Little Ones who have stolen my heart....

I know their names now... I have seen them several times. Outside church, waiting for people to leave so they can collect a few rupees. They are a little band made up of friends and siblings. It started off with one ice cream cone, and now I have six new friends. The other day, One came and found me, but I don't know how, although a white girl is not that hard to spot. They call me Joy. Either that's what they think my name is, or they can't say Jordan. It doesn't matter. They could call me whatever they want to, as long as they let me spend time with them.

It's just buying ice cream. It's just a few oreos after church. But it's so much more than that. It's showing them they have value. I care enough to remember their names, to hug them. I'm not afraid of their dirt. I want to hold their hands. Allwoing them to sit with me in a cool place, a place they are normally not allowed to go. They matter. They have names. I give them treats, time... they give me so much more.

She wears a red string around her arms and neck with amulets. She has such large brown eyes... almost too big for her face. Her family is obviously devout Hindu. Trying to protect her from evil, demons, and spirits. Oh, I wish they knew how useless those charms are. She has such a beautiful little smile, such a tiny little body. She knows all of the songs by heart. She listened intently to the Bible story. I watched as she folded her hands to pray, lips moving as others led. The Kingdom is in her eyes. I can see it... God, let her grow.

He coughed throughout Sunday School. He couldn't weigh more than 30 pounds. I held him in my arms, asked his name, laid my hands on my bony chest framed by visible ribs, and I prayed. He says he is taking medicine. I pray against the disease. He is so shy, so cute, obviously not used to attention. Adorable. I kiss him on the cheek, and he blushes as much as an Indian boy can.

They weren't there today... two little girls, little faces that I memorized. One is in danger, one whose story I don't know. But I missed them. I wanted them. I pray they're just getting ready for school. Please God, nothing more.

How do I explain this to you? There is such an awareness of life and death on this side of the world. Such an awareness of eternity where every moment counts. Every word spoken can bring a blessing or a curse. Every prayer uttered with purpose. My little ones...

The Light House

It's like an oasis in the middle of the desert, a haven, a refuge, a home of hope. Standing on the roof top, I couldn't help but rejoice at what this place will become. The breeze was cool as it whipped our hair, remnants from the heavy monsoon rains that had just come.

Two three story buildings. The floors and walls are still being finished... men were still laying concrete and brick as we walked by snapping pictures, dreaming of the future.

"This will be the kitchen area. These floors will have apaertments where women can live together, have their own bathrooms, and little kitchens to cook for themselves", Beth explained to us. Little things, learning to live independently... steps towards recovery, restoration, freedom.

It is surrounded by mango trees, papaya trees, coconuts, jack fruit, lychees, all kinds of delicious fruit. There is room for a garden, so the women can grow food. Space for chickens and maybe even cattle for cheese and milk.

There will be space for the girls to play... playground, bicycles, a place to just be kids. It is beautiful and safe.

The vocational unit will be there as well so women can learn skills to build a new life, learning what it means to make their own decisions.

We stopped by the girls' home on our way back into town. Their faces lit up as we described the progress. "Will there be swings?" one sweet ten year old asked excitedly. They are so eager to move to their new home... ready to stretch their legs, to grow.

There will be space for many more girls. Many more women will be able to receive complete freedom and healing.

Pray dear friends, that the work will be finished quickly. Chains be broken. Lives be healed.

Thinking back to that roof top, I know the feelings that washed over my heart...feelings I want for all of the girls and women I meet... Safety, rest, peace. Praying that they will know the Prince of Peace soon. Praying they will find their rest. Praising Him for his provision. He sees His hurting little ones. He is good.

Little Candles Gaining Fire

     The most precious sound in the world... the prayers of a child. Their laughter. Their music. Their joy. I just close my eyes and I listen, absorbing their sweet melodies. I watch them play... running back and forth and trying to climb onto basketball goals. Ice cream smeared on their cheeks. Eyes bright.

      Bible stories. Songs about Jesus. Puppets, prayers, memory verses and skits. God, they hear, but do they understand? The Word of God does not return void, and I know that, but God I am so afraid.

     I know the places they call home. I watched their mothers and fathers, and I've seen their eyes, eyes that have no room for light anymore because pain and greed have overtaken them.

