each meal.  I can give personal testimony to the fact that this land really is the bread basket of Europe.  Yum!

A Day in Ukraine

Let me tell you what a typical day was like for me while I was in Ukraine.

Waking to a small alarm provided by my wonderful hostess, Holly Friesen, I would pull myself out of bed to the smell of delicious coffee.  Holly, a full-time missionary who is a trained nurse practitioner, made me feel so at home.  Our mutual love of coffee was an instant bond, I think.  Knowing a fresh cup of joe was available for me upon awaking fueled my morning routine. 

As I readied for the day, I would stop at a window to behold the breathtaking views of Odessa afforded by a tenth-floor apartment spot.  Relishing the foreign cityscape and unique sounds of the hubbub far below, I would eventually move to the kitchen where Holly would have a yummy breakfast prepared.  Fresh fruit purchased from nearby farmers' markets was a highlight as were scrumptious squares of homemade baked oatmeal.

We would linger at the table, sipping coffee and enjoying rich conversation.  Then, as the time for departing to a nearby village drew near, I would pull on my backpack full of craft supplies and grab the poster I had depicting Jesus feeding the five thousand.  Slinging my green purse over my shoulder on the way out, Holly and I would ride the elevator down the shaft, stroll past one of the old guard ladies at the apartment entrance, and sit down on a bench outside to wait for my ride. 

Shortly thereafter, a vehicle would pull up, usually driven by one of two Ukrainian men who were believers and who helped out with the ministry.  My dad, who was staying with another missionary couple (Bruce and Carol Bagley) would already be in the car as would Carol Bagley.  Carol, a seasoned missionary to Ukraine, came along to help me run Bible programs for the village children each afternoon. 

I would load my things into the car and say goodbye to Holly, whose nearly full-time task right now is to study the Russian language.  Then, we would take off, meandering through the streets of Odessa. Driving within inches of other cars and bold pedestrians who dared to cross the buzzing streets, the van would pull off here and there to pick up our remaining team: two translators and two pharmacy/lab assistants.  These women, all Ukrainians and all believers, were wonderful and helped to make the week incredibly fun.

After stopping at a church to pick up the materials for the traveling pharmacy, we would be off to the village destination of the day.  Some villages were about 40 minutes away from Odessa.  Some took over two hours to reach.  Some roads were nice and provided for a smooth ride.  Some were incredibly bumpy or were simple dirt tire tracks cut through a field.

Always eager for new experiences, I would feel excitement bubble within me as we pulled into a village at the beginning of the day.  Enchanting, colorful houses, livestock tethered by the side of the road, and man-made piles of hay dotted the sides of the street. When we reached the church or meeting center where the clinics would be held, we would unload from the van and be greeted by the sereneness of a country day.

Sometimes, when we arrived, the patients would already be lined up, ready to see Dad, the doctor for the day.  At a few of the locations, a little service would be held with these gathered patients where a pastor would give a testimony about the Lord and then pray.  At a couple of the clinics, my dad got to share some of his testimony (with his fun translator, Luba, by his side). 

After the ceremony, the pharmacy would be assembled and my dad and his translator would set up shop in whatever room was provided as the examining room.  Some rooms were better equipped for this task than others, but they all accomplished the said task: to minister to and share the love of Christ with the people of the village via medical care. 

During the morning hours, I would sit and chat with Carol and my translator Anna.  These times were precious.  I learned so much about the Ukrainian culture and the Russian language in these sessions while soaking up the scenes of the village.  A few times, I took walks in the village to explore the area and capture a few photos.

After lunch, which in of itself is a blog topic, Carol, Anna, and I would prepare to hold our Bible program for the children in the village who chose to come.  We would have anywhere from 10 to 30-some children come for these programs.  Singing, a Bible story, the Gospel message, a snack, a craft, and games were all included.  Interacting with these children was like a dream.  They were precious and sweet and funny and ornery and intuitive and creative and basically everything kids are.  In spite of the language difference, I was blessed by them each day.

Once the Bible program was over and my dad finished with all of the patients and home visits on his schedule, we would load back up, drive home, drop the pharmacy and folks off at their respective locations, and head for dinner at one of the missionary's homes.  We usually didn't eat until between 7 and 8.  By the time we finished dinner and found our way home, it was nearly time for bed. 

Now you are aquainted with a typical day for us while we were in Ukraine.  They were long days, but fun and rewarding days too.  They are days I won't soon forget.

"Ootka, Ootka, Goose!"

Early this morning, the bright green numbers of my alarm clock mockingly declared me a jet-lag victim: 4:44.  With an annoyed groan, I flipped over, pulled the covers tighter, and tried to shake the awakeness I felt.  I had gone to bed only five hours ago.  My body surely wasn't done resting. 

As I snuggled deeper under my sheets, I recalled the deep nap I had taken the afternoon before.  I had been reading when I suddenly felt an extreme exhaustion unusual for the late-afternoon hour.  As soon as I had given in and stretched out on my couch, I was ushered into a sound sleep.  Hmmm.  No wonder sleep was eluding me now.  After fifteen more minutes of feigned snoozing, I threw the covers off and marched into the living room, flipping lights on as I went.  Five hours of sleep it is.  I didn't want to waste any more time lying in my room.

Whatever jet lag I may be experiencing right now is a small price to pay for the rich opportunity I had to accompany my dad to Ukraine last week.  I feel blessed beyond measure by the people I met there, the beautiful countryside I saw, and the paradigm-shaking culture I encountered.  Enchanting, overwhelming, mystical, foreign, dark, profound, beautiful, convicting, eye-opening.  These are a few of the words that describe my view of that far-away land. 

