2 years

Everyone experiences grief differently, not a right way or a wrong way, but differently. I suppose we all have ideas of what grief should look like, or will look like, but the truth is, we don't know how we will respond until it happens.

Two years ago on this day, my first grandson died. We lived our worst nightmare that first month. The first year continued to be hard, all the firsts without Harper- Christmas and birthdays and Mother's Day and vacations. But I guess that maybe I thought after that first year it would get easier.

I didn't anticipate that, really, it doesn't get easier. Not really. There will always and forever be a hole in our family. Last month, I sent Advent calendars to my grands, and I had to rip up a card, and then an envelope, when without even thinking, I wrote Harper's name on both. I do that all the time when naming my grands. I never really know what to say when asked how many grandkids I have. I have four, but not everyone knows how to respond when you mention, "but my oldest died." This year, my second grandson turned the same age of his brother, and all of the sudden I realized, "He's going to start doing things that Harper never did..." And such begins a different season of grief.

On this day, I'm a little bit short of breath, remembering my guy. But I want to make sure, I do not grieve as those without hope.  In response to a grieving mother, John Piper wrote about honoring God even in our sorrow, that "at every moment of the lengthening grief, we turn to him, not away from him. And therefore, the length of it is a way of showing him to be ever present, enduringly sufficient."
This I know to be true. 

I think that perhaps, most of all, we want to believe that the loss of our dear one was not in vain. Harper died of a heart condition that was not discovered. But his death gave opportunity for all the kids of the family to be checked for the same abnormality. And so, although we mourn, we were also comforted when Harper's younger cousin was found to have the same heart condition, and had it corrected by surgery. In a strange way, our loss perhaps saved a little one and for that, we rejoice.

But more than anything else, I trust the sovereign God, and respond with the saints of old who when asked "What is thy only comfort in life and in death?" respond, 

"That I, with body and soul, both in life and in death, am not my own, but belong to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ, who with His precious blood has fully satisfied for all my sins, and redeemed me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me, that without the will of my Father in heaven not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must work together for my salvation. Wherefore, by His Holy Spirit, He also assures me of eternal life, and makes me heartily willing and ready henceforth to live unto Him."

Even still, miss you much, Harper buddy.

 

"Hey! Unto you a child is born!"

“The Herdmans were absolutely the worst kids in the history of the world. They lied and stole and smoked cigars (even the girls) and talked dirty and hit little kids and cussed their teachers and took the name of the Lord in vain and set fire to Fred Shoemaker’s old broken-down toolhouse.”
Barbara Robinson, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

No one with the name Herdman will be found in our Mexican neighborhood, but I'm pretty sure that we know their primos. I'm pretty sure that Herdman cousins show up to our community outreach activities every week. I mean, there was Monday night...

There were the big boys, the teens, who come to practice guitar and hang out and then play soccer and torment be with the rest of us. They roam in a pack, rarely still, never quiet. In the two hours they were with us, they managed to crush one ping-pong ball, accidentally pound my teammate in the face with a soccer ball, escape and return, again and again, and again, to bible class, and marginally participate in art class. One boy, who we always think should know better, finished the evening by de-pants-ing (is that a word for anyone except those who work with boys?) another one of their crowd,  and then the whole herd found themselves kicked out dismissed early. 

There were the littles, the under 5 crowd, who come in full of smiles and hugs, who need the sticky candy and hot Cheeto residue washed off their hands before they touch anyone or anything. They take a try at ping-pong and manage to hit the ball everywhere but on the table. They work puzzles on the floor and force grooves that don't fit together and sling the giant pieces across the room when they don't match. One girl tries to build a tower and yells in frustration when the boy plays Godzilla, stomping through the block city and destroying her skyscraper in progress. They color Christmas tree pages in bright primary colors, branches of orange and yellow and red, and look up at us and ask, "Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it pretty? Do you like it?" Yes, yes we do, you little Picasso Modernists.

There were the girls. There is the one who has been with us since the beginning, who as she walks through the gate looks at me and shouts, "WHY? Kristy! Why did you cut your hair?!," obviously not impressed with my new do. There is the young teen who comes in with a hood over her head and when greeted offers a hug and a shy smile but who obviously is hurting. She won't talk; she won't answer why. She nods at a "headache?" but we're pretty sure that wasn't it. She won't stay seated in class to save her life. She leaves the room, multiple times, silently asking us to find her. And then when class is over and she finally has permission to leave, she comes back. There's the elementary student who comes in late and when everyone else has left, tells my teammate that she hates school, that the teacher doesn't like her, that the kids don't like her, that it's not worth it to go.

In The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, the Herdman kids learn the Christmas story and help the rest of the community to see it with brand new eyes. I think we are much the same. In this neighborhood, Christmas isn't about Santa, though in bright lights he is flying high over the carnecería next door. Only a few of these kids will have a tree in their house. They aren't making lists and checking them twice. In the book, Imogene Herdman plays Mary in the church play, and burps baby Jesus because, “That’s the whole point of Jesus — that he didn’t come down on a cloud like something out of “Amazing Comics,’ but that he was born and lived … a real person.”  The Christmas story doesn't change these messy stories, doesn't change our chaotic evening at the community center, at least not today. But it does change eternity. Jesus was born and lived, a real person!, and he also died for us and lives again for us- that's the hope that is our consolation and our assurance and the motivation that propels us forward, even on the most challenging of days.  The Herdman kid who plays the Angel of the Lord in the play yells out, “Hey! Unto you a child is born" and his sister responds with "Shazaaaam!" 
So do we. 

