The World Cries

I am continually reminded of my purpose

Like a mirror being held to my face—I see myself for what I am

It hasn’t been the imperfections that I have seen

Nor have I been shown my shortcomings, or small wrinkles beginning to form

The reflection reveals something deeper—my very heart and soul

Both have changed over time, and with those changes I have been renewed

Through the brokenness of past hurt—sharp pains of loss and deep cries of feeling insignificant

There is a purpose that runs deeper than the external, trials of life, or shadows that cast over me

I see my heart to serve those that have no hope

Those that have lost their voice to seek justice for themselves

Children that are motherless and fatherless—without the security of a hug and authentic love

My heart cries for those that cry themselves to sleep at night

The dirty, poor, lonely, broken, and hopeless

I see their faces when I sleep and I cry out to them, “I love you.”

Their battles will not be won without sacrifice, but I want to give all I can

There will be a price, but because I was bought at a price, I owe it to them

My hands will get dirty and my heart will break

My body will be worn and I may never find rest

But what is hope if it is never shared?

 What good is love if it is never expressed?

I am no saint—only broken for those that don’t know love

I want to live a life worth nothing to this world

They wait for me

And they wait for you.

To Love You

Her skin is warm
Tones of brown intertwined with cream
Her thin structure
Stands as a strong tower in the dessert

Emerald green and turquoise meet in a paisley pattern--
hues of yellow throughout
The saree wraps around her waist--
Hugging her curves

Long gone are the days of sorrow
Wandering alone
Abandoned

Her hair, pulled back shows a face of innocence
Green eyes pierce your heart as you see pain that continues to mend

The soul of a woman takes time to heal, but strengthens beneath the scar tissue
Go to her
She will tell you

 Love found her in the dessert

In the heart of India
She realized her heart was worth loving

Anything is Something

          Today, was one of those days. I woke up feeling defeated as my body once again refused to be energetic.  I tossed and turned underneath the duvet and stared at the wall. It's going to be a long day.
I ended up having to cancel on a friend and canceling plans for the evening. Doing so always makes me feel that I've let people down and I quickly end up surrendering to the negative thoughts that start to flow freely through my mind.

         God has been doing a lot in Matt and me over th past few weeks. It's nothing that can really be explained other than to say it's been totally unexpected and transforming-- usually the way that God likes to do things. God has all of a sudden given us a heart for the people of India. We are still working through a time of discernment and seeking God in the specifics. As I failed in my attempt to study this morning and my to-do list seemed to remain the same, my own feelings of inadequacy flooded over me. I decided to handle the situation in the best way I knew how-- I began to clean the house like a mad woman. With weak legs, an exhausted mind and a defeatist attitude I cleaned. "Take that", I thought. I did well being self-sufficent and making our bedroom squeaky clean until I began to cry. I sat on the bed and wondered how in the world I could hope to make a difference in the world if I can't even successfully keep appointments with friends or clean my own house. I cried and then, still sulking, went outside to read a book.

          As I sat in the sun reading the words on the pages of my book, my mind was somewhere else. I saw orphans in India that have been sold into sex slavery. I saw men and women in need of hope and a future in God. I saw faces I've never seen before and heard voices and cries of the oppressed. I sat wondering how little me could ever answer God's calling to a country I've never been to. I wondered when my body fails me on days like today, how I would manage to help others.

         Matt interrupted my thoughts. "Hey, can you come help me?"

         I looked over at where he was standing. He had been pruning an overgrown bush at the corner of the house. A vine had overtaken the bush, and slowly strangled the life out of it. Matt had a huge pile of dead branches and vine all around him.

         I sighed. "Uggh...what is it?" I got up and walked over to him.

       "I need your help dragging these branches into the back woods. I could do it on my own, but I really need your help."

       In that moment, my husband needed my help. I loved feeling needed when all morning I had felt so useless. I stared at the pile and felt defeated already. I had no idea how to even begin dragging the pile all the way into the back yard. It was going to be a lot for me to conquer when my body was yelling at me to not do anything. In that moment, a thought came to me. One piece at a time. That was exactly how I would accomplish the goal. I dragged one branch loose and then, another until my hands couldn't grip anymore. Like that, I began to drag the pieces. I walked to the end of the yard and threw the branches into the woods. As I did, the Tennessee girl in me came to surface and I remembered how much I love hard work out in the hot sun.

