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.

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.

18/365

It doesn't make much sense, if you think about it. We most commonly associate the letter A with apple. But we say the name of the letter A with /ā/ and the a in apple as /a/. How do you explain that to someone who doesn't speak English? And the letter C? The name of C says /see/ but the picture says cat with a /k/. Psheesh.

If you grew up speaking English, you probably just laugh and shake your head. But if you are an adult and learning English for the first time, you might rather cry. It's not an easy road.

I'm pretty sure my two new Thursday night English students would tell you that. One is a young man; one is a grandpa. (I give the abuelo a slight edge- I know his two young granddaughter tutors...) Both men enrolled in class this week, ready to learn, but not really knowing much English. In the first 30 minutes of class, we reviewed the first nine letters of the alphabet. Then, to mix things up, we worked on the first dialogue students learn in nearly any language.
"What's your name?"
"My name is (fill in your own name)."
"I'm (fill in your own name)."
"Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too."

With a short break for brain rest, that took up our 2 hours of class. It doesn't seem like much, for a native speaker, anyway. But for a brain learning these sounds for the first time, it's a lot. Repetition, repetition, repetition. Lots of gestures. Ask him his name. Tell him your name. Tell me the letters. Fill in the missing letter. We put flashcards of A through H in order. They slapped the board with a fly swatter when they recognized the letter we called out. I cheer when they answer correctly, not at all contrived because I'm sincerely happy with them. I remembered to reward their efforts with a few pieces of chocolate. It came time to finish and they both looked tired, but asked for homework nonetheless.

"Good job! Hasta la próxima semana," I told them with a handshake. "Gracias," they told me as they left the room.

Maybe it should be A for some have entertained angels unaware...

17/365

I huddled in my room all the morning, heater at my feet. Well, every once in a while I might think, "Maybe it's warm enough now," and I'd turn off the heater. A few minutes later, I would turn it back on. I filled up my water bottle with hot tea, and sipped on it, mostly to hold the hot mug and warm my hands, all morning. It came midday, and I ventured out of the room.

Just a few steps in my sock feet, I stepped into water. Really Cold Water. Surprise! Water hugged the edges of the walls. Water pooled at the doorway to my living room. Water soaked a good bit of the rug in the center of the room. Water pretty much filled the front of the house.

That can't be good.

I put on shoes and my husband came home to play detective with me. We couldn't find the source of the water so we went to the school rooms next door. Water met us at the door there, too. But we quickly figured out the headwaters of today's springs- a busted hose on the bathroom sink. He turned off the water and stopped the fountain and stemmed the deluge. Thankfully, we have a couple of guys who could clean up that side, so it was back to my own home.

We dragged out the dripping rug and hung it up outside, though it won't dry for a few days. My guy went back to work. I got to work. I pulled out the mop and the bucket and turned on the TV for noise and started swabbing the floor. I listened to a panel of ladies dish on the virtues and woes of outing cheating husbands on social media. I heard the familiar voice of CJ from the West Wing, now the dysfunctional movie mom of Tonya Harding, tell about waiting for award nominations. "Coming tomorrow... 50 Cent!" I'm not usually known to be a daytime TV watcher. I'm not missing much.

By the time the pools recessed, I had mopped up a full 3 gallon bucket of water. I emptied it out and filled the bucket one more time to go over the floor again with hot water and Pine Sol. Then I included the rest of the house for good measure. I mean, once the mop is out, ya might as well finish it all, right? That finished, I heated up another thermos of tea and went back to my room. And turned the heater back on my feet. I just might stay in until spring arrives.

16/365

We live in a place where in January the daily high temperature averages around 70 degrees, and the nightly low temperature falls to about 50 degrees. It's pleasant, even delightful. We kind of think of it as a sweet reward for surviving six months of hot.

But on this day, the peak came early in the day. It topped out at 38 wet and windy degrees. And then it fell. To below the freezing point.

Now, be sure, I have lived in cold places. REALLY COLD. And I know that on the same day, there were plenty of places suffering much colder temps than we were. I know that people in those places scoff at 31 degrees.

But I betcha in most of those places, homes have insulation. Most of us here in Reynosa have cinder block walls. People who live in cold places have central heating these days. We have a little space heater, and a heating element in our mini-split air conditioning unit that tries to crank out some warmth, and five layers of blankets on the bed. I can see my breath while inside my house. And truthfully, I have it good. I know others living in conditions that make mine look luxurious.

Where I live, people face hurricanes with bravery, ready to hold down the fort against gale force winds and flooding rain. Where I live, if temperatures below the 40's are mentioned in a weather forecast, we do our best to imitate little brother Randy in The Christmas Story by putting on multiple layers of clothes, preferably covering our faces, too. We hold mugs of hot drinks. We huddle around the space heater, maybe even the stove, maybe even the coffee pot, anything that gives off warmth, like it is a campfire.

The saving grace in these cold snaps comes in a simple, hopeful, fact- they are short. I have the promise of knowing with assurance that in four days, the sun would come out again. The forecast tells us sun and normal, even above normal, temps are on the way.

