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Meeting Jefferson  8

Around the time Peter and I got married, we started sponsoring a boy named Jefferson through Compassion International.

Back then, he was just a bitty thing.

Somehow in those early years as poor newlyweds, we were always able to spare enough to pay his monthly support.  We would write him letters and we got letters back from him.

We had kids (lots of kids) and we wrote to him about each one, even sharing our sad news with him.

Much like teenagers in the United States, Compassion has a hard time getting kids to stick with their program after they hit 13 years old.  Sounds familiar, huh?  In fact, only 37% of Compassion kids actually graduate.  They are working hard on developing soccer, drama, and art programs to engage these kids to keep them off the streets.

But Jefferson has beat the odds.  We are so proud of him.

We were able to spend a day and a half with Jefferson.  He travelled, along with his Mom and youth pastor, eight hours in a bus to see us.

On the night we met him, we were so nervous.  We didn’t know if he would like us, and we weren’t sure if he would feel out of place (he was the oldest sponsored child– most other children were much younger).  Each child stood at the door of the room and they called our names one by one.

The sweetest memory I have is seeing him in that doorway.  All of a sudden, he raised his hand to wave to us.  Later he told us (through the translator): “You looked just like your pictures!  I knew it was you!”

We ran to him.  There are no words to describe how amazing it was to put my arms around that boy.

Compassion did a great job putting us all at ease that night.  They threw a huge party with singing and congo lines and balloons and confetti.  It was so fun and the initial awkwardness slowly disappeared as we got more comfortable speaking through the translator.  Jefferson was so very nervous that he could barely make eye contact with us.

At one point in the night, I found myself alone at the table with Marta, Jefferson’s mom.  All of a sudden, tears were in her eyes and she started talking to me rapidly in Spanish.  She put her head in her hands, crying uncontrollably.  I was speechless.  I went over to her and put my arms around her.  Later when our translator returned, I told her, “I could not understand your words, but I am a Mom, too, so I know exactly what you said.”   We cried together.  It was then that I realized the difference we had made in this one boy’s life.

The sacrifice we made for Jefferson was minimal.  A little money.  A few letters and pictures.  Prayers and encouragement.  I had no idea the impact we made in him and his family.

Even more so, I wasn’t expecting how deeply I would love him and his family, how sacred our time with him would be, how quickly God would weave our lives together.

The next day was a whole other adventure . . . .

P.S.  Jefferson and his Mom were happy and we laughed tons . . . until we got out the camera.  Then they would go all straight-faced on us.

A Boy Named Allan.  3

Have I told you about our little savings account?
When we lost Annie, so many kind people (maybe it was you!?) gave us money.  It overwhelmed us beyond belief.  Peter and I decided that the money in this precious savings account would be used to help others in their grief and also to help others know Christ.  We’ve been able to do some amazing things for some amazing people with that money.

When we received this opportunity to travel to Ecuador, we felt God prompting us to use a bit of the money from this savings.

I think of Annie all of the time.  But during this trip, I saw her face in so many of the little children.  I was acutely aware of my grief.

We traveled to the Esmeraldas region of Ecuador to visit a group of mamas and their babies.  Compassion’s Child Survival Program ministers to the poorest of the poor.

When we arrived at the Project, we were greeted by a line of sweet women with their babies.  We were told to hug the Mamas and kiss their babies.  Most of these Moms were very, very young and often babies are seen as a burden, so for us to love on them meant a lot.  The memory still brings tears to my eyes.  Walking through that line of babies, many the age that Annie was when we lost her, was so hard.   I just cried and cried.  I don’t even really know why.

Later I found out that many of these babies would die without this Compassion project.  They are just too poor.  This particular project, run in partnership with a Salvation Army church, has 44 Moms and babies.

Once a month these moms get together to learn a craft.  Not a fun little pinterest craft . . . a craft that will help them learn some sort of trade that will enable them to earn money.  Three times a month, a tutor will go to each of the Mother’s houses.  She will teach a basic skill to the child and do a devotion with the Mom.   She’ll spend about an hour in the house loving on these families.

We were able to go with a tutor to experience a home visit.

We met Carina, who has three small children and a husband who travels to work and is gone for weeks at a time.  We watched the tutor teach her daughter a basic lesson on colors, and we all smiled as the little girl grabbed the yellow crayon and colored the banana!  So simple . . . but it makes an amazing impact on these families.

While the tutor was doing the lesson, I found myself surrounded by children and I began to hand out stickers.  One little boy began to smile and laugh with us.  Our translator said, “Did you hear that?  He just called you ‘Aunt’ and ‘Uncle'”.

