"Think something of beauty..."

I think something of beauty and human flourishing are one and the same, and the heart of God’s work through Jesus is reconciliation and human flourishing. It is so easy to let anger, self-righteousness and even violence lead, but beauty takes time, thought, patience – something superna
tural – a transformed heart. 

• Sara Groves, from "Why It Matters..."

Noise often drowns it out. A four-wheeler rumbles by in front of my house- I hear the engine vroom and the bass beat thump and the rider shout and the gravel grind as it ascends the short hill. In this season, I hear the rattattats, boys in my neighborhood practicing their drum cadence for the upcoming saint day celebration. Far in the background, I hear a train horn sound a long waaaaank as freight rumbles through town, even though the tracks are almost a mile south. I hear the whumpwhumpwhump of a helicopter overhead. Sometimes I hear the poppoppop of a gun shot in the distance.

Distractions can drown it out. My eye follows the speeding or saggy or sputtering vehicle, but forget to notice the people inside. I see the broken wall, but not the tree blooming beside it. Dust covers the streets, sometimes only browngray dirt, sometimes deep black mud. Trucks filled with garbage, not a garbage truck like from your neighborhood, but dingy pickup trucks overloaded and loaded down with garbage, lose bits and pieces of their load while passing by in front of my house on the way to the dump. Smoke covers the high blue skies in a choky smoggy haze. 

Situation might also drown it out. Boys care for toddler brothers, girls carry diapered cousins, and kids wander the neighborhood in a pack. I don't look far to see substandard housing, walls constructed of pallets, front entryways concealed by blankets not doors, and roofs covered with old billboard canvases. I smell, and regularly see, sewage coming up where it shouldn't. I wonder about the cadre of state police parked on the corner. I pass a group of wide-eyed people wearing life vests waiting at a crossroad.

But despite it all, the beauty, it is always there, always waiting to be noticed, always waiting to be celebrated. Hear the giggles of delight, the high-pitch saludos of a a waving jumping always in motion child, the upbeat tempo of the conjunto sounding from an unseen stereo speaker. See the brilliant pink blooms of the bouganvilla reach for the sun, the irridescent crown of a rooster flash in the sunlight, the wide smiles which cross the kids' faces when they show us their work. Notice the bright yellow door set in the wall you pass every single day, the mare tethered in the field who turns to nuzzle her colt, skies that fade to chalky pastel pink as the sun sets below the horizon. Celebrate the neighbor kids and their casual handshake fist bump greeting, the girl who asks for a bag so her mom can do the art project too, the earnest work of a boy committing the memory verse to heart and then giving his prize to his brother.

Capture the moment in the glow of the streetlight at dusk after finding the friend who moved a handful of streets down the road. Save it deep in your memory and in your heart. Be patient for the hope of change, for transformation, for reconciliation, for restoration. Thankfully praise our God once again, He who is making all things new.   

(photo credit to my dear Kimberly Kaiser)

on June

We moved back into Mexico, back into the 'hood back at the end of May, all sweet, no bitter. I missed this place, these people, in those few months away, missed it all mightily. Of course, memories show themselves nostalgic when you go away from a place. I confess, I forgot about those daily things that I can be so tempted to be annoyed by, like drainage projects that last for years and the roads that these projects destroy and the detours that these projects dictate... (and there I am, confessing how easily I am distracted).

I come back to Reynosa and to ministry and to this life with fresh eyes and a ready spirit. Not much can beat those first surprise greetings by my young friends, hugs around my legs right in the middle of the street, "Kreeeeeeeeeees-teeeeeeeeeeee...." The high-pitched and high-volume voices sing familiar but brand new after time away. The everyday tasks that life in team require don't weigh too heavy. The sweat runs into my eyes many a day while I reacclimate to borderland sun and humidity and for a short time, I just keep blinking. I have to stop for horses in the street one evening on my way home, and just laugh as they mosey along.

One ordinary day turns special when I get to linger over lunch with decades-old friends, all together for one rare afternoon. I have the privilege of playing auntie to my teammates' kids. I sit on the shore with another dear one and watch the waves roll in and out and chase down a fresh fish dinner at the end of the day. I use any excuse, long bridge lines, afternoons too hot to cook, to find nieves and tacos. I sit on a bench in dusty early evening and watch the neighborhood kids play ball. 

