Dust-covered Angels

In its purest form the definition of angel is simply, “messenger of God.”

A tiny clump of wet cement, a pair of small, sweaty hands and a glimmer of hope. That’s all it took.

The workers had been on site all morning coating the outside walls of the church with cement. They stood high above on make-shift wooden scaffolding, buckets and trowels in hand. As the heavy grey substance was thrown against the wall the excess would splatter and fall on whatever or whoever was below. In this case, it was two young Honduran girls, maybe seven or eight years old at the most, who were happily scooping it up while playing among the remnants on the work site. They sat on the dirty, hard stairs not far from the litter of unused boards and old tools, but the smiles that lit up their tiny faces defied their surroundings.

As Emily and I looked on, they would giggle and squeal while making shapes with the wet matter, proudly showing one another their treasures. They were each darling, no doubt fast friends by the way they played so easily. Every few minutes they would timidly glance over at us, see us watching them and than quickly look away in another fit of giggles. After a few of these exchanges, we smiled and waved and watched as their smiles and eyes grew even bigger. It doesn’t take long before one of the sweethearts stand up, does her best to brush the dust off of her pink cotton dress and begins walking toward us. When she reaches us, there is excitement in her eyes and a gift in her hands.

A tiny clump of wet cement formed in the shape of a heart, one for each of us, offered by a pair of small and sweaty hands. It was a gesture of love robed in a glimmer of hope. That’s all it took to steal my heart.

The heart that stole my own.

Her name is Keili and we soon learn that she is an affectionate, caring bundle of energy who never left our side the rest of the week. She looked for us each morning as we arrived on the site, and with her baby sister in tow who she cared for like a little mother, we would delight in the unbridled joy of their company. Genella, who may have been a little over two years old took a little bit more convincing to warm up to us but once Emily let her wear her sunglasses, she became all giggles and hugs. What amazing lessons these sweet children taught us that week, lessons that only a child could know and understand. But if we slow down long enough to notice, they'll invite us into their world where God is working and waiting for us to see His heart as well.

Keili was always eager to wrap her slender arms around us and chatter non-stop in such animated Spanish that we could only long to comprehend. What we did understand was her message of acceptance, unconditional love and friendship that she showed again and again. We couldn’t help but be touched by the tugging of her hands as she pulled Emily across the room to proudly introduce her to her parents, the contentment in her face while she sat mesmerized on our laps, or the tears in her eyes and strength of her hug when we had to say good-bye.

This is the message that God sends His children, that we are all created to love and to be loved by Him; that what unites and draws us to one another is far greater than the differences of language, culture, age or gender. And that all it takes is a little faith.

 If you’re really fortunate, He might just send a beautiful dust-covered angel to deliver the message.

 Do I believe Keili is a heavenly host in the biblical sense of the word? No, I believe she's someone even more special than that, I believe she is a heavenly child created by God and used to send me a message; an angel that I can see and hear and touch and hold close to my heart. An angel that I hope to see again and will someday be able to tell her how  much she means to me.

I still have the heart Keili made me, I keep it in a little box next to her picture that reminds me of our time together. I left something for Keili as well and I hope it reminds her of how incredibly special and valuable she is - I left a piece of my heart with her.

                                                                            Keili, my angel

                                                                              Keili and Anita,
                        The day we met and she gave me her heart <3

                                      Keili and Genella



                                                                                          Genella
                                                                    Clapping and singing


                                                                                                  

                                                                               Keili with Emily
                                                                   "Love in any language"
                                                           



“This Isn’t What I Signed Up For.”

I woke up with great expectancy and excitement that next day, Emily and I both did. I wasn’t only eager to share this journey with my husband, but we were fortunate to have our 16 year old daughter with us as well. While this would be Tim’s third visit to Honduras, it was my and Emily’s first experience. She had been wanting to go on this trip even longer than I had and now that we were here, she couldn’t wait to hold those beautiful, bright-eyed children we had seen in so many of the pictures. Em adores children and I am convinced that God gave her an extra reservoir of love and understanding in her heart for them; a soft spot that continues to grow the more she is able to interact with His little ones. I knew God had something special in store for her and I was anxious to be by her side and witness what He would do through her and reveal to her as the week went on.