      So many little secrets behind their eyes. There's the little girl who needs to be rescued... so quick to love and give hugs, but her light is softly fading, evils unspoken coming against her. There's the little boy I held as he slept through most of the afternoon, enjoying the chance to be under a fan, to rest in peace. There's the other little girl I am just drawn to for some reason with her pig tails and purple dot on her forehead that matches her outfit. Little ones with charms and amulets around their arms and necks to ward off evil spirits... not realizing the danger in trusting those charms.
     How long God, before the abuse becomes too great, the joy is smothered, the little girl sold, and the boy is forced to use to become a man? You know the corners, and you know the darkness. The darkness cannot withstand You.
     The patron goddess of Calcutta is named Kali... it's where the name of the city comes from, and it literally means "The dwelling place of Kali". There are temples dedicated to her throughout the city, and a grand festival is held every year.
     She is a fearsome thing to behold. She is jet black with long hair, a necklace made of skulls and blood dripping from her mouth. In her hand is a severed head, and she sits on a decapitated body. Followers will often cut open their chests to offer their blood to her. For women, Kali means "shakti" or "power"... and isn't that what women have been wanting since the Fall... power? "You will become like God", the serpent whispered to Eve, and is still whispering to this day. She is the goddess of death and destruction... a symbol of darkness.
      My prayer, and my dream for Calcutta,  is that the name will change from no longer the dwelling place of Kali... death, destruction, pain... but will instead be known as the dwelling place of God. His city full of life, hope, and peace... light.
     I believe that it will happen with these children... 150 children who live in hell and walk among darkness. They will carry the light... they will be the light. Jesus, I believe this and I declare this over your little ones... Little  ones you love and have created with a specific purpose to change the world and bring glory to your name.
     God, no matter what abuse, what stories, what words are spoken over them as they return to their homes, let your words hold fast in their hearts. Bind it to them Lord, that they will know the truth. May they never forget you are the One true God... not an idol made of stone or the lie of a prophet... but You, the Living, Resurrected, Holy and Perfect God, who gave up everything so they could have life. Oh Jesus, be their life. Protect them from the perverse desires of the enemy. Cover them with your angels, and may those who wish to do harm to them be genuinely afraid because you are guarding them with your power. I know this makes you angry... injustice done to the weak and vulnerable. God, may those who try to hurt them in any way see and feel your anger and your wrath. May we as your people never sit quietly or become content with empty prayers and idol hands. Fill us with your anger, your desires, your Spirit. When your little ones cry out, answer them. Teach them to pray. Send your angels around them. Be their superhero. Be their light.

Hey Lucy, I remember your name...

*On May 29, 2010, a woman named Lucy came to Gentle Hands in Manila, Philippines. Lucy was about 30 years old, and was very sick with tuberculosis. During her stay, I had the opportunity to care for her and love her. Today, June 8, marks one year since her death. 3:03pm, to be exact. This my letter to her.

Dear Lucy,

It's weird that it's been a year. I remember sitting with you, holding your hand, watching as the life went out.

I am unsure in sharing this letter... sharing your story. By telling people about you, am I exploiting you? Am I saying "Look what I've done?", because really, you did everything for me. I pray no one looks at this and thinks of me, but rather thinks about the God who orchestrated all these events, because He loved you so much... that he wanted you home with him... away rom this world and all the pain it brought you.

I miss you. I think of you every day, and my heart hurts, still. I can't cry. I really wish I could, and I want to because then maybe the grief will finally seem real. It's hard because I can mention your name, and I talk about you, but it's all very surreal. For ten days, I was your mom. For ten days, I bathed you, fed you, held you as you cried. It was only ten days, and in the grand scheme of life, those ten days are only a small fraction. They couldn't have made up for all of your hurts, all of your pain. But they changed everything for me.

Did you know your name means "Light"? That's what you were to me... my light. I wanted so badly to change your life, but God used you to change mine. Nothing else matters except the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and no Gospel will ever be greater than being willing to get completely outside of myself. You showed me that. You showed me how to love, and you gave me a glimspe of heaven. You showed my heart it's purpose. You showed me life... a real life outside of myself... a real life built on things that matter.

How do I make people understand that? I lost a child... you... my child. But, I'm only 21. It was only ten days. It was a mission trip. A mountain top experience. An experience! I can hear it in voices and see it in eyes... full of sympathy, but just not understanding. "She's just being dramatic".... and I get angry...so angry. I stop talking about you because I don't want anyone to simply brush off your memory. And so I keep you to myself... my treasure. Because I want so badly to protect you at least in death, after life fought so hard to destroy you.