All that so very true and real and good, and yet, I can not ignore other realities. The bridge I cross multiple times a week now has serpentine wire strung across multiple lanes. The waits can be painfully long and alter how we receive visitors, even family, but those inconveniences seem very small in comparison to the sufferings of others very nearby. I spend time with girls from an orphanage, separated from their parents for reasons I don't know and they can't understand. I learn of changes in the lives our neighborhood youth and I groan out loud and want to cry out. I cry with a volunteer overwhelmed by the needs she heard and saw in others that day. Day by day I face my own issues and seek His wisdom and grace. I find a new to me hymn and put it on repeat. 

What patience would wait as we constantly roam

What Father so tender is calling us home

He welcomes the weakest, the vilest, the poor

Our sins they are many, His mercy is more

("His Mercy Is More," by Matt Papa and Matt Boswell)

I'm thankful to be back.

"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. 

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.

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..."

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.

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)

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.

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.

54/365

Around 65 people came through our doors on Friday, and then another bunch on Saturday, numbering more than one hundred in all by the end of the two days. Men, women, teens, children, babes in arms, they arrived and waited to be seen by our volunteer medical providers. They came with coughs and colds, with dangerously high blood sugar counts, with high blood pressure, or just with a desire to see a doc when they usually don't. They sometimes complained of aches and pains, or of stresses and anxieties. We saw kids with scabies and kids with lice. That'll make you itch a bit, just thinking about it.

Only one day before, my pastor friend reminded me that his constant prayer for us is that we would have opportunity to know our neighbors, that we would have opportunity to tell them and to show them Jesus. Thanks, brother! We saw that prayer answered this weekend. We met one man who told us that, not long ago, he had been left for dead in a hospital morgue. He considers his survival story a new lease on life, a new opportunity to live his life differently and with specific purpose. He wanted a bible to take home with him. We didn't have any handy and so we gave him one of mine. (Anyone want to send a case of Spanish bibles for us to share?) We met the mom of one of our outreach kids, who we learned also happens to be the grandma of one of our outreach kids. She expressed eagerness for the girls to learn more, to come to our tutoring. We have a list of many people who are interested in learning more, in participating in Bible study, and in joining us for prayer.

As is often the case, we finish the day tired and humbled. Many of our neighbors have plenty of reason to be anxious and stressed. One elderly woman visited one day and returned the next for a new prescription; her pills had been stolen in the night, most likely by a family member. (They would be sorely disappointed; it was only ibuprofen and vitamins that they got away with...) One woman told us how her young adult son has been missing for over a month and she fears he is dead. Another couple came from their home on the edges of the nearby dump, grateful for the opportunity to receive medical attention once again. Our volunteers talk about nutrition and basic care, but how does someone without much means eat better than the standard beans and tortilla diet? How does a family sanitize their clothing and linens without hot water or a dryer?

And although our providers served our community with first-class medical care, they also finished each appointment with the question, "Can we pray for you?" We know that the physical needs are great, but the spiritual needs are no less. We know that all of us have need of a doctor to address our health needs, but that Jesus is the only one with the mercy and might to heal us for eternity. Hosting a medical clinic gives us opportunity to tell about both, and we're grateful for those that come to us and allow us to share generously with our neighbors.

15/365

Maybe that’s why in the list of heart, soul, mind, strength, in every time that it occurs in the Gospels, heart is first. Because the heart is not an organ of performance; it’s an organ of preference. The heart prefers, and then we do stuff in accord with our preferences. The first commandment is loving with all your preference. Prefer him above everything. Let him be your gold, your silver, your everything, and it’ll change all your doings.
- John Piper, "The Heart of Love is Delighting, Not Doing," Desiring God blog.

The alarm goes off early. It all seemed so reasonable when I suggested the plan for the day the previous night. But the dark and cool of a January morning make early seem even earlier. Thankful for a hot shower, I dress quickly and settle at my desk with my mug and my Bible, my notebook and my pen. I repeat the keystrokes for the week's memory verse, over and over and they start to stick.

We load up and head out, the light of dawn barely peeking over the horizon behind us. A stop for gas. A stop for a taco. A stop for coffee. I argue one stop would have worked just as well. I think about the day, about the week, about the rest of the month. I play ump-jillion games of solitaire to avoid paying attention to traffic while my guy drives alongside the rest of the morning commuters. 

I'm back at my other desk and making a list of To Do's in relatively short order. Administrative work and plans for teaching, overdue correspondence, and the next day's assignments fill my notecard. One by one, I cross them out, only occasionally distracted by Facebook, by playlists. "Like a boss," I congratulate myself as I strike through another item. I head across the street for the afternoon reading and outreach. I play with kids. I stack and restack blocks and keep big kids from knocking down fragile towers and coordinate demolition countdowns. I sit with a little one coloring at a table full of bigs and encourage her to finish her page, finding whatever crayon she asks for next. It's a day of doing.