Equally so, I was anxious to see our sister church and finally be able to share in a ministry with my husband. We had both enjoyed participating in many different ministries but as time passed, we began to realize that the areas we were involved in, though worthy they may have been, were not ones that we could enjoy and grow together. Each of us had women and men’s studies, an event or two and an occasional retreat but most everything catered to women. One of the reasons that the mission trips had meant so much to Tim was that they gave men like him an opportunity to really share his heart and hands-on skill in a way that not only served God but that also served others in a real and necessary way. He has always been a practical guy but I had no idea that missions was his passion until after that first trip, and now miraculously God was allowing me to work shoulder to shoulder and heart-deep in that same meaningful ministry. I was so ready and excited.

I am typically not a morning person, and Emily is even less of one; you’re best to let her slowly wake up on her own and when she does choose your words sparingly for the first hour or so. This particular morning though we were both up, showered and having our first cups of coffee long before the bus was scheduled to leave. That sparkle was in her eyes and I could see the anticipation building.

We had been blessed to have a diverse group on this team and I was looking forward to getting to know those who I hadn't met yet. From the moment she first welcomed us at the airport I knew Xiomara would be someone to make this experience a good one. I had heard so many wonderful things about her, not only as the Honduran pastor's wife but also as someone who had become quite close to our teams as she had provided translation for them over the years. She greeted us with a warm smile and big hugs; her generous spirit made me feel comfortable from the very beginning. She was genuinely eager to see everyone and immediately began helping us traverse through every aspect of the coming day, but what I loved most about her was her laughter. To see that she was not only a woman of great faith who fully supported her husband but that she did so with a gracious personality and a sense of humor was such a joy.

She was joined by a few other Hondurans who would be making our experience possible as well: Kelsy, her nephew, Alan, our bus driver and Matias, the local foreman on the job site. All of whom loved to laugh and talk and help us in any way that we needed. Our American team included women and men from teens to seniors, seasoned mission workers to first-timers. We were as diverse in personality as age and occupation but we were all there to bring honor to the same God and to be used in whatever way He asked of us. There was much enthusiasm in our group as we all boarded the bus and headed out to the church.

The countryside that we drove though for the next 20-30 minutes had me completely awe-struck, and though I had yet to understand just how much or why I was so taken by it, I was drinking in everything that my eyes could see. After many scenic miles, we eventually arrived safely in Santa Cruz where we were all eager to find out what kind of an impact a year's time had on the church and to join up with our Honduran church family.

My first impression of the building was, “That is a very bright shade of…. pink, or is it coral, maybe salmon?” My next thought was "What a joyful color and are the people just the same?" I would soon learn the answer but for now, the church was holding all of my attention. The progress on the building itself was quite impressive and as I stepped off the bus it began to sink in, I was finally here!

I was finally able to stand on site of the place that had taken root in Tim’s heart. I walked up the set of cement steps that the mission team had built on his last trip and through the heavy double glass doors that I had only seen in pictures until now. Even though I knew what would welcome me beyond those doors, my first vision of the sanctuary was pretty awesome. It was a large, open and inviting room that offered a sweeping view of the first floor. The few adornments of the room included the tile flooring in a patterned teal green and the ceiling-to-floor burgundy and gold drapes that stretched along the front wall. In contrast, multi-colored plastic chairs, the kind we typically use on porches, are stacked up along the wall ready for use when time for service. Though void of stain-glassed windows, varnished pews or an ornate cross, this open room was simply beautiful because of what it did offer – an uncluttered, unpretentious place to worship the God of salvation and hope. On a paper banner hung above the pulpit, read the words, “Se Libre.” I asked Xiomara what the words meant and was told it reads, “Be Free or We’re Free.” As I stand in a room with black security bars encasing the windows and doors I realize just how profound those simple words are.  In some ways it is a stark reminder of the reason we are here, to show love and bring hope to those who live in an economically challenged country. Yet, those two words tell me that they may have already found something that has eluded many of us who live in a privileged society. Judging by the wide smiles and loud noises that are emanating from the men outside, I’d say our Honduran friends have found something to be joyful about and are anxious to share with us as well.