Come visit next week. It should be lovely.

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.

8/365

Checkers looks a little bit different across the border. In our neighborhood, we play with bottle caps- right side up and upside down. In Mexico, the pieces are female, damas, not male. When the piece reaches the farthest row across the game board, she becomes a queen, not a king. And she is queen with superpowers, no less! Unlike American checkers, the Mexican queen can move diagonally across the board without stopping as long as there is a free space, taking the opposing piece and then continuing to slide to a safe spot on the board. This can prove extremely problematic to the unaware and quickly forgetting American player.

Another difference- Mexican checkers don't jump their opponent; they eat them. Accurate description, sure, but it seems to be kind of an aggressive description. If your opponent has less than 12 years of age, my experience is that they eat your ladies quite joyfully, almost with glee. My inclination tends to be towards compassionate, sometimes ignoring possibilities that my opponent doesn't see. That mercy flies when I see a young mind relishing in my defeat.

That leads to the other problem if you happen to be an American playing Mexican checkers with a kid- they cheat. (Hmm... this might be a problem not matter what country I'm playing in...) As if it's not enough to learn these Mexican rules, then they try to add their personal, and very temporal, conditions. "Sí, sí!" they tell me with wide eyes and a nodding head. "¡¡Puedo hacerlo!!" Thankfully, usually another kid watching the match either feels sorry for me or just doesn't want to see the other kid win, and calls the cheater's bluff.

Cultural differences come in places you might not ever expect. As is often said across the border, "Poco a poco."

6/365

The heavens declare the glory of God,
    and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.
Day to day pours out speech,
    and night to night reveals knowledge.
There is no speech, nor are there words,
    whose voice is not heard.
Their voice goes out through all the earth,
    and their words to the end of the world.
In them he has set a tent for the sun,
    which comes out like a bridegroom leaving his chamber,
    and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy.
Its rising is from the end of the heavens,
    and its circuit to the end of them,
    and there is nothing hidden from its heat.
- Psalm 19:1-6 (ESV)

Most of the day fills with that too familiar pull of here and there, of then and now and what still will be, of already and not yet, of out with the old and in with the new, of often seen but not really known. At a certain point, and I'd be hard-pressed to explain why even to myself, I felt the hot sting of salt fill my eyes and I turned to move away. How do we move gracefully, gratefully, through the ups and downs and curves of life? 

We finish the last hour of daylight completing the final errand of the day. Expectantly, I look for glimpses of glory along the way. The pastel wisps of clouds change gradually, vibrantly, into brilliant hues, the Creator's jewel-tone colors across the western canvas. The visible reminder, the "no you are not in control, and that's all ok; there is yet better," comes in the afternoon change of sky.

I too want to be like a strong man and run the course with joy.

5/365

The text exchange included,
"I am sure that you have had a busy week and you probably prefer to just chill out..."
"hanging with y'all is an entirely different kind of people time :-)"

Time moves at a different pace when spend the afternoon with a baby. Perhaps, especially so when you have a few years behind you, and you don't worry over every cry and grunt and squeak. Maybe even more so when your week up 'til now was filled with long days and lots of people and plenty of cold. An afternoon in a warm and familiar home with a baby- that's good medicine.

Perhaps the easiest, the most peaceful way, to spend an afternoon is simply to hold a little one in arms. I sit in my favorite chair and hardly move, for nearly four hours. Oh sure, one feeding and later another and some rumbles require a couple of diaper changes along the way. I get up once to make a new bottle. Eventually I set him down and cover him up. I pull out my book, but really, I keep watching. After he sleeps for a bit, I do consider something besides the two of us and go to the kitchen to help with a little dinner prep. But really, this afternoon is mostly chair time. It is mostly about the baby.

When he's awake and back on my lap, I wait for his wandering eyes to suddenly focus on mine. The pay-off is the instant when he centers his attention and after a moment, his lip curls into a little smile. His fingers curl around my pinky. When he's eating, it's watching the rhythm of his cheeks moving, seeing him zone into some distant fantasyland of contentment. He slows when his eyelids weigh heavy, too heavy to keep blinking, and he gives in to sleep.

This guy, he can sleep anywhere. He startles occasionally when some noise interrupts the quiet, but he never yelps and settles again quickly. We wonder, does he dream? I think, when will he start to remember? I pray and hope that he always knows such peace. After a time of snoozing, his eyes open suddenly and he returns to consciousness. And we start the routine all over again. It's all the entertainment I need.

I'm humbled to share these hours of easy. The afternoon is all privilege and I leave grateful. And ready for the next call.

4/365

Psalm 130English Standard Version (ESV)

A Song of Ascents.

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord!
    O Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive
    to the voice of my pleas for mercy!

If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities,
    O Lord, who could stand?
But with you there is forgiveness,
    that you may be feared.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
    and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
    more than watchmen for the morning,
    more than watchmen for the morning.

O Israel, hope in the Lord!
    For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
    and with him is plentiful redemption.
And he will redeem Israel
    from all his iniquities.