Colorless

The colors--the vibrancy of them.
It is as if the sun itself has been captured--
in each thread and particle.
A tapestry of divine creativity
interwoven into exotic culture.

Her eyes--
Two empty shells.


The gods are appeased
with luminous shades of sacrifice.
She watches over the table
and only the reflection of external color illuminate her eyes.

What Love Does

I am small, but I am valuable
Like a precious vase, I was also fragile
I had been broken
Again and again
Shattered on the floor of hopeless circumstance

I came to the orphanage in pieces--
Too small to be put together again
I didn't know I was broken--
I only knew that I hurt badly
That my feelings were hurt
And I knew loneliness
As intimately as I knew my own small hands and feet

I was my country's burden that it didn't want to bare

Then, Love found me
Love enveloped me and called me by name
Others like me didn't even know their name when Love found them
Love fed me, clothed me, and gave me assured safety
Piece by piece I was repaired
I know Love now


Love will never let me go.





*If you want to learn more about sponsoring 1 of the millions of orphans in India please visit
 http://www.crosspointofindia.org/   Your $50 monthly donation will feed, clothe, and supply school materials for a child for an entire month!*

Eyes of the Poor

   
              I was in America. I was actually in my own bed nestled into the plump duvet; wrapped in it like a sleeping bag. The fan blew gently on my face and the white noise lulled me into a sweet slumber. Suddenly, a pebble hit my bedroom window. Then, another and another in swift succession. I opened my eyes abruptly and the thin layer of blur went away with a few blinks. My bedroom soon became a street in Delhi and my duvet became the thin sweaty shirt that was clinging to my back. The car, truck, and motor bike horns beeped into the smoggy air--creating a nervousness within me that had vanished in the moments I had drifted to sleep. Again, that stone-on-glass sound pinged in my ears. I looked groggily to my right and saw a small brown hand reaching up to me from the street.

             A little girl slowly stood onto the running board of the taxi and she was then at eye level with me. Her shirt was torn in places--revealing patches of her light brown chest, stomach, and shoulders. There were traces of where a pink floral pattern used to be. The sleeves clung tightly to her arms and the bottom hem of the shirt was undone--exposing a small part of her stomach. The shirt was meant for a two year old; this girl was about five. Her hair was matted down to her head by its oily condition and just under the strands of hair falling into her face, I could see her dark chocolate eyes. She lifted her hand up to her  mouth as if to say, "I need food". I was fixed on her eyes, though. I tried to look away, but couldn't. Her eyes were so unique and so intriguing. They weren't the eyes of a five year old, but the eyes of a an old woman--so tired and weary. For a moment that seemed to outlast any measurement of time, we starred into each others eyes--blue into brown and brown into blue. Then, she was gone.

           I looked behind our taxi as we drove into traffic and more children begged along the road. She stood in place for only a second and then she was at the next car pleading for help. She hadn't been aggressive in the way she begged, but rather gentle. I could tell she had been rejected again and again, but still held out some hope that Westerners would give to her. Soon, we came to the place in the road where I could not see her anymore. I leaned back and closed my eyes once more--this time praying for this girl and dreaming up a good life for her in my mind. In that moment, I named her. She was given a name that I had dreamed about months earlier--a name I had never even heard before, but turned out to be a legitimate name when I researched it.

          I named her Ashima, the Hindi name for "limitless" and "no boundaries", because one day I believe she will be rescued off of the streets and meet the God that has hope and a future for her that even the sky cannot limit.

           

One Page at a Time

The Bible College girls worshiping before I shared my testimony.

         A book can only be read one page at a time. Everyone reads at a different pace--some skim the pages quickly while others read with intense focus and patience. I fall into the second category. I read and notice how each word is interconnected in the big picture of what is going on. Whatever your reading style, there is no way to know how the story unfolds without reading one page at a time.

        The grieving process, like a book, can only be worked through one stage at a time and like readers, everyone approaches grief differently. When my father died in 2009, I was obviously devastated by his death, but as time proceeded and seasons dissolved into the next, I began to grieve over the life my father lived more than anything. At the time of his death my father did not have even one friend. He had no possessions--only his music and a few filled notebooks. He did not have a job, a car, or even a driver's license. He was severely ill and completely reliant upon his mother with whom he lived with. His life itself has caused me more sadness than his death itself. Perhaps that is because I found peace in the fact that he wasn't ill and feeble anymore.

         I have worked through the grieving process one page at a time, but at the beginning of a new chapter I only found that the previous chapter hadn't completely resolved. I was still grieving his life because I thought of all the potential that could have been and the friends that could have at least been there for his funeral if he had had any. How could a life so empty be full of purpose?

        While in India, I had the honor of sharing my story with the Bible college ladies. I felt inadequate. How could I share something with them when I knew most of them had faced far more than I ever would? I set my fears aside, though, and breathed in deeply. "God, I'm open to what you have for my time with these girls." I shared about the difficulties my mom and I had when she was a single parent doing her best to provide for us. I explained that my father and I didn't reconcile until he was very ill and then, we only had a few short years of getting to know each other before he passed away. I spoke about how he came to peace with God before he died and that I will always be grateful for that.