DPP 1- It's not yet time

(December Photo Project day 1)

The first of December seems like a good day to decorate for Christmas. I pull out the box of last year's decorations from the bottom shelf. I take the tree off the top of the refrigerator, its home for the last 11 months, and dust it off. I remove the string of lights from my headboard. The Pumpkin Vanilla candle and orange plaid runner and "Give Thanks" sign move to the back of the wardrobe. Evergreen moves in. Well, plastic evergreen; truly, ever green.

I spread out the festive red runner and slide  together the balsa reindeer. I wind the lights around the branches of the little tree. I hang the tiny bulbs with care. I set out the miniature tin nativity scene. I even hang up a few red and green prints over the couch. I turn on the star lights that have been dangling since last year. It all takes about 5 minutes. It looks like we are ready.

But today is but the first day of December. It's not yet time. Advent reminds us of the waiting. John writes at the beginning of his gospel, "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth... For from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace."  (John 1:14, 16 ESV) And I believe those truths with all my heart. But I am prone to distraction, prone to forget. My prayer this Advent season is to look again, to remember and to experience that fullness, to recognize that grace upon grace.

(also- this is my ninth year to participate in the December Photo Project, a picture a day until Christmas! Join the fun?)

264/365

My grandpa kept his earthworms in a tin bucket in a dark corner of the garage. My sister and I, we would dig just a little bit beneath the surface and they would start to show themselves, wiggly in the musty peat. He was the first fisherman I knew, my grandpa. He would sit patiently on the banks of New Mexico lakes or wave his fly rod in a slow and rhythmic wave in the middle of cold mountain streams. But as much as he loved his granddaughters, he didn't have much tolerance for us fishing with him. We chattered way too much. We churned up the waters and wasted bait and asked for lunch when breakfast was hardly over. I haven't been fishing in years.

Even so, when the conversation with our neighborhood boys turned to fishing not too long ago, I was all in. "What do you use for bait?" asked Mario. "Sometimes we grab cockroaches and use them." Eek. OK, well maybe I was mostly in. Without doubt, this would be an new adventure for all of us. 

The boys meet us on Friday afternoon, eagerly early, and load up in the van, ready to go. My teammates scrounge up all the rods they have between them and buy the cheapest fish at the grocery for bait. We ladies supply the people food. We load a cooler of water in the back of the van. Seven boys and 6 adults, ready to roll.

We head north out of the neighborhood. Remember, north from our location pretty much takes you directly to the the US/Mexico border, directly to the river. 
"Derecho." our 15 year old guide directs us.
"Derecho."
"Derecho."
"Derecho."
Following the road, straight ahead, straight ahead, straight ahead, we pass a family on the side, walking home from school. Bright green and shrubby growth lines the steep bank of the Rio Bravo (Americans know it as the Rio Grande, but we are on the Mexican side so...). The United States lies just a good stone's throw to the right. Farther down the unpaved dirt road, we pass a brick factory, rectangle mud blocks drying under the hot border sun. We drive past all kinds of abandoned shacks and run-down houses and some inhabited ones, too. Who knew people live all the way out here? Finally, the van dips and curves and comes to a stop in an open field when we absolutely can drive no farther. 

A tethered horse lifts his head as if to check us out, but quickly gets back to grazing. Over the course of the afternoon, we also meet a family of pigs, wallowing and snorting in the mud at the edge of the river. A couple of cows wander by. A herd of goats trot through on their way home at the end of the day. 

The boys string their rods, bait their hooks, and wait. I'm pretty sure that my grandpa would have banned several of them, they way a couple splash and shout. Although the boys tried earnestly, they didn't catch one fish on this afternoon. One boy did hook two turtles, releasing each to scurry back into the water in a hurry. Several times, lines got snagged and caught on river debris and had to be cut and set free. Eventually, one boy went back to his fishing tool of choice, an old empty brown beer bottle wrapped with line, a spark plug tied on for a weight. 

And then, after a longer time than we expected, we caught the attention of the US Border Patrol. We figure we are being watched, and finally spot a camera on a tall pole set back from the river's edge. We see one vehicle and then another pull up on the bank across the water. We watch them as, through binoculars, they watch us. We amuse ourselves, wondering what they might make of this crew, a few gringo and Mexican adults sitting in the sand, a few Mexican boys fishing. I mourn that we live in a place where goofy boys can't go fishing and swim in the river without being watched by officials on the other side.

We scarf down tortas, crusty rolls dusted with flour and stuffed with beans and ham and cheese and avocado, while continually waving away the ever increasing number of flies. The boys start the afternoon mostly dry, but eventually succumb to the heat and to the call of the cool water. They dive and splash until we call it a day and pile back in the van for the return trip home. 

Really, I'm still the impatient and restless girl that my grandpa hesitated to take along on his fishing trips. Nonetheless, just as I knew with absolutely certainty from my grandpa, I abide in the deep love of my heavenly Father. I'm trusting Jesus. I remember back at the beginning of his earthly ministry, we are told about a time that Jesus met some young men fishing. Scripture tells us, 
Jesus said to them, “Come with me. I’ll make a new kind of fisherman out of you. I’ll show you how to catch men and women instead of perch and bass.” They didn’t ask questions, but simply dropped their nets and followed." (Matt 4:18-20, The Message)
We're praying that he's making new fishermen out of these boys, too.