I think a lot about what would have happened if you had survived. Would you be home? Would you be thriving? Or hurting still? Would you be loved?

There is so much about you I don't know... your birthday, your favorite foods, colors, movies. What did you dream of? What did you want? Were there ever any moments of  real joy?  Did you really want to live, or did you just want to get out? I don't know your birthday, but I remember your death. It's not like I can have a cake for you... I don't even know your real age.

I've thought about what I would do on this day. If I were home, I would maybe go to the beach, or a coffee shop and remember, and pray. But I'm here in India... surrounded by thousands just like you, and to be honest, I don't know how to even love one.

But I remember your name, your face, your hands.... brushing your hair, smiling at you, guarding you while you slept, and hanging pictures on your walls. I wait for the tears that I desperately want to fall. I listen to the songs that remind me of you... songs I have avoided. Will anything change after tomorrow? Will things be different this time next year? I don't want them to be because I want to remember you. You deserve to be remembered, just like you deserved to be loved.

I pray for your family... maybe one day I will be able to share with them everything you meant to me. Maybe I will be able to share Christ. God please...

Yet, despite anything I may be feeling now, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that you are home. Laughing and smiling... more loved than you have ever been. What does Jesus look like? What does heaven look like? Oh, I can't wait to see you again... to smile and laugh and play with you. Will you be there to meet me when I follow you home? I just can't wait...

I love you sweet girl. I miss you.

Love, Mom

*God showed me this verse the day before Lucy died:
"When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will be true: 'Death has been swallowed up in victory'. Where O death is your victory? Where O death is your sting? The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. But thanks be to God!He gave us victory through our Lord Jesus Christ" -- 1 Corinthians 15:54-57

"To bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of His splendor."-- Isaiah 61:3 (My Lucy verse)

Songs that remind me of Lucy
Soon and Very Soon-- Hillsong United... One night in particular while she was struggling, this song came on the cd player, and she immediately calmed down.
Hallelujah-- Bethany Dillon... The day before she died was really hard for me for various reasons, and God brought me this song to remind me I can still praise Him no matter the pain.

For the Moments I Feel Faint

     "Ma'am, who is this?"
     
I was asked this question repeatedly today by several concerned Indian families. For some reason, the sight of me holding hands with a 5 year old Indian girl needed to be explained. And of course, I told them she was my sister. That answer was not enough to satisfy, especially when they started comparing my white skin to her very dark skin. I found it rather amusing. She is my sister and that's all you need to know. Thank you.

We went for an outing today with 13 girls from the girls' home to Victoria Memorial, which is basically a big palace with lots of paintings, and the planetarium. Between 17 Indians and 5 white people, all females, we made for a very interesting sight... and thus, some onlookers could not resist asking questions. One boy even asked me to tell him about my country. Not quite sure what that was all about, but he was a cute kid.

As a side note, if anyone ever needs a good nap, visit a plantarium. They flipped off the lights and Chelsea and I were out.

Tonight though, I feel tired... slightly frustrated with myself. I don't really want to share this, but I promised I would be honest. Tonight felt like a night when I just wanted to crawl under the covers and hide for a long time. It was a night when I needed my mom, and it's that harsh realization that I can't call her which made everything a little more difficult. There was a small list of things that just kept piling up.

And then I think about the people outside my gate. The family who sleeps on the sidewalk. My little ice cream girls who are sleeping God only knows where. The women who won't sleep tonight because they have to sell themselves.

And then I remember that I've only been in India for 2 and 1/2 weeks, and I become frustrated with myself for being frustrated. I mean, I will only be here for 5 weeks. I can deal with anything for 5 weeks. And besides the heat, I haven't done anything strenuous.

I wish that ministry made me more of a superhuman. I wish that I could instantly be more perfect... or atleast less of a complainer/worrier, less dependent on other people... someone who didn't worry about the way her hair falls or the sweat on her face. I just want to be better. And I want to be less focused on me. One thing is for sure, geographical location does not make one less selfish or prideful. I am still the same sarcastic, self absorbed me.