Matias and the local crew of men were already on site busily constructing their own version of wood-plank scaffolding when we arrived. Offering hearty handshakes and broad smiles of recognition, they seemed as genuinely glad to see us as we were to be there with them. I was able to pick out a few familiar faces from the pictures I had seen and watched as Tim and the other men got reacquainted. Even though an obvious language barrier exists among us all, the eagerness to work together, to learn from one another and make progress unites everyone with excitement. Soon a work mode has fallen over the group, each one taking up tools, sifting sand or mixing cement while others finding their place on the scaffolding above. A steady and comfortable routine falls over the site and the work continues.We watch with wonder and anticipation.

Ten minutes, fifteen and eventually 30 minutes go by as we continue to watch and now wonder where we belong. The longer we stand and watch the more the reality – and the disappointment filters in and throws a damper on our bursting enthusiasm. It appears we haven’t found a place here yet, there’s no need for us as everyone else has taken to their jobs of years’ past. Tim is high above me slinging cement with some of the others, so much for working with him today. Instead, we wait for instruction on where we might go and what we might do. Watching. Waiting. My feeling of uselessness rises. I sense that Emily's frustration is matching my own, she keeps looking around and finally asks, “Where are the kids?”   I don’t have an answer for her, I was wondering the same.

After what seems like forever but is really about a half hour, one of our team members offers Em a shovel so that she can take a turn sifting sand. I am grateful that he noticed and I feel a bit better. Her turn is short-lived though, there is more sand to be sifted than available area to mix the cement so she waits until the buckets are full of the wet cement before they can mix another batch.

The longer I stand there, the more deflated my expectations become; I walk to the back of the church thinking maybe there's something for me there. Or if not, at least no one will see me feeling dejected and unproductive. The other women on the team have a place as well; Xiomara, Linda and Toni are waiting for the local pastor to take them to the children’s coordinator’s home where they will plan the children’s activities for the week. All I can do is wonder how many children there are and pray that Emily will have an opportunity to work with them. I try to look busy taking pictures of anything and everything: the crew on the ground mixing cement, the crew on the scaffolding slinging cement, the collection of houses in the neighborhood, our big, yellow bus parked on the narrow road, back to the busy workers. I take pictures of the inside of the church, every room and floor; then the outside of the building, every possible side and angle. Onto a stray dog that has wandered on-site and the various tools strewn about.  All the while, I worry if anyone is wondering why I’m not doing more or noticing how useless I am at the moment. I wanted to contribute in some meaningful way, to finally share in a worthwhile ministry but I’m at a loss to know how. All I do know is this wasn’t what I expected. “This isn’t what I signed up for,” I think to myself.

  

                                                                              

                                    

  

                                           

                                                                                                                      

                                              

                                        

                                          

I'm not sure if she noticed how lost I felt, but as the women prepare to leave for their planning session, Linda asks if I would like to go along and bring Emily. I kind of want to say, “Not really, I came to help work on the church.” But what argument do I have? Why I thought I came really doesn’t matter at this point, having something to do, does. I hope Emily will benefit from knowing what is going on with the kids’ activities so I call her over and before long we pile into the car. Em is sitting on my lap, her head is bent low by the car’s roof due to her gracious height as we all squeeze into a little car that I think will take us to a house that is “just a little ways up the road past the church.” Several blocks later of dusty, bumpy dirt roads lined with barbed-wire topped fences, a smattering of shrubs and trees, more skinny, wandering dogs and a few glorious smiling children waving, we arrive to a neighborhood of small yards and two-story homes. Up to this point, I was a little nervous to be leaving our team of men behind while the five of us women trekked off on our own. The widening distance between us and our men combined with the safety bars on all of the houses and glass shard gates that we were driving past, didn’t particularly ease my concern. I try to imagine living here and when I do, I realize it’s not much different than driving in a neighborhood in the U.S. and seeing security system signs posted on people’s lawns and homes; you do what you have to to protect your family.

By this time I had grasped the truth that God is with us no matter where in the world we are and that we are always safer in His will than anywhere else we could choose to be. The things that appeared dangerous or primitive in their culture lost some of their grip as I trusted in that truth. Even so, I was quite glad to finally come to a stop so we could unfold ourselves from the confines of the cramped and now sweat-sticky car. When we climb out we are greeted by two curious German shepherds who immediately make me rethink getting back into the car, that is until an adorable curly black-haired, bright-eyed little girl bounces through the gate and rushes up to greet us. Emily and I exchange the first genuinely excited smiles we’ve had since getting on the bus that morning and just stare at this little bundle of joy. Yay, there’s a child within hugging distance!