254/365

They come through our gate nearly every time the community center opens, a sister and brother with slight builds and dark hair and big brown eyes. You know when they arrive. They tend to be loud and proud. The little guy's pitch is higher than the Muppet Elmo. I confess, sometimes we ask him to repeat himself just so we can listen to him and then smile. Sometimes the middle brother comes along with them too, or one of several cousins, a couple of whom have names so similar that only a single vowel makes them different.

We started to know them and learn bits of their story about a year ago. Their dad died, probably the victim of a lifetime of hard circumstance compounded by poor choices. Sometimes it seems as we grieve his loss more than the kids do, these kids who have known loss after loss and keep on living life very matter of factly. They live in a small house a couple of blocks over from us, though their address has changed at least a couple times since we've known them. We're never quite sure what family members will be in their home when we walk them back in the evenings. Right now, they are all in school and seem to enjoy it. But, we are all too aware that could change on any given day.

These kids, they have few secrets. We're pretty sure that they say whatever crosses their mind. During Vacation Bible School, the cooking activities thrilled the youngest boy. He took a bite of his fruit tart and exclaimed, "¡Es deliciOSO!" The pendulum swung dramatically by the end of that same week, when he sobbed, nearly inconsolable, over a misplaced and then lost bottle of bubbles. The oldest, her expressions leave nothing hidden. Broad hand motions nearly always accompany her words, almost like a miniature conductor directing her own private orchestra. On this day during art class, obviously unimpressed by the origami project that is not going well at all, she singsongs cheerfully, "Aburrida, aburrida, estoy muy aburrida..." ("Bored, bored, I am very bored..."). I roll my eyes and laugh knowingly, and yet try to salvage the activity before the poorly folded boats shipwreck completely.

But at the end of that same class, this same very distracted girl grabs a piece of the square paper and the black sharpie pen we are using to make eyes on folded fish. Out of the corner of my own eye, I see her scribbling. I figure at least she's managing to entertain herself for the last few minutes instead of distracting the others. After a minute, she hollers my name and holds out the now folded paper. I take it and open it, and find the sweet note pictured above.
"Thank you for being so nice to me I love you much Kristin"
(note- in your mind, be sure to say "Kris-teeeen," with so much eeeee that you don't really hear the n...)
What?! A thank you note?! I really appreciate that unexpected token. I look my young friend in the eye and thank her and give her a hug.

But then her brother, seeing what just happened, he wants to write something too. The oldest of the two grabs my note and starts scratching out his own, copying his sister's words the same, one by one except for changing the name at the end to include one of my teammates. The youngest brother, he's in first grade and though he sings out the vowels with zeal, he's not really up to writing a full letter on his own, not quite yet. Determined not to be left out, he instructs me to write out his words. He dictates,
Te quiero mucho. ¡Doy gracias! (He said that part Very Enthusiastically so I added the exclamation points.) Kim Ashley (his intended recipients)
"I love you so much. I am thankful! Kim Ashley"
He grabs the work almost before I dot the final "i" and shoves it at my friend and runs out of the room, already late to the next class.

Really, the class this day was something of a fail- I struggled with the origami and the kids struggled with the origami and there was not one bell, not one whistle, to make this day memorable or especially note-worthy. Even so, these kids must see something worthwhile in their time with us, enough to leave us with handwritten reminders. I think about resilience, about the grace that allows these young ones living in the midst of what some would consider chaos and hardship to still understand and express love. I think about how much grace we've been shown in our own lives, despite our impatience and all manner of sin, and I'm humbled. I think today maybe the teacher became the student.

251/365

Simple Saturday gratitude-

"Then you will know that I am the Lord.
    Those who trust in me will never be put to shame.” (Isaiah 49:23 NLT)

"...the real display of faith is when we trust God's character even when we don't understand his responses or timing." (Carolyn McCulley)

Hot mug, quiet desk.
Comfort apple cinnamon oatmeal.

The satisfaction of a steaming bucket and clean floors.

An entire day with no where to be.

Blue skies and puffy clouds and the bright rays of sun.

“As she read, at peace with the world and happy as only a little girl could be with a fine book and a little bowl of candy, and all alone in the house, the leaf shadows shifted and the afternoon passed. ” (Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn)

An afternoon on the couch and college football on the screen 
(even in a loss...).

Date night.

Making a dent in a pint.

248/365

We set out, cards in hand, to give out invitations. We're beginning an outreach specifically for girls in our neighborhood, those from 12 to 18 years old. Our hope is to gather weekly and share an activity and some purposeful conversation and some food and some fun and maybe even some transparency, one with another. It's a new thing.

It takes only a few steps to remember that we are not in American suburbia. We comment cheerfully that the street is finally dry. After all, just a week or so ago, green waters lapped the sidewalks, the deep where two streets intersect. A product of bad drainage and a pump project gone bad, the pond had been a fixture since the beginning of the year. Now finally, all that remained is dusty dry mud tracks, petrified dune bumpers on the edges of the road.

As we pass by, my landlord calls us over cheerfully. Chickens peck around his driveway and a couple of dogs and cats lounge lazy in the heat. His birthday is coming up and preparations for the annual celebration have begun. His family is slaughtering a pig to be roasted, and he invites us up the driveway to see. We congratulate him on another year, but cheerfully decline a closer look at tomorrow's dinner.