Before we left, we prayed for Carina and her family.  That’s when we found out that the little boy who called us Aunt and Uncle, Allan, had been experiencing a health problem that really worried his Mama.  She had been trying to sell extra food each day in order to take him to the doctor.

I looked into her eyes and saw the look that I had worn on my face during the month I knew Annie was sick but couldn’t find the right answers.  And I realized that a Mama’s love and concern for her child crosses all language barriers.  I knew that desperateness and the growing pit in her stomach.

I could only cry because I remembered.  The difference?  We didn’t have to scrape together money before we could figure out what was wrong.  We were able to get the best help for Annie, without even thinking about the finances.

Obviously, even the best couldn’t save our girl.  Allan, though, could be different.

It rocked me.

Peter and I talked to the Compassion staff about Allan.  He captured our hearts and we wanted to support him.  He is ‘ours’ now.  For the next years, when we write to him, we will be able to picture his face, his family, his home.  He will get medical help through Compassion’s Complimentary Interventions Program and hopefully he will get better.

This is one of the gifts that God has given us.  When I see him, I see Annie.  Our loss enables us to reach out to others, to care for others in ways that we didn’t know existed before we lived this grief-life.  You know, one of the things I prayed when we lost Annie was that our pain would not be wasted.  I continue to long for my hurt to have a good purpose.  Often throughout my days God shows me the little ways that He allows me to use what He has handed us.

But this?  This was huge.  God showed me the extent of His power to bring something deeply good out of something deeply painful.  When we trust God enough to allow Him to turn our eyes off of our own pain and instead look into the eyes of someone else who is hurting, we find the soothing hand of the One who heals.

All praise to the God and Father of our Master, Jesus the Messiah! Father of all mercy! God of all healing counsel! He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us. We have plenty of hard times that come from following the Messiah, but no more so than the good times of his healing comfort—we get a full measure of that, too.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4 (The Message)

P.S.  This video explains it all so well– much better than my botched words . . . watch it!

Quiet House.  4

 My house is so quiet this morning.
I folded the blankets, picked up many pairs of random shoes, wiped up the sticky spots . . .
And they are as I left them.
No big kids trailing behind me to undo what I cleaned up.
Seems strange.

True to Damaska form, we were yelling and hurrying and french braiding up to the last minute this morning.
And then I yelled, “DON’T FORGET TO TAKE PICTURES!”

Oh yes, we took pictures.
Note to self: Don’t check Facebook to see all the sweet, cute pictures of other people’s children.

Here’s what we got:

Along with a sweet, pesky photobomber:

So.  Today.
Kate (who kept randomly yelling, “I can’t believe I get to go to Kindergarten today!!!”) is sitting in her new classroom and William (who played the kool kat) is now a big 2nd grader.

And my house is so quiet.

Eliza’s not quite sure what to think of it all.  Neither am I.  But I have a sneaky suspicion that she won’t mind the extra attention.

Snapshot  3

You know those  blurry allergy commercials that become crystal clear to illustrate how different life can be once you take their magic pills?

I’m feeling a bit like I need the magic.

I’ve been pondering just how I’m going to share about our trip to Ecuador last week.  I had planned on blogging while we were there, but the spotty internet was a bit of relief when I realized that the pep talks I had given myself on poverty just weren’t cutting it.

Today, as I sit on my couch and listen to my washing machine, as I listen to the kids putting together forts in the basement and breathe in the fresh air, I realize that these days of blurriness will fade.  Because right now the world-of-last-week and the world-of-this-week lie in stark contrast.  Both are fresh in my mind today.  Truthfully, it’s hard to merge the two worlds.  It hurts a bit, this freshness.

There are a lot of questions in this in-between blurriness.  

P.S. Over the next few weeks, I have plenty of snapshots to share with you.  Fingers crossed, it won’t take you back to the “What I Did On My Vacation” slideshows.

Piles.  4

There are piles everywhere around here.

We are getting ready to go on a trip.  A trip that has me equal parts excited and scared, happy and sad.

Excited because I know in my gut it’s going to be amazing.
Scared because I know that my heart is going to get all twisted and my eyes are going to be opened.
Happy to have a week with Peter and to leave my kids with no worries.
Sad to leave my kids, even with no worries.

 These piles will make their way into our suitcases.
And then we will gladly give it away to kids, to moms, to babies, to new friends in Ecuador.

 Will you pray for us?  Will you pray for the Compassion leaders, the children and families?  Will you pray for Jefferson as we meet for the first time in person?

P.S.  We will do our best to update you over the next week.  I’m not making any promises, though.

Eight.  2

Eight years ago I started out on this thing called “Being-A-Mama”.  It’s quite the thing isn’t it!?