And God, I am at the end of me. Broken, undone, open before you. I need you to be everything because I have nothing. I am numb. I am tired. I am coping by becoming apathetic. Refine me. Sometimes the desert is required to reach the promised land, and God I'll go through it, but I need you to hold me. I can do nothing on my own, and I don't want to be the same person I have always been. I want to be different, more like you. At the end of the day, all I have is you. All I need is you. Thank you for wanting me despite the flaws, the pride, the sin. Thank you that you haven't given up on me. Thank you... increase in me. I need you.

And Then Everything Changed...

     I have to be honest... I am struggling with this. I feel like I am obligated in some way to talk about what I have seen and heard. God, how do I convey this without exploiting those I want so desperately to protect? And I will never be able to make you understand. I can describe things to you with words, and Lord knows I am not the best writer. I could show you pictures and videos... if I could take them. But even those images before your eyes allow you to keep a safe distance. I have to confess that until today, I felt very detached. I knew there was a red light district and what was happening, but it wasn't real. It hadn't come to life.
     And now it has. God give me the words...

     Evil is very real. Darkness is very real. It lurks in the shadows behind the women as they stand at their doors. It is in the drugs given to the new girl to make her compliant. It is in the pimp who watches and collects the payments... blood money. It is in the idols on the walls and the red bands around their necks to ward off evil spirits... not realizing the evil that is consuming them already. No charm could ever fight that off.
     Pain is very real. It is in the eyes of the woman who wiped away tears as I walked past. What happened to you darling? Were you hurt? Rejected? It is in the downcast eyes of the woman who had one eye completely bloodshot. Some looked and smiled back despite the pain. Some simply stared. Some couldn't look at all.
     It smells like celery... I later discover it's liquor... homemade. God, I hate that stuff. It turns men to animals. It dulls the senses. It weakens her resolve. The heat is oppressive. Hindi music is played loudly in the streets.... almost like a mocking celebration. There are goats. I taste mango juice, a gift from a dear friend as we visit her home. I breathe in cigarette smoke, and when we get to the car, I cough... my body trying to expel the dirt. Some women stand in groups. Some stand alone. And there are so many men. On their way home from work. Taking advantage of good business in the area. Trading money for her body. It hurts to watch.

And yet, there is life...

     Hope is very real. I see it in their eyes... the little ones. The bright eyes and big smiles. I hear it in their voices as they sing. I watch them dance for us. I can't wait to hold them. To know them. Yet, little one, what horrors do you go home to at night? What evil lurks in the shadows to steal your innocence? Did you ever have any to begin with?

When do the smiles of joy turn to smiles of seduction?

When do bright eyes lose their fire?

When does that fiery spirit weaken to submissive resolve?

When do hearts that so freely open become hearts of stone?

God, what is that point? How do we stop it? When does the blow come that finally breaks her? Please no...

Yet, in the midst of the pain and evil, God is there. He moves. I know this because I know that evil cannot defeat my God. No darkness can extinguish the light. Oh He can move. He is moving. These are his people. His treasures. God move... make all things move.

I ask you friends to storm the gates of heaven on behalf of one little girl who is being abused and needs to get out. Speak life over her. Pray away the strongholds. God wants her. Pray for light. Don't pray for me, but pray for her... that she will be rescued before the light in her eyes is extinguished. Please...

Now that I have seen, I am responsible. Faith without deeds is dead.

And They Were Called Yellow...

Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you, and everything you do...

     My fingers and nails are stained with yellow. Curry, spices, all on my fingers as a beautiful brown face teaches me. "No auntie, like this", she tells me while placing the freshly cut gourd in the boiling oil to fry. "Nice auntie", she encourages, smiling and laughing and my clumsiness. She is patient. Other brown faces move in and out of the small kitchen... some to help, some to watch, some just to hug and walk away.
      Gourds are finished, set aside. We toss onions into the oil, then potatoes, soy, tomatoes, cilantro, and more spices. An aroma fills the kitchen with the promise of good things to come. "Sit auntie", they tell me, taking note by my face that I am not used to the heat. Sweet little hands fan me with a newspaper. I laugh and try to make them stop. It's no use. Don't you know I am here to serve you? They are too selfless. We wait as the food sizzles and simmers in the pot (how's that for alliteration). Music floats from the living room. Laughter. Joy. Hope.
     We gather together, bodies encircled on the ground. Plates in front of us. Fingers move to collect rice and vegetables, scooping them into anxious mouths and hungry bellies. I am still not good at this. Their fingers move like a dance, while my own are clumsy and awkward. Maybe I will get it. Oil drips down my hands from the gourd. Yellow, smooth. We fall asleep on our mats, the heat still there, but not as oppressive. We dream...