We turn the corner and see flashing lights at the end of the street, probably an ambulance. We're not the only ones wondering what is happening- lots of neighbors have come out to gaze and guess. We talk to some boys we haven't seen in a while, and exchange the traditional handshake fist bump, reminding them of our weekly community center activities. We greet the parents of one of our girls and leave an invitation. We see her eyes in her dad and her smile on her mom and her face in miniature in her as her little sister peeks up at us.

We go to a corner store, the workplace of a mom of one of our girls. The store owner and my teammate exchange compliments on each other's clothing and we laugh. We learn our girl has moved, and backtrack in search of her. We find her at home a couple of blocks away, in a house without glass in the windows, one some might think abandoned. She greets us with a smile and hurries to change her clothes and put on shoes and join our merry band. We cross the street to meet a neighbor and extend an invitation to two more girls.

The search continues. We walk down streets and look for girls along the way. We give invitations to two girls on their way out of the house. We step into a nearby papelería, lotería cards and wrapping paper hanging from the walls. We crowd through the doorway and lean across a glass-topped case, and leave another invitation with the mom behind the counter.  

We stop at the house of another friend, and find her grandma sitting out front. A family member opens the gate for us and extends a hand and a hello. We greet grandma with a handshake and a kiss on the cheek and ask about her grandkids. She promises to give our invitation to her teen.

We walk towards our young friend's house again. "I like going with you all," she tells us. "Everyone smiles and is nice to you." We laugh, because really it is true. We have no concerns as we walk up and down our streets amongst our neighbors. And yet, I also sigh, because I know that if she weren't with us, the situation would be much different. We have seen how some men look at these girls. All of our kids know stories about violence. We have heard from them threats of robbery and of kidnapping.

We know that our God has been here from the beginning of time, and He is yet bringing light into darkness in this very place.
Be alert, be present. I’m about to do something brand-new.    It’s bursting out! Don’t you see it? (Isaiah 43:19)
Yes, yes we do.

247/365

Now that September has arrived, seemingly everyone in the world appears to be back to school. The weather sure doesn't feel anything close to fall in these parts- "and on Wednesday we'll dip down into the 90's..." said a local weather guy early in the week. (WHAT?! "DIP" into the 90's?!) Nonetheless, here with our Aquiles neighborhood kids, we are working our way back to the usual school week schedule.

On Monday and Tuesday afternoon, almost as if we set an alarm, we hear the dogs start to bark and we know the kids have arrived. We open the gate and they pull out the games. You might see UNO or dominoes. Big boys play ping pong. The very youngest build towers and obstacle courses with giant Jenga blocks and then leap and knock them over with a loud crash that startles the rest of us every time. Have no doubt, we play with a bunch of cheaters- very cute little schemers. But we sit around the table together and talk and joke and try to keep order. Little by little, clue by clue, we learn more about these kids and share more about ourselves and the God we love.

Divided between older and younger, the kids rotate between art class and Bible class and games. Usually just when we think we have figured out what works, it probably won't. This week in art, we "painted" with water on bleeding tissue paper. That went well. Well, except for the one kid who pulled his cup away while I poured water into it and suddenly his paper was soaked before he even picked up the brush.. I should have known better. The next day, we used the now colored paper for the background of a simple drawing. Let's call that, simply, a FAIL. These kids need direction, instructions and guidance. Left to their own, it never seems to go well. Perhaps that extends to life as well as art...

We purpose for these kids to hear the good news of the Gospel every week- of the great demand of the law and of the infinite grace of Christ. Our pastor and teammate shares a short message. They play games to reinforce the lesson. Slowly so slowly, these truths begin to settle.

We will fine-tune the time together, once again and probably yet again. As the weeks pass by, we will keep what works, drop what doesn't, hopefully while adapting and growing and changing for the better along the way. Our prayer is that our center is a safe place, a place to learn and to create, a place where Jesus is honored and our God is glorified.

Would you pray alongside of us as we begin again this fall?

246/365

"Greetings from Reynosa. I am doing administrative work today and notice that this email address..."
And such started many notes on this day, as I try to reconcile and consolidate several address lists for our missions giving and communications. Through the wonder of technology, we can see who opens our mail, and who doesn't. This sort of business can be a cumbersome work for a natural introvert, an official Enneagram 9, who relies on the goodness and giving of others for the majority of our income. I mean, maybe you really don't want to read our updates and that's totally ok. I understand, really I do. Maybe you just changed your email and we didn't know. Or maybe you have multiple email addresses and our mail isn't going to one you read most often. Or maybe...

I am left believing that this new world of social media and instant communication can prove itself both a blessing and a curse. Surely missionaries in not so many years past wished, "If only I could send out one letter to everyone...," "If only I could see who was really receiving our mail..." Now we can. And not only that! I adore instant access to photos of faraway friends and family whom I would otherwise rarely see at all. The images and updates close the distance. Sometimes I forget how long it's been since I've had an actual conversation with that person because I often "see" them, or at least, their posts and their photos. But then I'll get a real letter, a newsy epistle written exclusively for my eyes, that shares a bit of a dear one's heart, and I remember. Even the best missive cannot substitute for sitting together, face to face.

I live on the edge of two frontiers and crossing from one country to another can be a daily exercise, simple and normal. Yet, sometimes an ordinary update will remind me that I am indeed so far away. Kids who were everyday playmates of my own get married and have their own kids and celebrations go on with out us, as they should. I accidentally discover that I was "unfriended" by someone and I consider why that stings. I often struggle to make small talk with friends stateside. Just a few miles apart, and yet everyday life can look so different from my side of the 'hood. Jesus' command to "follow me" demands and requires so very much more than what we know from being a follower on social media these days.