When I gave birth, a month early, five weeks into living in Michigan, I had no clue.

My post-birth glow quickly turned grey when they told me that William would have to be transferred to the NICU in another hospital.  I stubbornly told them I would be going with him.  They tried to tell me no.

It didn’t work.

I spent the next week on a fold out couch, only because they’d kick me out of the chair next to his bassinet.

That first week was terrifying to me because it was my first glimpse of how very little control I would have in my life.

The NICU is a scary place.  I had no idea places like that existed.  Up until that point, I had assumed that babies were born and then they went home.  That was the plan, anyway.

In those short eight days, I learned a lot.  I heard nurses singing sweet songs as they rocked babies.   I saw babies who didn’t have one visitor.  My tears for my new son combined with my tears for all the tiny babies who were fighting much bigger battles than we were.

It was good for me to have my eyes opened up to the world of sick babies.  It marked me in a big way. And now I know, well, that was just the beginning.  Little did I know that a short stay in the NICU, later bringing home a healthy, pudgy baby, would get lost in the shuffle of much scarier, heart-breaking things.

So it seems right, somehow, that William ushered us into parenting.  After all, aren’t all first borns the guinea pigs of the family?  If only he knew that the parenting really has more to do with us– his Mom and Dad– than it has to do with him.

The other night, as I put him to bed, he asked me, “How do you know when God has called you to something?  How do you know it’s really God?”

And I couldn’t help it.  I flashed back to the tiny bassinet with cords and IVs stuck in his arm.  I saw Kate and her tantrums that end in deep sorrow.  I pictured a small room where we sobbed and told the kids that their baby sister was going to die.  And I watched myself give birth a fourth time, barely able to breathe until I heard that cry.

I told him, “You know God has called you to something when you can’t imagine doing anything else.  When, in spite of your fear, in spite of your sorrow, in spite of your mistakes, you still press on.  That’s when you’ve been called.”

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.  I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’
  Psalm 91:1-2

Thinking on Tears  4

You keep track of all my sorrows.
    You have collected all my tears in your bottle.    
You have recorded each one in your book. Psalm 56:8 (The Living Translation)

Have you ever thought about how we enter this world . . .

with a cry?

Do those tears count?
Those very tears that cause others in the room to cry out in thankfulness, in relief, in joy . ..  .

Are they our very first tears in our very own God-bottle of tears?

You’ve kept track of my every toss and turn 

                                                       through the sleepless nights,    

Each tear entered in your ledger,      
 each ache written in your book. 
Psalm 56:8 (The Message)

And what about our growing up tears?
The ones we’ve cried when we’ve been left with a new babysitter?
Or the ones that spring to our eyes when we scrape our knees or drip a tiny drop of blood?

Have you thought about the tears that you’ve cried that seem unwarranted?  The ones that could be easily fixed?

What about the tears you’ve cried over things that don’t break the heart of God?  Do those make the cut?

As we get older, we control our tears a little more, don’t we?
Keep them in check.
Angrily hide them when we’re embarrassed of what brings them to our eyes.
We save them for “what really counts”.

But if the promise is true . . . .
every. single. one. is precious to the One who records them.

And not one tear of ours falls without notice.  And the One Who Notices is never impatient or angry with our tears.  He simply collects them and loves us.

Just something I’m thinking about today.  (For me, as I cry.  And for me, as I listen to the many tears that fall from the rascals that I’m Mama to.)

P.S.  Bonus points if you can name the cry-er in each picture.  Grandmas are not eligible.

pop!  2

Oh!  Did you just hear that?

It’s my Mama Bubble Bursting!**

🙂

I love this Bored 1st Grade Boy of mine!

And so does she.

**  It’s not the first time my bubble burst. (has burst?  Bursted? Done hath bursted?)

An Interview and a Recipe  6

Today I would like to share this space with the special-est of guests.  She is destined to do great things, people!  Without further ado . . . .
Mom: Hi.  Would you like to introduce yourself?
Kate:  Yes.  My name is Kate.  I love you.
Mom: Before we start, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself.
Kate:  Ok.  I like books.  They are my favorite.  I have lots of other favorite things to do.
Mom:  Like cooking?
Kate:  Yes.  (whispering) say and . . .
Mom: And?
Kate: Coloring.
Mom:  What would you like to share with us today?
Kate:  Nothing.
Mom:  I mean, what is the recipe you are going to talk about today?
Kate:  Uh, Kate’s Recipe.
Mom:  Could you please tell me how you made it?
Kate:  I had chocolate covered raisins
Kate: And peanuts

 Kate: And almonds and cranberries

Kate: And one more thing . . .  pumpkin seeds!