         In the depth of my heart I felt a peace as I shared; for the first time I realized the true value of a life. God showed me that my father's life surely did have purpose despite lack of material goods and human relationships. It was because of God that I was half way around the world sharing not only my story, but also my father's story. A story that had to be read one page at a time to appreciate the ending. It was through every sentence, every word, and new page that God orchestrated peace and redemption for my father's life. My father did have a life worth living because the very air in his lungs was put there by God. He lived with divine purpose that he couldn't see at the time--a purpose that I couldn't see without turning the page. His life was valuable and he fulfilled a purpose long after his life ended. The students heard of God's faithfulness and deliverance in my life--a story that didn't unfold without the reconciliation with my father. My father helped shape more good things in my life than bad.

Some of the Titus Women and Bible College students from the meeting.

         Later in the week, I shared my story again with about 70 Hindu women (Titus Women aspect of the ministry). My father's life and death was a testimony to women that don't even know God yet. I looked into the faces of the Hindu women--all of them were there that day to make and sell handmade items so that their families may be provided for. As I looked out at each of them I believed in faith that one day all of them in God's perfect timing will turn the page to a new chapter--one of God's salvation, freedom, and peace. 

       The story we all begin with is one that we try to write on our own. Circumstances beyond our control tear out pages here and there--causing people to tell us our story isn't worth reading. God sees the divine purpose he has created in us and he replaces what has been torn.

       In many ways, India was the beginning of a new chapter for me. My heart was filled with a love for the people that can't be easily described. Their faces were ingrained in my mind and the immense need for God was etched on my heart. A new chapter is being written and just like any book worth reading, it will be written one page at a time.

     

Paradox

    There was no way that I could have been prepared for India. We landed in New Delhi and the airport welcomed us like any other we had traveled to around the world. The terminals were lined with seats filled with people of different nationalities. The signs to baggage claim looked just like the ones in Washington D.C. and London. We passed easily through immigration and retrieved our bags from the luggage carosel.

    When we went outside and our host met us, the Delhi air invaded my senses. The air smelled like sulfur--like a match that had been lit and then blown out. With the line of taxis waiting, the outskirts of the airport created somewhat of a comfort zone. Set aside from the smell, the surroundings were similar to the taxi queue at Heathrow airport. Cars bumper to bumper and drivers eager to take you for a spin and empty your pockets with each turn. We soon boarded the taxi and it transported us further into Delhi and into the unfamiliar.

     The streets were crowded--a sea of taxis, rickshaws, and motorcycles intertwined like fibers of a rope--so close that one began where the other ended. People and stray dogs freely walked between the cars and into oncoming traffic. Liter blanketed the sidewalks and runoff areas where the sidewalks met the road. Many homeless people slept on the ground and on top of a low standing wall. They laid beneath a piece of plastic, cloth, or nothing at all. Poverty and wealth were illuminated beneath the golden orange hue of the street lamps. On one side of our taxi there were people making a small fire outside of their home built of old tires and torn plastic. On the other side of our taxi, a white Mercedes cut into traffic. Both the white makeshift plastic "roof" and Mercedes seemed to glow in unison for just a moment beneath the light. In a moment, both were gone and the taxi drove us into a new paradox.

    Poverty and wealth seemed to move together fluidly in the same culture. We arrived at a hotel and again, I eagerly yearned for something familiar. We found that our room, set aside from a few differences, was a lot like one in the states. I found comfort in that as we went to bed. I laid there trying to process all that I had seen. Taxi horns and barking dogs echoed outside. The air conditioned room and sound of traffic made me feel that I could be anywhere in the world.

    Morning came and we left the hotel at 6:00 a.m. with our host and taxi driver. The drive to Agra to tour the Taj Mahal took hours and the journey threw us both into culture shock. I was in shock more than Matt since he has had previous exposure to a culture other than one in the Western world. Daylight revealed much more than the night before.

    The most beautiful colors I have seen adorned women in saris,traditional Indian tops and scarves. Mosques and temples appeared often with gods for sale at roadside. My heart sank as I saw a woman praying to a god set on a makeshift altar just at the corner of the street. She had such an expression of desperation on her face. Although I only saw her for a moment in passing, the look on her face will always stay with me. I though of how her god could not hear her and suddenly I became aware that India was not spiritually impoverished, but rather robbed of the Truth.

    In that moment I had no idea how often that woman's face would appear to me again and again.

Your Funeral

    I remember the day that my mamaw passed away. I was eight and when I was told that she had taken her last breath and that she was in Heaven I did the only thing that I knew to do--I ran away. I ran through the flower garden I had helped her plant. I ran past the pond that I had helped her dig with my pink plastic shovel. I cried and I ran until someone caught me and wiped my tears away. 

