Here I sit once again teetering between two worlds. One world where my guard is down and my schedule is open. A world where I am not obsessing over calories and getting my workout in. A world less familiar yet so easy to embrace. A world where surrender comes and I freely jump into the beautiful mess of 28 broken orphans climbing on me; lifting there tiny arms communicating the need to be held. This world is where I don't even think about myself or I think of myself considerably less. I stink. I haven't showered for a couple of days, haven't touched my make-up in even longer and am not too worried about the bags under my eyes. We run out of water and power on Christmas Eve night yet it doesn't stop the excited hearts anticipating Christmas day.
My known world would look so much different, I would look so much different. Christmas Eve night in that world usually consists of a thoughtfully put together festive outfit with flawless make-up. An array of appetizers and baked goods more than my heart could desire, and a nicely organized church service perfectly planned with Christmas hymns and twinkling lights and ending with candles and Silent Night. And there are parts of that world that I love and hold dear and yearn to bring here to this world thinking it will make them better. And I do. Pack my traditions in my suitcase: a favorite children's book, cookie cutters, and candy ingredients, and lots of sprinkles. It's a fun time bringing a bit of my world to theirs; watching little fingers cut out dough and plopping frosting on, then overdosing on the sprinkle factor; something that some had never done before or even heard of. My first instinct is to think how deprived they are but my mind stops mid track and reverses the thought maybe I am the deprived one. Maybe my world, the world of strict schedules, constant distraction, materialism, and technology is the deprived world.
A train wreck yet again. Here as I sit and contemplate the differences with a constant yearning to return to them. Because there the gospel is thick and rich and you feel yourself smack dab in the middle of God's heart and passion as I walk into the preschool boys room before bed; an unrehearsed chorus of little voices cry out, "Pray for me." I walk up to a bed as a little hand reaches out for mine. Between deep swallows I choke back my tears. I plead with heaven for this boy to know how special he is, how loved by God he is, and how intricately known he is by his True Father who is drawing him to himself. As I pray I am blessed by the strength of this child and angered by sin. The sin of others selfishness, greed, addictions, abuse, and neglect that brought this innocent child to a place where he pleads with a white stranger to put him to sleep and kiss him on the forehead. It is there that I can't imagine how God's heart must have broken when he looked out over time before he even created it and saw the destruction we would cause ourselves through sin and yet he created us anyway. He decided to be Father to those who would believe on His name and there in that moment as I stand by this child's bed wanting to weep over the fact that his mother is not standing here in my place to pray over him each night. It become crystal clear our need for Christmas...Jesus....Savior. Because it really is that desperate for all of us. The life journey and situations are all different and in my world they are usually masked behind money and "Hi How are are you, I'm good," smiles, yet they are all the same, broken helpless people in need of a rescue from others sin and oppression, their own, and the evil rattlings of the Evil one's influence, tied to the selfish me world all around. Here it is raw, bare naked and easy to spot whether through the pitter patter of motherless and fatherless children prancing about me for eight days, or stepping unto the trash dump as birds circle overhead and dogs hunt about for scraps while we shake the filthy hands of those who call this place home, their front yard is a stinky quilt of patchwork trash; opened and sorted through garbage bags. Their home is scraps of metal, boards, tarp and cardboard. They wake up each morning to the buzzing of flies and the crawling of maggots. Another day to sort for what can be sold and what can be eaten. The desperate need for Jesus is evident unmistakeable as the rich white man hands out small bags of rice and peas and it is not making me feel good about anything at all. I want to sit down and find out what led them to life at the dump. Were their hands the tiny hands that reached out for someone to pray for them at night and no one came? Where they the little ones who pranced about motherless and fatherless and they were not taken to a safe haven such as The Robin's Nest children's home but instead sold a lie that the only way was to beg and steal. The only solution was to smoke or drink your abandonment away, I want to know how a life can end up making the trash of others their home and not knowing a way out. The pondering once again leads me to the fact that we are all living in a trash dump storing up treasure where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, a place where everything is rubbish except knowing Christ. Those truths are clear here. Knowing Jesus. Running to his heart reaching out my tiny desperate filthy hands communicating my need to be held in his forgiving arms just as the little ones did to me. And it is there where the worlds collide where brokenness is on a tiny mountain in the middle of an island just as much as it is inside my home in the middle of the Midwest. Then the beauty occurs throughout the week as I watch the motherless and fatherless dance, and laugh and make silly faces, and belt out worship...and I mean belt. It.Out.Out. In the middle of their brokenness. It is there that the beauty of a Savior is just as bare naked and evident as the brokenness. That the truth of the promise in the gospel is seen. I see the trades of beauty for ashes. Strength for fears. Gladness for mourning. Hope for despair. It is there that no one and nothing can shake what has been settled in my soul many years ago. Jesus the Author and Perfecter of our faith allows us to not just eek out worship but puts hope in our hearts in the middle of a messed up, broken down, sin filled world, to boldly and unashamedly worship just like the tiny ones living on the mountain lapping up His love everyday at The Nest. It is there that I step deeper into the journey of discipleship. Hearing the call once again loud and clear to Follow Him. Into the places that break his heart and move his heart so much to have given his son to repair all the wounded. It is there that I see Jesus in them and hopefully they too have seen Him in me.