Nahomy, as we soon learn her name is very glad to see everyone, she gives big hugs to Linda and Toni who she met last year and looks a little timidly at Emily and I. Dripping with childhood cuteness, she leads us up to the large porch where her young mother is waiting with big hugs for everyone. Elda is stunningly beautiful with a smile that lights up her face and eyes that dance. She is talking so lively and animated, it is clear to see that she is a person of great joy. In a flourish that demands attention, Nahomy rushes over to the rainbow-colored hammock stretching from one side of the wide porch to the other where we all turn and see the adorable bundle that is cradled there. Such bright and searching eyes he has as he looks around contentedly. A mass of dark curly hair frames his little cherubic face and we all say a collective, “Awwww,” upon sight of baby Jorge. Yay again, now we have a child and a baby to adore!  

                                                                         

Everyone soon finds a place in Elda’s  modest living room where the women – at least those who can speak Spanish, quickly get to the business of planning the children’s lessons, crafts and program ideas for the week. Emily and I watch and listen, not knowing a word of what is spoken but understanding more than words can say. In her enthusiasm and laughter, it is quite evident that Elda’s love for Jesus is contagious, one she truly wishes to bring to the children. I think how fortunate they are and wonder if they know what a rare gift they’ve been given, the pure praise she offers is hard to find in a land of plenty like America, let alone in a land where its more difficult to find as much to be grateful for. The longer the women plan, the more their excitement grows, and the higher and faster their voices rise in anticipation for what God is going to do among us this week. Laughter and joy float through the room and women who are separated by a culture are easily joined by the love of the same God who brought them together with one another. Suddenly, I don’t miss being at the work site waiting for instructions that may or may not come. I’m not thinking about if I’m going to get a turn to contribute to the building of the church, I’m too busy enjoying the blessings of seeing the church being built and expanded right in front of me.

A cute and curious three year stares up at me and I wish for all the world that I knew a bit of Spanish to communicate to this little one; instead I just smile and wink watching a little grin run across her face. Nahomy moves toward Emily and I can tell that my sensitive daughter is struggling with the same feelings of awe as I am; so much desire for getting to know our new friends but having no idea where to begin. Nahomy shows Em her shoes and there is suddenly a connection, “You like Dora?” Em asks, and she quickly shakes her head yes in agreement, “Dora!”  Such a little thing but it’s a start, a spark that reignites that expectation that we had at the start of the day to see God at work.

We spent the next couple of hours in Elda’s home, trying our best to communicate with everyone, soaking in the sweet spirit that was moving and taking turns loving on the precious baby Jorge. We also had the opportunity to meet Elda’s sister-in-law who is just as warm and lovely, a wonderful seamstress who teaches young girls and women how to sew. Before we had to return to the church for lunch, Elda and Teresa’s children arrive from school. Josmary, Elda’s oldest daughter is about 7 and Teresa’s son Victor couldn’t be much older while Lisbeth must be around 10 or 11. They were all so polite and respectful yet enjoyed joking with each other as kids do. Another reminder that God’s children are everywhere and that we are all more alike than we ever imagined.

Being in her home that she graciously opened to all of us, being served refreshments immediately upon arriving, watching them interact with one another while still offering smiles and questions to include us and just enjoying their sweet personalities all culminated into a picture of such generosity and faith. A faith that I was soon to learn had been tested and tried by our gracious hostess, a woman so excited to share her story with us. I will never forget listening to Elda’s testimony about how God had brought her from the brink of death after Jorge was born, only four short months earlier.  As Elda retold the events surrounding Jorge's birth, Xiomara translated for us. Not only had the doctors given up on her ability to recover but they reaffirmed their dismal prediction by telling her husband to make arrangements and adjust to life without her. She however, never gave up on God’s power and desire to restore her to health and continued to assure her family that she would indeed be healed and return to her home. To the amazement of the doctors and her family, she not only recovered but there was no indication that the healthy and vibrant woman sitting before us had ever been so desperately ill. 