Only minutes after sending out the first inquiry, I receive a response, "Your newsletters would be welcomed," the kind folks write.  And then another similar response quickly follows. Certainly, I savor the nearly instant gratification, at least for a moment. Which is good, because those two replies would be it. And so, it's back to "Greetings from Reynosa..."

161/365

The sojourners finished their sometimes long, often wandering, and nearly always dangerous journeys to the United States, only to wait. Some waited nearly two weeks, just yards from the door, seeking asylum in the United States. Once inside, they would be processed, and then most likely held in an immigration detention center, waiting on their application.

Until Sunday.
On Sunday, the people were gone. They left behind coolers and blankets and cushions, probably never theirs to begin with. A cleaning lady came behind, sweeping the walk and shining the trash cans. She told us that all of the items would be removed by the next day.
And when I looked over while crossing the bridge on Monday, nothing remained.

On Monday, US Attorney General Jeff Sessions announced that those claiming to be victims of domestic or gang violence would no longer qualify for asylum status. Most likely those who were waiting and allowed in on Sunday were soon to be flat out denied.

And on Tuesday, Mary Giovagnoli, Executive Director of the Refugee Council USA, comments, “The right to seek asylum in the United States is enshrined in our law and is an international obligation. Since the passage of the Refugee Act of 1980, U.S. courts have recognized that persecution may occur for many reasons, not all of which fit into a neatly defined category, and that individuals can be persecuted when the government fails to protect particular groups of people. Many of the most compelling claims arising from Central America today involve the failure of the state to protect victims of domestic or gang violence.  Rather than address the complex nature of these claims, Attorney General Sessions has chosen to dismiss them out of hand, arguing that there is virtually no situation in which the victim of domestic violence or gang violence could make a plausible case for asylum."

But back on Sunday, we knew that people from all over the world, from Central America and beyond, had been waiting outside for a while. We know that it is hot and dust on the border in June. We just wanted to show some kindness to people who traveled a long way, with few comforts, without much immediate promise. We took cut up watermelon over to the bridge, not knowing who we might serve, or if we would even be allowed to serve it. As it turned out, no migrant people waited on the US side of the bridge, for Immigration and Customs officers stood at the exact halfway point, only allowing those with documents to move forward. On this day, the emigrants sat on the Mexican side, waiting on what to do next. 

By mid-afternoon on Sunday, the temperature was hot and the wind blew akin to something like a furnace. We crossed the traffic lanes on the bridge and paid our 4 pesos to cross and started down the sidewalk over the Rio Grande. Just before the border marker, we met a mom and daughter fleeing Honduras. A trio of Eritreans hoped to gain entry to the United States after a more than two year journey.  A man who said he was from Israel also waited. We looked them in the eye and heard a little of their stories and of their hopes. And that was pretty much all we could do, besides offer them a bowl of fresh watermelon. I think we all left sad, and frustrated that our efforts were so small. 

In The Way of the Heart Henri Nouwen writes, "Compassion is hard because it requires the inner disposition to go with others to the place where they are weak, vulnerable, lonely, and broken. But this is not our spontaneous response to suffering... we ignore our ability to enter into solidarity with those who suffer." I wish that more people, even and especially US officials, could, would, go to those places where the weak and vulnerable and lonely and broken wait and provide opportunity to those who suffer to tell their stories. 

(Interested in knowing more? "What You Need to Know About Families Separated at the Border" by Matthew Sorens of World Relief; "Attorney General's  Asylum Decision Undermines All People Seeking Protection" by Refugee Council USA; "When Deportation is a Death Sentence," by Sarah Stillman of The New Yorker)

159/365

We started a new thing this spring- a Bible study for boys' in our neighborhood. It seemed like the logical thing to do when the boys who gathered to go to our mid-week cell group study could no longer fit in our car. So, using the same study on Jonah, we started a new group at our house. Not wanting to miss any aspect of the weekly event, we promised that yes, we would have coffee. And we would feed them. 

Guess what? They came, 6 or more boys each week. 

Who says the Bible is boring? Jonah could easily be a made-for-movie story. A disobedient prophet running from God. A hideaway at the bottom of a ship. A tremendous storm. A desperate crew. A confessing passenger reluctantly thrown into the sea. A dramatic rescue by... a Really Big Fish? A remorseful messenger vomited onto the shore. A reluctant missionary sent to a wicked people. A deeply apologetic and repentant city seeking forgiveness. A defiant prophet pouting against the sovereign God. The book of Jonah provides for a lot of conversation. 

For six weeks one after another, they came to the house, through our front gate, through our back gate, even sliding down the pole from the roof to our porch. One week they came still wet from swimming. We'd bring out the coffee and booklets and pens. We watched a short video commentary on the passage of the week and then we talked about what we learned. We talked about Jonas and about what God was doing in that time and place and people. We talked about running from God. We talked about hopes and fears. We talked about His mercy and justice and grace and steadfast lovingkindness. We talked about Jesus. Of course, it wasn't perfect, but it was a start.

Six weeks later we come to the end of the study, and of course, we must celebrate. We promise the boys that we'll make pizzas the next week. But not at our house- at our community center kitchen so we can use two ovens at once and not heat up the house when it's already 100 degrees outside. A couple days prior, I remind the boys when I see them, and ask them their favorite pizza toppings. Maybe that was a strategic error...