       As I dragged the second load of branches, I realized that I will be able to do whatever God has called Matt and I into. My health will be the same in another country as it is here. The temptation to be self sufficient and stubborn will still be there. I have to remember that doing anything for God and others is something. It has value. Even if I can't do as much as I'd like to, I am still able to do something.

Titus Women Merchandise

     I have been trying to share these photos with you for a while, but due to my awesome "tech-savvy brain", I haven't been able to. The items listed in this blog are made by women in India. Crosspoint of India assists women in learning practical skills that will assist them in supporting their families. These items are all homemade by the women. I will share a link with you so that you may learn more about Crosspoint of India. 100% of the proceeds go to Crosspoint of India.

Items will be shipped here in the states in May. This gives you plenty of time to shop for Mother's Day and graduation gifts. : ) When was the last time your money actually went to a positive cause? Today is the perfect day to start.



Glass-beaded earrings $2/each. I no longer buy earrings anywhere else. I own many of these!

Stuffed elephants! I will have to confirm the price on this item.

Paper covered journals- $5 The writer in me loves having these on hand when inspiration hits! What's more inspirational than the money going directly back to the hands that made them?

Fabric covered journals- $5

Long-strap purses- $15. (Much less than you probably spent on theatre popcorn and a drink last night). The good thing about this investment is that your money will still be making a difference long after your popcorn has digested!

Make up bag- $8 If you're a natural beauty then get creative and use this bag for pens, candy, or receipts that you need to hold onto.

More make up bags for you girls that love variety.

A Messenger bag with a long strap. I will have to have the price confirmed on this item.

BEAUTIFUL shawls- $20. Not the "shawl type" (how could you not be!?), use it as an accent over your favorite chair.

Tie strap purses $15

Please shop these items and share my link. Women half the world away have made these items to share with them. By purchasing these items, you are sharing hope and joy with them.

For more information on Crosspoint of India please visit:  http://www.crosspointofindia.org/  or "like" them on Facebook





The Day They Went Without

     I brushed through my wet hair and my brush got snagged in the tangles. I brushed in small strokes until the tangles loosened and drops of warm water dripped on my neck. I walked to my closet and looked at the variety of shirts that I had to choose from. There was a new sheer purple one with huge white polka dots. I pulled it out and held it against my chest. I had paid $22.00 for it and the tags still hanged from its sleeve untouched; the shirt had been abandoned; waiting for the day I got the urge to wear it. I looked over at a blue sweater and pulled at the tag. It had cost $20.00. It was untouched, unworn, and had been living in the closet since the day it was bought. I pulled the tag off of the sweater and pulled it over my head.  The excitement of it being brand-new had worn off as soon as it was put on a hanger months ago and the closet door was closed.

     I walked downstairs and opened the pantry door. There were three varieties of cereal to choose from, two kinds of oatmeal, and the ever abundant variety of granola bars. I reached for a granola bar and had eaten it by the time I poured my orange juice (which was one of three kinds of juice chilling in our refrigerator). I reached for an apple and took two bites before getting bored of the taste and throwing the rest of it away. I let the water gush down freely into the sink as I mixed iced tea to put in the refrigerator. I ignored my mom’s phone call because I was “too busy” and let it go to voicemail. I could always call her later.

    I sat lazily on my couch and browsed on Facebook for far too long—peeking in on other people’s lives and neglecting to live my own. Minutes turned into an hour quickly and I decided to put my shoes on and go outside with my dog. I opened the closet to many pairs of shoes while wishing that I would have bought the pair that I had seen in the store the night before.

     On the same day, in the same world in which you and I live, there were different scenarios playing out.

Hair was wet and tangled from the harsh conditions of child labor and poor hygenic conditions, not from a fresh hot shower.

The only shirt she owned was ripped from her body as she was thrown into her first night of being trafficked and of being a slave.