In a 1967 speech to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, Martin Luther King Junior said, "As for me, I have also decided to stick with love for I know that love is ultimately the only answer to the mankind's problems." Just a few moments later in the same speech, King clarified, "and I'm not talking about emotional bosh when I talk about love." He certainly wasn't referring to the simple feel-good "love" of Valentine candy hearts. King reminded the crowd of the requirements of 1 Corinthians 13, of the challenge of doing all things with love, and of the potential to become egotistical and self-righteous even in the midst of doing good things.

Ah... right. It's not about the To Do list. It's about how I do it. It's about who is glorified in the doing. I pray that even on days that are full of doing, my heart will always delight the very most in Him who first loved us.

9/365

After a break for the Christmas holidays and a week of short-term team activity in the 'hood, regular activities around here have resumed. Maybe I shouldn't say "normal," because on this day, we shortened classes because the water was turned off due to fixing a leaky outside pipe. Maybe some sort of disruption is our normal?

As we came into the neighborhood over the weekend, a small mob of kids stopped our car as we turned the corner. "See you Monday?," they asked us expectantly (right after the announcement of "It was my birthday! Do you have a present for me?" and "It was my birthday too! I want a soccer ball, too!," even though only one of those kids really celebrated a birthday while we were away). Then on Sunday morning as we opened the gate to leave for church, another one of our neighborhood kids was passing by and asked, "See you tomorrow?"
Yes! See you tomorrow.

No doubt, we missed these kids while we were away. But we haven't always been sure that they might miss us, too. Without hesitation, one of the biggest impacts of being in a place is simply to be there. We want to be here.

There's no getting around the facts- we are different in this place. We look different. We speak with a different accent. But too, we want to live different. We want to love different. Our hope is in a different place, a different person. We want to live and speak and show Christ.

So as we resume "normal" around here, we are examining again how to do all this well. How do we abide in this place and offer ourselves and know our neighbors and love one another well?

Pastor Scotty Smith offered the prayer, 

Father, help us to see how your hand and heart are at work in everything. You are working all things together after the counsel of your will. You are working in all things for the good of those who love you; and we love you because you first loved us. ("Getting, Being, and Staying Still") 

At the beginning of this new year, I pray the same petition.

3/365

Sunshine!
Crisp air.
Mud.
Activity, so much activity.
Kids.
Kids on carts, kids on the field, kids giving hugs, kids playing, kids running.
Horses, donkeys, burros, dogs.
Sparks flicker.
Lights flash.
Saws buzzing.
Generators humming.
Wires and cords and ropes and hoses.
Old to new.
Faded to fresh.
New lumber.
New paint.
Waiting waiting waiting.
Hope.

2/365

This week I accidentally ran over a pretty big rock, big enough that by the time I heard the scraping, there was really not much else to do but go forward. I immediately cringed, and I immediately received a scolding from my husband who was standing nearby. Nevertheless, even just moments later, I forgot about it- until I started to drive again. The next time I got in the car, my daughter said, "Mom, what's that noise?" I had to think... maybe it was the tire? Maybe I damaged it? The tire definitely looked low, so I stopped and filled it up, but even now, I'm still waiting to see if there will be a long term repercussion to that short and quick encounter on a very muddy road.

Even so, if I need a repair, I'll spend a few minutes with the tire guy and then I'll be on my way. It won't be a big deal. It won't affect my livelihood.

This week, we have the privilege of hosting a group of young people from Illinois who have come to serve the trash cart workers who travel through our neighborhood on the way to the city dump. In our city of Reynosa, the majority of trash collection is made with horse (or donkey or burro) and cart. This week, the team is spending their days making repairs to the carts. It's a very tangible service that meets specific needs in our community- making a real difference to a part of the community we live and serve alongside. It's one of our favorite weeks of the year.

In the past we have had veterinarians and vet students, even farriers, to provide care for the animals as well. But unfortunately, no professionals were able to make the trip this time. So on this day, a college student who has a little bit of experience caring for horses and a dear friend who is a nurse take on the work of the vets. I walk with them and hold the box of meds and collect used syringes and pet the horses. What I do is probably not enough to add "Veterinary Assistant" to my resume, but it's something.

The ladies adjust the dosage on deworming meds and stick the syringe through the lips of unsuspecting horses and donkeys. They have tetanus vaccines to administer, thump-thump-thumping on the necks of the animals before quicklyquickly giving the shot. Some of the beasts seem to know immediately that the meds are coming and turn their heads and even start to back away. Others take the dosage completely unfazed and return to chomping on the nearby grass.