Imagine our surprise when we head to the community center on Friday afternoon to prepare for the group and find a mini-mob of more than a dozen kids that were rarely if ever at the study, all ready for a pizza party. Suddenly our Bible study has grown to include kids we've never met. It now includes a few girls? We laugh. Perhaps there is innocent confusion- because we do have activities including a bible lesson a couple times a week at the community center. Perhaps there is wishful thinking, because after all, there is pizza. We decide to include any boy who attended the study at least twice. I promise the girls we're working on a study for them, too. We turn the others away, this time at least. I wonder how Jesus might multiply pizza dough and pepperoni.

So 13 boys (and one little sister) end up making pies on Friday afternoon. Maybe the next two hours would be best be described as Organized Chaos. Each kid took a lump of dough to a table covered with flour, rolling it flat with a glass soda bottle. We ration out sauce. These Norteños are the original meat-lovers; everyone gets 5 pepperonis and 3 cucharas de salchichas. An adventurous few add mushrooms and black olives. A border pizza might not be complete without jalapeños. They cover their discs with cheese and add some identifying mark to the top and send it to the ovens.

While they wait, Pastor Mario goes over a review of the study, and sure enough, some bit of the previous 6 weeks has stuck. Boys shout out answers back at him. We remind them of starting again next week. We pray for the food, thanking our God for His goodness and provision to all of us. He is "a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and relenting from disaster." (Jonah 4:2)

Then, we eat pizza.

157/365

"Here comes the sun..."

I walk out of my little house, already sweaty in just the getting ready, already sweaty before stepping outside. The morning sun, though only a couple hours after beginning it's rise, already shines hot and bright, moving slowly and steady overhead. In the gleam of daylight, I see the dust covering the tile floor and tables on our front porch, covering the leaves of the flowers I'm trying to grow, covering the street in front of the house. The morning school day has just begun for my neighbors. Our deaf youth sit and do their lessons outside at the tables. At least the breeze provides a distraction from the heat.

I exit the black iron gate that guards my house and walk down the concrete street, kicking pebbles, along the way. Brilliant pink bouganvilla flowers color a puddle, limp tissue paper blooms shining bright in the water's reflection. A kitten lays in the shadow of a bench. From down the street, a dog watches me, unwilling to move except for the wag of his tail. A string of deflated balloons hangs from a neighbor's fence, sagging dejected after too much party the previous night.

I turn the corner and walk two blocks, sharing a "Buenos días" with those I pass. Birds crow and chirp in trees overhead. Somewhere nearby a rooster crows, again. A background chorus of cicadas leaves ears ringing with a their high whine song. A couple of ladies sit in the shade of the door of their corner store and fan themselves. I wave, and the little boy without a shirt, playing at their feet, rewards me with a smile.

I cross the pavement to my destination, the gordita stand open from sun up to whenever she runs out. I waited too long earlier in the week and promised to return, but next time, earlier in the day. The owner, chef and plate washer, a one woman operation start to finish, is the wife of a neighborhood tire guy, and sure enough, while he works on a car next door, the driver takes time to eat. I approach the open air stand, oilcloth with bright flowers on a blue background covering the counter. I take a seat on a tall red stool. The menu is written on posterboard, but really, it changes from day to day, moment to moment, depending on cook's choice and what others have eaten before you arrive.

A gordita de picadillo and a refresco set me back 20 pesos, about a dollar according to the official exchange rate this morning. For a dollar I get a pocket of masa pressed flat, cooked hot on a griddle, and filled with a chopped potato and ground beef filling in a spicy tomato sauce. It drips greasy red down my fingers, and leaves a just right amount of pico in my mouth. Between the sun and the heat of the food, I resist the temptation to press the cold Coke glass dripping with condensation against my cheek. While I eat, a taxi driver stops for his morning break. Two young moms watch their toddlers tease and chase each other around the car. And our cocinera continues to slap down balls of masa, rolled flat and flipped when toasted spotted brown.

I finish, fully content with my morning snack, and head to work, the to-do list full, tasks waiting, both known and still to be learned. The sun continues to make it's way above in the sky overhead. As the Beatles long ago crooned, "And I say, it's all right..."

(the photo is of sun mosaic collages created by our students in art class the previous evening)

64/365

Daylight fades to evening dusk and lights create shadows in unexpected places. Dust covers nearly every surface, and so too do bright papers with letters. We play a seeking game, searching out letters in a mixed up pile, another step in learning to decipher the code. Upstairs, bigger kids begin to construct light circuits and another group sits around the table, ready to create images of light and dark. 

Eight students registered for my class, and tonight only one shows up. He's a bright one, and the two hours pass in a blink. We unscramble letters. We read tag-team style; he takes the letters and I take the text,
"A,"
"told,"
"B,"
"and,"
"B,"
"told,"
"C,"
"I'll meet you at the top of the coconut tree."
We sing and jump and wiggle and write. Watching a kid learn, making the connections, that can be a thrilling process.

We're trying a new thing at the community center, registration-only classes one afternoon a week. In these couple of hours, we hope to go deeper with these kids, deeper in knowledge, deeper in time together, deeper in relationships. We know that there is opportunity for so much more than where we currently are. It's a learning process, on every side. For kids in this place, habits form slow. Days and hours don't mean as much in a place where calendars and watches rarely show themselves. We never know who will attend when the afternoon arrives. On this cool and rainy day, attendance was down. But the weather is only a guess as to why. We consider that all too many other reasons could be behind the absences.