Hearing about someone’s testimony is one thing but hearing it from themselves with such fervency and adoration for God is far more inspiring. I quietly sat in awe of the gift that I had just been given, a gift that I wouldn’t have experienced while sifting sand or mudding a wall. I’m so glad there wasn’t a place for me at the work site that morning because God had better plans in store for me and Emily than I ever expected.

Beautiful Elda

All of the disappointment and sulking of earlier seemed foolish and was quickly forgotten in light of all that God had shown us. There is a place for everyone to contribute to the church; holding a baby is just as important as holding a shovel, sharing a testimony just as worthy as sharing a turn slinging cement, sitting in a foreign sister’s living room just as necessary as standing high above on scaffolding, and connecting heart to heart just as important as working shoulder to shoulder. No, this wasn’t what I signed up for but thank God, this is what He graciously gave to me anyway. I had to wonder, how many of His upgrades had I missed out on because I wasn’t able to see beyond my own expectations. I don’t know what is in store for the remainder of the week but I pray that I fully experience all of His intentional blessings.

Living His Story:

From the first moment I laid eyes on the countries landscape, I was captivated. There was nothing extraordinary about what I was seeing as the plane descended or even when we eventually made our way through customs and out into the open countryside that surrounded the airport. What had captivated my heart is that I knew God had personally invited me here to begin a new chapter in our story, His and mine, and I was anxious to live out whatever He had waiting. It would be here, in a foreign land among people I didn’t know and in a world that I didn’t understand where I would learn at His side and follow in His dusty footsteps.

Presently, my footsteps were entering an old bus that would eventually take us to our lodging. As the wheels moved on and the warm air blew through the open windows, miles of the simple Honduran life and culture filled my senses. 

There is a distinct aroma to this area of Honduras – kind of citrusy mingled with spice. It’s a warm and welcoming kind of scent. I wonder if anyone else notices it but no one has mentioned anything, most of them have been here before so perhaps it isn’t as surprising. I’m glad I didn’t miss it.

The land is wide, expanse and beautiful. I don’t know yet what it is about it but I like it. It’s peaceful, the pace seems slower and there is a simplicity to life. Workers labor in the sugar cane fields with a rhythmic purpose, families gather on worn, wooden porches and animals wander aimlessly among it all. All the while, a sky as blue as it is vast stretches high and clear above so many picturesque images.

I have heard about the impressiveness of the mountains but being here at the base of them, defined so clearly and standing so stately, is far better than any picture can capture or any artist can render. I’m gratefully aware that the Artist of this masterpiece is sitting beside me, quietly drawing my attention to the wonders of His world that He doesn’t want me to miss. I’m so glad that sometimes He writes with words and other times He lets a picture tell the story.

Sprinkled here and there along the miles of banana and coffee plantations are small, simple and rather shabby houses. Made of tin, wood, cardboard and whatever other material that can be found, the homes struggle to stand upright in the dirt and rock that serve as their foundation. Little gardens try their best to poke up around the houses, homemade lawn ornaments ‘decorate’ the walkway while genuine, albeit tired smiles decorate the faces of those who call these dwellings home. It is evident that even in the ram shackled state of their belongings; they strive to take care of what they have the best that they can.

A quiet strength is evident here; from families traveling miles on foot to children precariously carting massive amounts of firewood balanced on bicycles, locals who are baking in the hot sun trying to sell their goods at roadside stands or women rocking babies in their arms and hanging weathered and worn clothes on a makeshift clothesline. These are a hardworking people; easily defying the stereotype of the poverty-stricken that many have toward those less fortunate. I have to wonder what other perspectives this already inspiring chapter of our story will hold this week.

Eventually the landscape becomes dotted with simple cement homes interspersed among the squatter housing. Meager businesses appear along the roadsides while hopeful owners wile away the hours. Another mile or two and we have reached the outskirts of the city and it looks a lot like the ‘slum’ areas in America; dirty and dangerous and shamefully, the areas you try to avoid. We pass a city street where small abandoned-looking buildings are actually more businesses and where chickens are almost as plentiful as people. As we slow down for yet another rough spot in the road, my eyes are filled with the obvious want and poverty that lies right outside the window. I don’t know what to think of it; what is distressing and heart-wrenching to me is commonplace for the people who live here. How does a person living in such condition believe in their worth when everything around them is so disheartening and unfair? How does one write hope and beauty into their lives?