It's easy for us Americans to look at horses as giant pets, talking to them in the same singsong voice we might use with our dogs. Sometimes we ask the owners what the name of their horse is, which might be returned with a confused look and "He has no name." These animals aren't pets- they are engines. They provide the means to making a living. The horse gets hurt, and the garbage collector is out of work. And as such, a few medicines to help keep the animal healthy? That can be a big deal. I hope for the best for my questionable tire. How much more would it mean if the bulk of my earnings depended on it working?

Honestly, we see some animals in pretty poor shape. Some appear malnourished and thin. Others have wounds from rubbing on their harnesses, made even more noticeable when the sun comes out and flies appear. It must be a terrible thing when someone of very minimal means has to ration food between his horse and his family. But others take pride in being able to provide for their animals. One man proudly told me that his horse is named "Gordito," "the little fat one," because he feeds him so well. We laughed. Not long later another worker told me that they rent their horse, for about 10 dollars a day, and it's a stretch to make the payment each week.

Either way, our prayer is that by serving these folks, we treat them with the dignity that they deserve as image-bearers, that they know the love of Christ through our actions and by our words. No matter what the culture or where the place, it would be rare to find garbage workers esteemed in most societies. Many might be quick to think as these folks as "the least of these," the poor, the marginalized, the bottom rung of the social tier. But at an even more basic level, our service to these folks is simply to love God and to love others. This week reminds us again that because our God has done the greatest good for us in providing Christ, our lives overflow with love for others, hopefully in very practical ways.

1/365

The first day of 2018 started cold. A drizzly, misty, every-once-in-a-while-actually-rain, sort of wet that feels like it might seep into your bones and go straight to your soul- that kind of cold.

But, though my entire being seemed to be cold, my heart stayed warm.

We started the first day of the year with the first work day of the year, the first team day of the year, out on the field, near the entrance to the city dump. As has been the tradition for a more than a few years now, we have the privilege of hosting a team of college students, and their hearty sponsor, from Illinois. They have come to serve the trash cart workers that travel through our neighborhood on the way to the city dump.

I have the easy job. I get to deliver coffee and greet people and talk to our friends and neighbors. Sometimes I translate a tiny little bit between our volunteers and the folks they are serving. I get to hug kids and learn names and hear stories.

Today I renewed acquaintance with a dear family we served last year as well. They are a couple who has made trash collection their family enterprise. Both the husband and wife have a cart, as well as two sons. The couple, their son and daughter, as well as their horse and donkey, are named the same. If you have a good name, why not share it, right? But as funny as that may seem, the dear woman also told me about her three children who have died, and the struggle they have coming up with the money to rent the donkey each month, and their very difficult living situation. We together remembered the faithfulness of our God, even in the hardest of hard.

And isn't a new year about remembering old friends? What a delight it was to welcome our most dear friends from down the road in Matamoros. Despite the cold and wet, they traveled over to visit us and to bring gifts and greetings. The truth is, not many come over to visit, and for these two to come was a big deal and such a blessing to us! We huddled in my really cold house and caught up on family and friends and ministry for much too short a time. They encouraged and cheered me. I was a terrible hostess, and they left giving me hugs and kisses nonetheless.
Gracias mis hermanos Isaac y Marilyn! Les queremos mucho. Regresan cuando hace más calor!

Hello 2018. We're off to a good start. Just bring a little more sunshine with you soon, ok?

345/365

DPP11-

(All was calm, all was bright.)

... by the end of the day.

If you stopped by a bit earlier, "all is calm" probably would not have come to mind.

There was the scrambling for teams for soccer. And the actually scrambling during soccer. (Thankfully, the boys were kind to the middle-aged lady playing in street shoes.)

There was the inevitable scuffle in the street before we opened the gate. There was the dividing up groups and there were the few who were kicked out for Unnecessary Roughness.

There were the multiple boys who traded in their lotería cards mid-game because they weren't winning. (I feel you, boys. I know. I know.) They still didn't win.

There was the sweet girl who really looked like she was going to toss her cookies, before she ever ate a cookie. She almost, but never, did, get sick (I know. I took her to the bathroom.). And still, she refused to leave, still trying to participate.

There was the jockeying for tamales, the trading of juice jugs, the grab for cupcakes.

There was the absence of some we hope will come, and the surprise of others we don't expect.

There were the hard realities of life in a hard place today. Hard stories. The things that make us shake our heads and say, "Come Lord Jesus."

And still, at the end of the day, the tree glowed beautiful, and still, there was the hope of not only of the baby born long ago, but also the Risen King.

All is calm. All is bright.