Stories are plentiful.  Musings are varied.  Processing is needed.  Encounters are imprinted in my mind like selective loops, short and repetitive.  One such memory is an adorable village boy who attended one of our little day camps on the first day of the trip.  Unaware that I really couldn't understand the Russian he was prattling, he kept peering at me, wringing his hands, and crying, "Ootka, ootka, goose!"  Over and over.  Enchanted by his foreign tongue and amused by his enthusiasm, I smiled at him and eventually glanced at my translator.  "What's he saying?"

My translator chatted with him.  Within his explanation, he would occasionally repeat his chant, "Ootka, ootka, goose!"  Accompanying the chant was that wringing hand motion.  Turns out, he was begging me to play a form of "Duck, duck, goose" that he had recently learned at a Christian camp.  The wringing hand motion represented a wet rag that the player who was "it" would wring over the chosen "goose", dousing them in water under the warm Ukrainian sun. 

I laughed from deep within, so enthralled by the boy's excitement and further intrigued that "ootka" meant "duck" while "goose" was basically the same as our English "goose".  I wished so much I could burst from the few Russian phrases I knew to interact with the boy myself, but I could only hope that my laugh and smile communicated something of my heart to him. 

That's just one snapshot of my time in Ukraine.  Perhaps the most profound thing is how faith in Christ unites people of every culture.  Meeting those who knew the Lord there created an almost instant bond, even if our communication was limited.  That's amazing to me and speaks to the power of the Holy Spirit.

Jet lag will pass.  The impressions and experiences Ukraine afforded me will remain.  I pray that I will be faithful to learn the things God would have me to from my experience there.

The Wonder of Paris

I can still feel his hand grip my elbow in a grateful squeeze.  The sweet French man who waited on me for dinner.  I think we bonded after I stumbled over the few French words I could muster, pointed awkwardly at the menu to indicate what I'd like, and giggled relentlessly at how foolish I felt in my ill attempts to translate English thoughts into beautiful French sounds.  While perched on a petite sidewalk chair, I feasted on croque monsieur and reveled in storybook French atmosphere.  When it was time to leave, my friend and I laid our tips on the table and slipped between tightly-packed tables to the sidewalk.   The gentle waiter gripped my arm as we left and sang his French thanks, "Merci!"

I can still see the curly dark hair swirling round to crown his young and attentive French eyes.  The alluring boy-man who pointed out his favorite chocolates and named rich delicacies with his heavily-accented English.  Tucked away in a quaint, small Paris street, the sweets shop where he worked was impeccable and decorated in deep purple and black.  When I stepped inside, I clasped my hands and lavished words of praise and exclamation over the dainty chocolates and cookies that rested under the glass counter.  Each moment seemed enchanted as his life and mine intersected over the purchasing of Paris-landed chocolate. 

I can still see the lines crisscrossing up the marble mass, etching out the muscle details that artist Auguste Rodin meticulously crafted a century ago.  Sculpture after sculpture rested in frozen action, displaying a wide array of emotion.  Lifeless forms posed amidst beautiful greenery on the grounds outside as well as in spacious old rooms within the museum building.  How a slab of marble can move one's soul is a mystery.  I can almost feel the artist's breath, aired warm and heavy onto the masterpiece before me.  The breath that exhaled while the soul crafted intangible qualities into the tangible mass.  It reminds me of Creator God, the ultimate Artist, sculpting uniqueness out of dust.  It speaks to me.

I can still taste it.  Wonder.  The wonder I feel ooze through my being as I stroll the streets of a place so intoxicating, I can barely describe it to those who haven't been.  Am I too dramatic?  No.  Not really.  My mind reels to put into words what captures my heart when I am in the city of Paris, France.  When there, I feel entranced.  History seems to groan and stretch in that place.  I can almost touch it, taste it, see it, hear it.  I see stone that those hundreds of years before saw too.  I strain to experience their lives.  Human pain, fear, excitement, toil, joy, heartache, love, laughter, and every possible thought and feeling that we know today wrapped in the facade of a different era.  I want to know what it was like then.  I find times long ago tantalizingly close.  The past mingled with now. 

Is that why it is unspeakably rich to Wyoming-girl me?  To a kid who grew up in an area with hardly any old history tangibly intact?  I am really not sure.  What I do know is that I want to go back.  I can't seem to get enough.  I pray that Paris and I can once again greet each other and that I can walk her magical streets once again.

For Love of Touch

Sometimes, I wish our United States culture were a bit more touchy...in a good way.

While in El Salvador, I looked forward to the 4:00 hour each afternoon.  At that time, the Salvadorian students would be done with homework time and would appear on the grounds of the children's home, ripe and ready for fun.  Playing and interacting with them was as enchanting as it is with any energetic kid.  Yet, there was something uniquely rich about being with these Spanish-speaking sweethearts: they were unashamedly loving. 

I was perhaps most touched (no pun intended...seriously) by their constant hugs.  Without hesitation, arms would extend and wrap around me and in an instant, my heart would be warmed.  I hugged them back, but somehow I feel they gave more than I could repay.  Not as though love is quantifiable.  It's not. But if it were, and if I were a betting woman, I would bet a Starbucks or ten that I lost in the effort of love-giving while in El Salvador.  The sweet smiles and love and the pure interest they had in interacting with me enriched my life.

Love can be shown in so many ways, but I sometimes wish folks in the States were more affectionate with each other.  There is something about touch that communicates love in a way words cannot.  A hug, a pat on the back, a reassuring grip on the arm...these are all gestures that speak richer meaning than a well-spoken word.

I wonder if those children in El Salvador know how much it means for we Americans to receive love from them.  To me, it meant more than I can say.