Mom:  What did you do with those things?
Kate: I ate some of them.
Mom: No, I mean, how did you make Kate’s Recipe?
Kate: I used all that stuff, of course.
Mom:  Did you dump it on the floor and stir it with your feet?
Kate: No!  Mom gave me a bowl to stir it in.  I used a spoon to stir it.  

Mom:  And then what?
Kate:  Then we got to eat some of it.
Mom:  So I think that what you are saying is that your favorite part was the eating?
Kate:  Yes!
Mom:  Is there anything else you’d like to share today?
Kate: No.  The end.  Goodbye.

On Nurturing my Kids.  9

So many times when I find myself getting frustrated with my kids I realize that I’ve grown lazy in being intentional with them.

Just because I send my kids to church several times a week doesn’t mean that I’ve been left off the hook in their spiritual development.   It’s so important for me, as a Mom, to nurture my kids in their relationship with Christ.

Did you know that Susanna Wesley, as she raised her children, would often sit down at her kitchen table, flip her apron over her head and pray?  Her kids knew that they weren’t allowed to bug her when they saw her apron-covered head.

Here’s a quote I love from a letter she wrote to her husband:

“I am a woman, but I am also the mistress of a large family.  I am not a man nor a minister, yet as a mother and a mistress I felt I ought to do more than I had yet done. I resolved to begin with my own children; in which I observe the following method: I take such a proportion of time as I can spare every night to discourse with each child apart. On Monday I talk with Molly, on Tuesday with Hetty, Wednesday with Nancy, Thursday with Jacky, Friday with Patty, Saturday with Charles.” (source)

That’s the kind of Mom I want to be . . . a Mom that acknowledges the massive undertaking it is to raise kids in a broken, suffering world and actively seeks Christ to get through each day.  Intentionally. (Although I’m not sure I aspire to have a different child to “discourse” with each day of the week!  ha!)

Here are a few things I’ve been doing to help them along.

Peter and I want the kids to know the importance of praying daily for others.  So we sat down and wrote people’s names out on strips of paper.  Each morning we pull a name out and pray for that person/family during each meal time.  It doesn’t take long, but it’s made a big impact on our days.  Sometimes I take the extra step to write to the family to let them know that they were our “family of the day” and that we’ve been praying for them (but, honestly, this step doesn’t happen often).

Most of the people are friends and family, but we also had a few in there that the kids thought were funny.  Like the Manning family.  You know, as in Eli and Peyton.  Or the Obamas.   But when we wrote out names, I wanted them to realize that you don’t have to personally know someone to pray for them.  And being famous doesn’t necessarily mean that they don’t need prayer.

After ending our Jesse Tree (in February . . . our advent season went a little long this year.  ha!), we missed having something to do together.  So I hunted around a little and put together Quiet Time Journals for the kids.  (Here and here are the resources I used)  We pull these out a few times a week (sometimes more, sometimes less–  I really want to cultivate a love for the Word of God and not put emphasis on how often they are doing their Quiet Time.  The importance of regularity will come later).

William is studying the book of Luke.  Each time he reads a few verses and then answers a few questions I’ve written for him.  Somedays I’ll have him write out a particular verse that I want him to remember.  For his prayer time, I always have him come up with something he’s thankful for, something to ask forgiveness for, and something to ask for.

We read Kate a story from her Jesus Storybook Bible.  Then she draws a picture of what she read.  For her prayer time, she draws a picture of who or what she is praying for.  Because she loves drawing so much, she’s so excited to fill in her journal each time (and it keeps me from having to tell her how to s-p-e-l-l each word).

I try to direct their prayer times a little.  One day they’ll focus on neighbors or their siblings or friends.  Sometimes I have them pray for missionaries or for people who don’t know Jesus.  I try to remember that prayer is something they don’t just know how to do . . . they need to be taught how to do it.

Also, we’ve been listening to Scripture.  This morning I stuck in a cd of Matthew.  I loved walking through the living room and hearing snippets of verses.  And we have Seeds Family Worship loaded on the ipod.  Are you familiar with them?  I have been amazed at the Scripture songs I have running through my head and the impact they have on my thoughts.

Now, in full disclosure, I am having a hard time publishing this post as I think about my “mom skills” this week.  Let’s just say I’m glad I don’t get evaluations.  I would probably lose my job.  But underneath all my own selfishness and laziness and general impatience, I do truly desire that my kids would love God and His Word deeply.

P.S.  Were you wondering about Eliza’s Quiet Time?  Well, she uses that time to sneak the big kids’ cups of juice.  She thinks she’s pretty hot stuff.