And so, I'm ever aware that every time we have together with these kids is important. I'm ever aware that we have no time to waste, not in teaching, not in learning, not in our speech, not in our actions, not in how we love. Our prayer is always to show and speak of our Lord's goodness, that we would be His witnesses in this place. 

"Skit skat skoodle doot flip flop flee."

(Quotes from Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Bill Martin, Jr. and John Archambault)

63/365

The good news is that finally, finally, I won a round of lotería. The bad news is that we were playing at the good-bye party for my buddy and office mate so I found my excitement a bit tempered.
And then my husband accidentally gave away my prize.
Alas. Some days are like that.

Does anyone else remember days as good news, bad news? I often wonder, am I the only one who perpetually wrestles with life's opposites? The only one who sees the sides and can't exactly be completely for one or the other? Does anyone else contend with those inner arguments while living very much in the out-there-right-now?

And then I found this essay, and realized, maybe others think on these sorts of ideas, too. Maybe I'm not the only one quite sure she doesn't have all the answers. Loree Ferguson Wilbert writes:

My desires must be for something higher, God himself and his kingdom.  

This is why I glad to not be a registered anything or pledge allegiance to anything on this earth. My allegiance is to God, to his order of things, and my optimism is rooted in the coming kingdom, not in the fruition of all my "disordered loves." The world is in disarray: children slaughtered in schools by people with guns made for slaughtering, mental gymnastics abound by barely clad women talking about objectification, wars and rumors of wars, and everyone thinks they're the real optimist, the ones with the real solutions. But God's kingdom gives us permission to grieve at what is while hoping for what is to come at the same time—to be true eternal optimists.  

It might be on the picket lines that our points are made, but it's at the tables where progress is made. It's there where we can be honest about what is terribly, terribly wrong, but also true about what is beautifully, achingly good. 

Tonight at the table we didn't make much progress. But we ate really well and we laughed a lot and we were together, minus a couple, for the last time for a while. And all of that was indeed "achingly good." I want to keep erring on the side of "true eternal optimist."

62/365

Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul alike. 
- John Muir, The Yosemite (1912)

(an afternoon spent walking through Bentsen State Park)

59/365

"Thank you. Thank you all for your friendship and for your kindness to us."

A group of us took three of our neighborhood guys out for tacos the other night, to celebrate a birthday. Now all three are teenagers. And have no doubt, they eat like teen boys! When we left, we asked one of the boys how many tacos he ate.
"Cuatro. Y cinco mas."
Nine tacos!
He reported the other two also had nine each, but there was some dispute about that.
Let's just say, the boys out ate the rest of us.

Afterward, we continue on to bible study. We arrived with time to spare, so before starting, they played Sorry. They had not played before, but it must have been something of a hit, because when the study ended and the adults sat around talking, they got up and started a new game. (and completely unrelated, I recently learned my Enneagram number and now I understand why I've never enjoyed Sorry...)

These guys were barely reading a year ago, and now they will take their turn in reading out loud during the study. A couple of them were drawing while we talked, but kept track where we were along the way. At one point, our pastor, my teammate and friend, who each week spends multiple hours with these guys, asked them a question. The first boy answered super honestly, so much so we laughed at his response, because it was SO honest. The next guy answered differently, but I think, honestly also. The last, I'm pretty sure he was just trying to look good, but he did make us laugh, too. But these are the moments that we long for and that we pray for, real life and conversation beyond the surface of everyday comings and goings.

At the end of the evening, we drove the boys home, just like always. Sometimes that drive has been chaos. But not tonight. Tonight, they joke around and we half listen. Then we heard them call our names.
"Thank you. Thank you all for your friendship and for your kindness to us."
We're not in it for thanks, for certain, but it's pretty sweet when we hear it.
De nada.

58/365

Ironically, the best time to go to the dump might not be when it's sunny, though a spring day is better than the summer. On this afternoon we climbed into the van to accompany our Doctors without Border friends. These faithful offer medical and psychology services at the Isaiah 55 community center once day a week. And so, the day before their clinic, they visit the dump, to tell people about their services. Because of our presence in the neighborhood, because of the ministry to the cart workers, we are known to many in the community, some familiar and trusted faces. One guy looked at me and said, "Don't you live on the street leading to the dump?" "Yes, I do," I nodded. Location, location, location.

Every sense comes into play when you spend time at the dump. In a large area, the ground is scarred black with smoke drifting upwards and across. Sometimes there are controlled burns at the dump. Sometimes the dump spontaneously burns. Even across the charred piles, garbage collectors scavenge for items to be recycled or reused. Plastics remain and endure and persist; who would have guessed that missionary work would propel me towards environmentalism? Plastic sacks wave from trees and posts and other garbage. My teammate comments that they wave like Tibetan prayer flags, and I consider petitions for all the people I can see from that spot.

It can be quiet at the dump, only the wind blowing through to create distraction. Large flocks of birds hover and swoop overhead and depart in mass when spooked. The clip clop of horse and donkey hooves, the irregular rhythm of wheels rolling over uneven ground, warns of a trash cart on the way. Trash cart workers talk quietly among themselves. Their kids play around the cart, around the pickup, around the garbage on the ground. A rooster crows in the background. The high up hum of a small plane patrol causes me to look overhead.