And then as if to put my question to the test, I see him. A middle-aged man lies crumpled on the sidewalk, he is dirty and his clothes are ragged. His head is bent awkwardly on the broken curb and his legs sprawl out in odd angles half on and off the sidewalk toward the road. A shock of unkempt hair shields the far side of his face, yet I can see that his eyes are closed; mouth agape and no visible life seems to be in him. There isn’t any way to tell if he is passed out or if his time has completely expired. I didn’t expect to see anyone in such a dire state, at least not this soon; let alone to know what I was supposed to do now that I had. As the bus slowly groans forward, I watch him as long as I can, looking for any movement or sign of life but there is nothing to indicate he is still of this world. Chickens peck around him and shadows fall over him but there is no one to care or come to his aid, only a passerby or two who avoid him entirely. I wonder if anyone else on our bus has seen him or if they do, are they as affected by his state as I am? It is one of those moments that hang expectantly in time, waiting for a response of some sort but sadly there is none. There is nothing I can do but I can’t shake the thought that I was meant to see him, to be rattled in my security and ache in my soul.

But I have learned that noticing a need and caring momentarily isn’t enough; emotions have a tendency to fade and unpleasant moments are replaced with better ones, false security returns and our worlds are upright once again. So then who remembers? Who moves into action and who is there to make sure these moments won’t occur at all? And if they do, who is there to show that they care in the midst of it? Who will be willing to be written into someone else’s need or pain?

It is so apparent to me that just as God is in the magnificent beauty of this country, He is also among the broken, the dirty and the lost. He looks intently when everyone else looks away, he cradles those in His arms that others quickly bypass and He breathes hope when everyone else has long given up. And He asks each one of us to do the same. Because we are all a part of His story, no matter where we are from, how we came into this world, what language we speak, what choices we have made or the shades of our skin; we are all God’s children created for a purpose. Far too often we mistakenly assume that the story is all about us. It isn’t. We were never meant to be the main character, instead we have been called to be the supporting cast in His life-giving story of redemption and grace so that we would draw others to the God who is.

I wonder about the supporting cast of this man’s life, did they do all they could and he rejected their prompting? Did they neglect him in search of their own path and desires? Or like most of us, did they try to do a little of each and fail at both?

I close my eyes and see the faces of those who have come alongside me offering encouragement and wisdom to point me deeper into His story; there is no doubt that I have been blessed by many.

And then I see the ones who God has placed along my path that I might support and point them toward the Author of their life. While some faces are clear and evident, other images remain at a distance, almost beckoning me to recognize them. Everyone needs to know that their worth simply lies in the heart of a Father who loved them into existence. Everyone needs hope.

In my heart I feel a stirring, is this part of why I’m here, God? Is this only the beginning of our story, will I find an answer to my place among the pages that are yet to be written?

I look around and see of all things, that we are pulling into a Wendy’s fast food for lunch. While I was lost in my thoughts, the city has transformed into a busy and lively burst of color and humanity. Manicured businesses and sidewalks, pretty park areas and well-dressed people pervade our surroundings. If not for the advertisements written in Spanish and the plethora of beautifully darkened skin tones, I could easily believe I was in Any City, America.

And then it hits me, there lies the real challenge and the opportunity if I chose to seize it; to be willing to be written into in every moment: not just the thrilling epic adventures but also the sad tales of want and loss. To admit that sometimes I’m the one in need and let others come to my aid or when it’s someone else, anyone else that I’ll obediently follow where He leads. Am I willing to be written in no matter where He takes me, who He puts in my path and in whatever condition He decides to call me into? He chooses the setting, the characters and the storyline, it isn’t for me to question but to relinquish the pen and trust the Author who lovingly wrote me there.

I know He wrote me onto the bus today so I would see and be moved by the plight of one His children even though I wasn’t able to physically do anything. Just as I know that He will write me into another moment, another experience and another opportunity asking me to follow and love others to Him. I pray that I not only recognize those opportunities but that I move to make a difference when I do. Equally as much, I pray for humbleness to be broken and taught by others as they allow me to enter a part of their story.

As we traveled deeper into Honduras via back roads and seemingly forgotten towns, I considered what might lie ahead; I had no way of knowing that His story would take me to the most wonderfully unexpected heights of humanity where my own need would be revealed.