$42.00 was used to feed orphans for a month, not used to buy two shirts that would hardly be worn.

Pantries were opened, but were empty.  Today was another day of empty stomachs and vulnerability to illness.

Water was carried for miles and cherished as if it were gold, not wastefully draining down a sink.

Children became orphans and would never hear their mothers call their names again. They would have given anything to hear her say their name.

Feet developed more blisters because shoes were something that would never be afforded.

So, what are we to do? I realize that the events I mentioned will happen regardless of if we help or not. So, what's the point? Well, the difference is dying having never tried to help.

Celebration

Deborah

She had been alive for exactly 17,062 days. Each day passed like the one before although the weather often differed and the circumstances varied. All of the days had always seemed to be the same routine and all blurred together in the cosmos. The sun rose and then set just like it always had even before day 1 of her life. Now, as she sat in her wheelchair at 350 5^th Avenue and looked up at the Empire State Building all of life seemed to stand still for just a moment. In that moment, she felt smaller than she ever had before.  She had once stood at 5’6” and now her feet rested on the thin slats of plastic only inches from the ground. She breathed in deeply and closed her eyes—focusing on her inhalation and slowly releasing her breath into the grand surroundings. Taxi cabs beeped and people rushed, but she was in another place and another time. Her hearing deceived her for a moment and all she could hear was the beating of her own heart and shallow breaths.

                Her eyes opened at the sound of her friend’s voice low and to her ear. Instantly, she smelled her friend’s perfume and saw the yellow flashes of taxis passing. The voices of pedestrians rose and fell as they approached her and then passed by. Honking horns ricocheted off of the buildings and landed in her ears. A hot dog cart nearby was being pushed by a Vietnamese man and the cart’s wheels didn’t look much different than the ones on her chair. She sat and listened to her surroundings and allowed them to pour over her like a fresh spring shower.  It was March and the promise of spring looked and felt different than the backyard of her Tennessee home.  In place of daisies and daffodils were artificial hyacinths in store displays and floral prints on passing skirts and blouses.  The sweet smell of grass and rain was restricted to the 250 acres of lawns in Central Park.  She was far from it now, separated by blocks of buildings and busy people. 

                “Deborah, are you feeling ok? Do we need to rest for a while?” her friend said into her ear once more. 

                Deborah shook her head no and took notice of a tall beautiful woman walking toward her.  She thought that the whole city could stop for that woman’s beauty.  Her hair was long and blond—a stark contrast to Deborah’s own short brown hair.  The woman walked with poise and confidence.  In that moment, Deborah attempted to lift her right foot and as if it were the first time, realized that she couldn’t. Her chest tightened at the emotion being stirred in her—a sadness for what was and was to come.  The woman passed Deborah in her designer clothes and health. Deborah wished for one more than the other with a childlike determination.  She had worn designer clothes for years; buying them as she desired and later trading the old for the new. The precious designer labels were now either in filled boxes at her friend’s house or the storage area of thrift stores. The clothes had always come with instructions like dry clean only or hand wash cold. She had always followed the instructions carefully and been a good steward of her processions.   The reality was that she couldn’t care for herself the way she had for those clothes. Hand washing cold and washing with like colors had always been easy. Having people push her around, feed her and wipe her were not easy and did not change the inevitable. She was going to die.

Marci

                Her daughter had been dead for 360 days. The day that cancer claimed the life of her baby girl seemed like it was yesterday.  Not even the scene of New York City could shake that day from her.  Marci had looked out of the window of her daughter’s room at the trees and the luscious mountains in the distance. During that moment, her daughter Amy took her last breath and the mountains seemed to grow bigger—bigger swallowing up life itself. Marci didn’t remember how she ended up on the floor screaming, but the sound of her own cries still echoed in her mind.

                Marci had given birth to Amy on a sunny morning in July. The day she left the hospital the humid Tennessee summer wrapped itself around her as tightly as she had wrapped her new baby. She held Amy and cherished her like a newfound treasure.  Amy grew like the flowers in Marci’s garden and made Marci’s life beautiful and fragrant.  Marci kissed boo-boos, wiped away tears, hung crayon drawing on the refrigerator, reprimanded, protected and nurtured Amy through the ups and downs of her young life. All of the experience and love in the world couldn’t have prepared Marci for the terrible day.  That last breath filtered through Amy’s mouth as gently as the breeze sifted through the window screen.  Just like that, the world did not hold her anymore and neither could Marci.