Obviously, the smells at the dump can be strong. Rotting food and decaying trash and disposed diapers lay on the ground. The soil lays dank and dark and especially earthy in the spring after consecutive weeks of winter rains. We walk past a pig pen and the foul odor almost stops in our tracks. The rancid, acrid fumes of the hazy smoke drifting by permeates our noses and our clothes, enough that we seem to hold onto it for hours afterward. Time at the dump gives new meaning to "leaves a bad taste in your mouth."

The ground isn't always solid at the dump. Though dirt paths crisscross the piles of garbage, you might walk through layers on uneven layers of decomposing trash. You try to miss walking through animal waste. We have come to talk to people and we stop often along the way. I reach out my hand to shake that of a man sifting through trash. He shakes his head and turns his hand and tells me that I shouldn't touch him, embarrassed by the grime. I do anyway, and pat his shoulder, besides.

There are workers at the dump, but there are also houses, of sort. Families and individuals have created shelters of pallets or of canvas and cardboard and discarded wood. We can see them standing, leaning, around the perimeter of the landscape, and hidden by squatters in the scrubby oaks just to the south. We consider what it would be like to live IN this place. The health risks are many, burning plastics and environmental allergens fill the air. We continue to cough hours after leaving. The stark landscape must weigh heavy on these souls. The spiritual darkness seems almost tangible, as well. And yet, as we recognize faces and exchange smiles and greetings, hope shows up too. Little kids giggle and hide and peek at us again. We return waves and "Buenas tardes" as we walk through the dump and back down the road home.

I consider that few things show the decay of this world more clearly than a stroll through the dump. And yet, our hope, even among the brokenness and rot and stank of this world, comes from the promise from Christ on the throne, "Behold! I am making all things new... Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true." And with that Good News, we'll keep seeking after our neighbors, even at the dump.

57/365

O Lord, our Lord,
    how majestic is your name in all the earth!
When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers,

    the moon and the stars, which you have set in place,

what is man that you are mindful of him,

    and the son of man that you care for him?

Psalm 8:1, 3-4

It doesn't come naturally, I don't think, to see beauty in unexpected places, to notice the splendor of creation in the midst of dust and grime. 

And yet, I find myself seeking it, striving to find it. 
Opening up my senses to the loveliness begging to be noticed. 

The iridescent changing hues of the rooster feathers, as he turns and crows his way across the street. 
The flash of red and yellow on the wing on the blackbird.
The yellow belly of the kiskadee hiding in the tree.

The crack of blue azure peeking through the cloud cover after day after day of grey gloom.
The bright rays of sunshine hitting the sidewalk dirt.
The wind causing the leaves to dance, the branches to sway, the dust to swirl. 

The emerald green new growth of nopal, sprouting from grungy, spiked pads.
The coral buds of bougainvillea, reaching out to the sunshine after a month hidden in the shadows.
The delicate white blossoms of the orange tree in bloom, its sweet perfume floating across the yard enough to make me stop and turn and follow its scent.  

O Lord, our Lord,
    how majestic is your name in all the earth!
Psalm 8:9

55/365

The folks in the photo did some pretty wondrous things over the weekend. They woke up early and prayed earnestly; they served our community with a whole-heart and without a single complaint. They played with kids and listened to the stories of strangers and of friends, both. They asked questions. They used their gifts to serve Jesus in this place.

But before they did any of those things, they came.
And that means the world to us.

We know that we live in a place that might not be considered a super desirable destination. Right now it's muddy and dusty and pretty damp. Of course, in the summer, it's just downright hot. We don't have a lot of obvious natural beauty here- you really have to pay attention and search it out all around you. Our town is somewhat infamous for political strife and drug violence. We're THAT place.

Nonetheless, these people have committed to relationship with us and the ministry we serve with here in Reynosa. We respect them and love them for that. We've known many of these folks for a while now. One of these guys once had to call and tell me that they didn't have money to support our family and ministry work right then, but they would keep praying for us and keep following us. I so respected that he made that call! The next year, the church was able to add us as part of their missions giving and have been faithful supporters ever since.

One of those guys took my family out to lunch, all 7 of us, when we were in the middle of a long support-raising road trip. He listened to our call and he asked questions of my kids, back when they were littles. Now, 9 years later, we figured out that on most Sundays, his son and mine eat lunch together after worship in their college town. One of those guys sent me a note when he joined the church missions committee, asking about my family. He got an earful in return, as it was right after our grandson had died and our family was especially needy for prayer. He's been a prayer warrior for us since. One of those couples have hosted me and my girls in their home when we needed a place to stay for a weekend soccer tournament. One of those ladies gave me a firm hug the very first weekend I left my son at the university and told me that he would be fine. These folks are family.

Many of these guys have served with us multiple times, almost too many to count. They have helped to finish a church and to build a house with us. They have taught Vacation Bible School lessons, and participated in puppet shows, and dressed up as Bible characters. They have taught English to kids. They have made all kinds of crafts. They have taught about nutrition and taken blood pressure rates and blood sugar measurements. And so much more.

In truth, we've spent more time with these people in the past years than with much of our biological family. When they come to serve, they serve our community well. They are the salt and light that Jesus exhorts us to in his Sermon on the Mount. And equally, they encourage us. There are other groups like them, folks who check in with us often, who come year after year. Each year, we have opportunity to meet new people, and have a chance to grow family a little bit more. It's a sweet balm, to share this place and a small portion of our lives with others. We often wish that our friends and family could see our 'hood, taste a little of our everyday lives, meet our neighbors, share a piece of our burden for where the Lord has sent us.

We know, not everyone is called to come. But maybe some are. We welcome you.