I came along. I wrote a song for you, and all the things you do...

     It is light that expells the darkness. The soft yellow of a flame. The dark yellow of a light. The glowing yellow of the sun, signaling that day has come. Weeping lasts only for a night and joy comes in the morning. I am greeted by those lovely brown faces, eyes bright like sunshine. I am given ginger tea, warm but sweet on my lips and tongue. We eat toast with butter, a yellow that is warm and cozy. Reminding me of home. Welcoming me to a new home, a new family.
     We sing together and offer songs to the Lord. There is something holy that I am discovering about seeking His presence in the morning. He is here in our midst, loving, relishing the adoration of His little ones... the rubbish of the world that He sets apart as diamonds. Oh, He is here. I listen to their voices and learn how to worship. I listen to their words and learn how to pray.
     The day continues. Trying to help with chores is like trying to pull teeth from a lion. I insist. She gives in. I can rinse out the dishes. I smile and thank her. Something small. Sometimes the holiest moments come from the littlest acts of worship. The day is still filled with laughter and music. I braid hair and pray blessings over them... finally understanding in a small way what it means to pray without ceasing.
      Lunch is served. My fingers are becoming more accustomed, more stable as I eat my potato and okra. My yellow chapata scoops up the leftovers my fingers could not. We rest together. We learn to communicate. We grow.

Your skin, oh yeah your skin and bones, Turn into something beautiful...
     We sit together as the sun begins to fade from its bright yellow. We sing more. We share our stories. Rejection, abandonment, hurts, sickness, betrayal... a common thread no matter the shade of the hands and face. We speak blessing and healing. We speak life. I place my hands on her head and hand as water drops spill from eyes and down cheeks... brown and white cheeks. We cry out to God together, my voice and her heart. Our tears mix... I am learning how to cry, to let the tears go, a real gift for someone like me. I am learning so much.
     You are loved by the King of kings, called His daughter, His precious child. He chose you. He wants you. The words fall from my lips. Brokenness exchanged for healing. We begin to heal... she and I. Believing in a God of restoration. A bruise turns yellow when it has almost healed. Sweet girl, the yellow is coming, and all things will be made new. Yellow dispells the black. Light overcomes the dark.
     We return home with hugs and kisses before we leave. Leaving hearts behind. How like God to use his treasures to polish each other, to bestow crowns of love and grace upon one another. Healing. Restoration. Wholeness. Holiness. Joy comes in the morning. Light comes in the morning. Yellow.

D'you know? For you I bleed myself dry? For you I bleed myself dry...
     I noticed her sitting by the wall by herself. "Speak life over her", He whispered. I began to braid her hair, and I prayed over her. I spoke life.

"Auntie are you praying?"

"Yes I am. For you."

"Oh. My mother?"

"Yes baby, I will pray for your mother".

I spoke life over her mother as we sat together in a rare stillness. Salvation. Healing. Peace. God, thank you for the honor. To be let in to just a little. The chance to offer what I can. The chance to use my hands and my heart to love.

    

     Couldn't I do this in the States? Why go all the way to India?

    

     Dear friends, if only I could make you see. Yes, I can pray over someone in the States... anywhere. But this is the God I serve... a God who calls and beckons us to run towards the light, bringing everyone we can with us. He invites us to touch and taste and feel. He invites us to glow with the brightness of His fire, rather than remain in our own black coldness. If the only reason I flew over the ocean is to pray for this one child, then it is worth it. If I can give her just a glimpse of His love for her... a love so great that He would bring someone across the earth just to love her, this dear girl whom the world considers unworthy but who is so jealously loved by the God who made her.  Dear friends, a soul is always worth it. Saying yes is always worth it. She is always worth it.

     Sometimes we run away from the light because we like our darkness. We are afraid that stepping in will hurt, expose the black filth that must be cast away. Further... stepping into the light forces us to see those still in darkness who need the light. And then we must do something. We cannot look away.

     The darkness is an empty hell. The light is streets of gold, brilliant color, a warmth that comforts and does not oppress.  He is in the light.

     Run to the yellow.

Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you, and everything you do. And they were all yellow....