                The spinach and goat’s cheese salad she had for lunch turned in her stomach as she thought about that day.  She looked down at her hands and realized that her acrylic nails had dug too deeply into her palms. She breathed in deeply and unclenched her fists. The Empire State building seemed fragile to her as she looked up at it.  Hadn’t the World Trade Center seemed strong and stable at one point? Hadn’t Amy’s life seemed young and strong—able to take any blows? Both had fallen and become dust.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

                Marci moved her blonde hair off of her shoulders and tied it up in a messy ponytail. She had dead ends that made it impossible to style her hair.  She hadn’t let anyone touch it since Amy died.  Marci had been Amy’s guinea pig throughout cosmetology school and eventually became a faithful customer once Amy opened her salon. Marci had made an appointment two months after Amy’s death, but sat in the parking lot and cried until her mascara ran and she could manage to drive again. 

                How was New York supposed to make things better? Yesterday, she had dropped a lot of cash on a purse that she couldn’t turn away from. Amy would have hated it, which made her hand over her credit card to be swiped. She had gone to see Mama Mia on Broadway and thought about Amy as a little girl and how she would use her hairbrush as a microphone and dance through the house. New York offered all of the things she and Amy had once loved to share: shopping, more shopping, and more shopping on top of that. There were coffee shops on every block. Marci lived on coffee while Amy had loved the smell, but hated the taste. Amy would still have coffee dates with her mom and sit patiently with her cup of tea as Marci drank her third cup of coffee.  New York was nice, but the memory of her daughter could not be forgotten, even in the rush of the city. There was, after all, a salon everywhere she looked.

Tammy

            She twisted her wedding band as she stood behind Deborah and Marci. She had been married for 3,648 days. It was two days away from her 10^th wedding anniversary. Ten years had given her a best friend and confidant, a precious daughter, and two sweet boys.  She looked up at the Empire State Building and thought of how cold it looked. It wasn’t an attractive building nor did it stir up the excitement in her that she had thought it would.  Tammy did have a lot on her mind and even more on her shoulders.  The building did look stable even if it wasn’t glamorous. If Tammy knew about anything—it was about being strong.  She had seen the trip to New York City as a testimony to her strength. The trip was a celebration of the life with her husband, a celebration of Amy’s life, and a celebration of Deborah’s life that would ultimately fade away. Tammy became a fortress to Deborah and Marci; and sheltered them in their times of loss. New York was supposed to be a celebration, but Tammy cowered at the building that towered above her. She had felt so strong until now.

                Nothing had happened or been brought up in conversation to dampen the mood. It was the warmth of sunlight on her face; it was the slight breeze that made Marci’s skirt ripple and Deborah’s hair blow.  Those things made Tammy’s heart sink in her chest because she realized that time was passing. A day would come when Lou Gehrig’s disease would leave Deborah unable to speak or move the hair out of her face. Tammy stood watching a mother and daughter Marci and Amy’s age get out of a cab. She couldn’t imagine losing her daughter and yet she was entrusted to someone’s heart that knew the pain of losing a child. Shane, Tammy’s husband, walked toward her with coffees in tote. He handed them out one by one and something came to life within her.

                She looked up at the building once more and realized that it seemed to touch Heaven from where she was standing. Could it be a mistake that the sun fell upon all of them in that moment?

“Hey, look at this,” Shane said as he handed her the camera.

                Tammy looked at the screen and smiled as tears welled up in her eyes.  It was a photo of all three women together smiling as if death didn’t have power in the world. Deborah’s head was resting on Tammy’s shoulder; her eyes full of life and a smile fit for a princess. Marci’s hand was on top of Tammy’s hand; her shoulders relaxed and head held high.  Tammy’s face wore the expression of delicate sincerity.  New York would always be remembered for what it truly was to her—a celebration of what God had given them—each other.