   Her funeral was simple. I don't remember who gave the eulogy or if anyone did, but I do remember the smell of pink carnations and the feeling of deep sadness I had in my stomach. I couldn't understand how life could end so quickly.

   Fourteen years later, my father passed away. I did the only thing that I knew to do--I ran away. This time I didn't run through beautiful flowers and I wasn't caught by anyone. I ran hard and fast; as I did I lost pieces of who I was. There were no projects like gardens and ponds to remind me of him. We hadn't really "known" each other that long so there were only letters he had meant to give to me that I found in his room. When I found them, I held them to my chest as if they were gold--they were heavy and weighted my heart down.

   As we get older, we learn to do something very well--hide. We hide behind denial, careers, family, social circles, religion, and good intentions. I hid behind the hurt that had been placed on me. Hiding behind hurt is in a category all in its own--it takes effort of our very soul to keep up the facade. 

   I gave the eulogy at his funeral. It was only about six sentences written on crumbled lined paper. As a writer and as a daughter I felt ashamed--there had been no words to express how I felt. My eulogy expressed my forgiveness and a promise--the promise that I would always remember him fondly and try to love others as he had loved me.

  Mamaw didn't have a huge social life and wasn't part of a community outside of her family. She didn't have many friends, but she was a best friend to her six sisters. She didn't have a career, but was a stay-at-home mom. Mamaw wasn't a perfect mother and had demons in her past, but she found redemption. 

  My father was ill for the last several years of his life. He literally didn't have any friends because most were addicts and had passed away from years of abusing their bodies. My father never had a career or even a job and wasn't always there of me, but he reconciled his past and God gave him a future--even if it was one in Heaven and not a healed body and fresh start here on earth. 

   I chose to write about these two people because by earthly standards they didn't really accomplish much during their time on earth. Neither held a career, had a 401K, traveled, were involved in their community, or even left inheritances behind. What was to be said about them when they crossed from this world and into the next? They both found peace with God--neither in a dramatic conversion and traditional setting. Nevertheless, they found God and they found peace.

  When all was said and done--when breath left their lungs and their hearts failed to beat--what remained valuable about their lives? The flower garden was filled with more memories than lilies and roses. It was there that I felt my Mamaw's love and felt special enough to help her. Helping her dig the pond made my small hands feel capable of change and empowered me to give all of my effort. My father's letters are something that I will always have to remind me of what true love is--an ongoing effort and commitment despite all odds. My last photo with him at my wedding reminds me of the beauty of forgiveness and the promise of healing--whether on this earth or in Heaven.

 This life isn't about the things we leave behind nor is it about the reputation that is etched on our headstone--it is about the hope we have etched on people's hearts. We are meant to leave so much more than material things--lessons learned and instilled in our children and those we love, the genuine love that we held for family and strangers alike, thankfulness and joy that make us live beyond ourselves. 

  

  I eventually stopped hiding. I ran again, but into a place of solace and peace. The pain remains at times, but I dropped my disguise and exchanged it for something new--life--my one chance I have been given on this earth. 

    The flower garden has overgrown, the pond is dried up, and the letters remain in a box. Everything that matters is etched on my heart and will one day be passed to my children.

  I've been given another chance to truly live today. You have been, too. May we live as if living requires effort and that we have everything in the world that matters to leave behind. 

 

               

                                                                                                               

                                                                                                            

Elevator

        It's days like today that I feel hopeful. Days when nothing particularly amazing happens, but yet I'm caught in a whirlwind of gratitude. It's days like today when life is enough to hold at the end of the day. Circumstances haven't changed for better or for worse, but there is an unchanging and unshakable foundation of hope that I find myself standing on. Most days, hope looks like a thin sheet of glass that I am standing on high above the earth below me--like the see through floor of an elevator in a posh London highrise. The foundation has tested strong, but I look down and am filled with momentary fear. Today, despite looking down, I realize that hope isn't as fragile as I often think it is.

       Hope- expectation - expectancy - expectant - trust - promise

    
       In the definition itself, hope has nothing to do with emotion. It's an attitude. Hope is a truth buried within us--one that sustains despite circumstance. I often think that hope relies solely on how I feel in a given moment. I either feel hopeful or I don't. I hope for something or I doubt. Hope is often discussed like it is some fragile state of being--like it could shatter like the glass floor of an elevator. Hope isn't weak; it is tough. It's audacious and unapologetic. It doesn't crumble at the sight of fear or shrink back at defeat. Hope carries us even when we are broken.

       Hope found in God is the most beautiful of all. Set aside from him is there any hope at all? It partners with faith and they cling intimately like fingerprints on glass. I have held hope tightly recently--both for myself and those in my life that are facing heartache. Hope coupled with faith runs through my veins not because I am strong, but because at times of despair it's all that we have. God supplies us with hope and faith because he knows that we will need them more than the ground needs water to sustain growth. Today, I am hopeful and faithful.

       I stand on the seemingly fragile foundation that appears that it may shatter beneath my feet. The truth is, hope is stronger than I will ever know and it's going to lift me up one floor; one trial at a time.