For the love of them…or us?

I recently read a great article about Toms. The shoes. But more so the real purpose of the company.

It’s a great idea, right? You buy a pair of shoes and they will give a pair of shoes to kids who don’t have them. I’ve seen kids with bare feet and gone on medical clinics to see them treated for hookworm and other things because of it. By golly, I will pay $50 for a pair of canvas shoes for a good cause! Who wouldn’t?

But, the article I read made a point. Even though this is a good cause (it is, no one is disputing that). It’s not really solving any real problems. Why? Because the company works from outside of the countries that are in need. They make the shoes, consumers buy them, and they are delivered to countries that need them. Who feels the best about what they do? The consumer. It’s a company model built around a good cause, but in the end it’s meant to make the consumer feel good about what they buy.

What’s wrong with that? Nothing. Intrinsically. But it isn’t solving the real problem…the reason the kids don’t have shoes isn’t that they aren’t available. The reason the kids don’t have shoes is that they are in poverty stricken countries where they can’t afford shoes. So, they get shoes. They also get rice and beans from a charitable aid organization, shoe boxes filled with well-meaning gifts once a year, but they are still living in poverty. Have we fixed the problem or have we simply made ourselves feel better?

I’m not saying any of those things are bad. In fact, quite the opposite! They are good things! Don’t stop supporting organizations that help underprivileged countries! They need all the help they can get! But is our help a momentary fix or a solution? That’s all I want to ask.

I recently read a post on my brother’s wall that basically said that sometimes it takes a cold cup of water from a person’s hand before you will accept the Living Water from their hearts. I get that. Meet a physical need to gain access to meet their spiritual need. Christ exemplified that. There is nothing wrong with that. But, the old Chinese proverb holds some truth, too – “Give a man a fish and he will eat for a day. Teach a man to fish and you have fed him for a lifetime.” So the question I’m pondering today is this, in my good deeds am I simply making myself feel better for the day, or will their lives be different?

There is a time and place for every purpose under heaven. Solomon drives that point home. But, there are organizations that are making permanent solutions in war-torn and poverty stricken countries not just momentary fixes but hard core “We see this need and we are going to fix the problem not slap a bandaid on it.” I want to see more of this.

Toms could do more to make a difference, a permanent difference. They could teach the locals how to make their shoes (honestly, it can’t be too hard!). They could buy the canvas, the leather, and the cork from those people, and sell them very cheaply so that the poor make a profit… then those leftovers that don’t sell…they could be given to the kids that desperately need them. That’s just a thought. But the point is, one pair of shoes at a time is only going to last at the most a year. Whereas teaching them how to make the shoes and sell them, that could make a lifetime of difference to ailing countries. Like, Digging wells. This is a permanent solution. This makes a complete and total difference in the areas that get this privilege. We take for granted our easy access to water as we fling another bottle in our purse as we leave the gym, we don’t even think about famine or drought or the fact that the animals bathe and leave waste in the one stream we might share as a village…which is like 3 or more of our subdivisions combined. Organizations and missionaries that teach a trade in order to help villages to support themselves, not to live off of temporary handouts, these people are heros…life savers…fixers. Artists that take their time to teach African women designs for necklaces that they can make and sell to raise money to invest in their families and communities, this is life-changing work. Funding goats and livestock and corn and seed and feed, these are donations that are going to make a failing community prosper! These things will feed and clothe and aid multiple families and pass on hope and knowledge and wellness to the next generation. And, these are just a few roles of amazing organizations from medical to agricultural that are making life-restoring differences!

I will probably still buy Toms. And I hope you will, too. I’m not out to sabotage good works. I just want to ask the question, “Am I doing this for the love of them…or me?” I am not leading a crusade to fight economic injustice; I just want to ask myself the tough questions, the raw questions that get to the quick of my motivation because I want to see their lives changed for the better for GOOD not just for the moment. I don’t want there to be any doubt that the work that is done IS for them and not for me, and that the One that sent me provides not just for a day but for all eternity.

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Clinically speaking…

I’m dealing with exhaustion, or exhaustion is dealing with me.

No one knows why or what or how. I can’t prove what I feel or show them my weakness. The one thing that is symptomatic about these spells is that my lymph nodes swell and I run a low fever. What can’t be verified are the pains that dully throb in my arms and legs, kind of like growing pains, but I’m pretty sure my growing days are over, unless it’s the opposite of growth and I’m shrinking. It doesn’t affect me all the time, in fact, in between spells I’m actually quite energetic and useful. I have a good life, and I enjoy what I do, all that I do. The doctors can rule out depression.

I suggested to my doctor that perhaps I’m just a very convincing (if not severely deluded) hypochondriac. I like him. He’s a nice guy, but I’m frankly tired of seeing him every few weeks, and my wallet is really over him. He laughed when I said that and dismissed my fears, “I have met a few of those, and they would LOVE to be able to make their lymph nodes swell!” So..there goes that theory.

All I know is… my body isn’t right. I can’t explain it, no one can diagnose it, but I know it. And quite honestly, it sucks. (Sorry for my language, mom.) I know she will forgive me. She cried the other day. She knows my frustration. She wants answers, too, but when there are none to be had, she does what good mothers do best, she feels. And, that is beautifully comforting.

I’m not dying. It’s nothing critical or fatal. That much we know. So, I’m happy with that. The most it is is frustrating. It stops me, slows me down, and forces me into what our family refers to as “couch days”. Usually those days were made up of me, beating myself up for being unproductive as my family lives life around me and willing myself to push through and only feeling like a failure when I couldn’t…those days were long and mostly consisted of guilty sleep and frustrated kids that weren’t getting their fair share of mom time…while dad picks up the pieces not unlike Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom.

This weekend I was there again. It hit me on Thursday evening and by Saturday I was on the couch. But, somewhere in the midst of self-hatred and self-pity I heard the voice of God. Funny how on those days I find myself so lonely His voice is expected and longed for more than any other time, and He is faithful to meet me and speak to me of my worth when I feel so worthless. He spoke gently, “Be still.” It wasn’t a correction or a tone of discipline, rather it was like a mother pleading with her child that cannot stop shaking her leg or looking around her, “Be still.” And I felt my soul stop.

My soul heard the voice of it’s Creator and Father and without my having to think about it, my world stood still. Craig Groeschel reminded me this weekend, “If you are having trouble not thinking about what you have to do, think about what God has already done.” That’s what I did. I looked at all that I had fretted about the last 24 hours and said, “Daddy God, you have been faithful in the past, if you have to you can multiply my time, or minimize my tasks, regardless, this time with You isn’t wasted.” And I rested.

I’m waiting on more test results today. I’m not fretting. In fact, I’m actually thanking God for my couch days. They have helped me put things in perspective…His perspective! And He is our Great Physician.

 

All out love

One of the most memorable stories in Heidi Baker’s book, Compelled by Love, took place in London. I say ONE of the MOST memorable because the book is filled with amazing stories of faith and love and healing! But this story that I am about to relate…to use a phrase my college friend uses, rocked my face off!

Heidi is a passionate, loving soul. I haven’t met her, but when you read her words you hear her heart and you know. You feel amazing love from her. Her love for others led her to London at 17. Just saved a couple of years she found herself in London wanting to lead others to this wonderful Savior that as she says “ruined” her. That’s not a bad thing. I know what she means. When you have felt and experienced that amazing all-consuming passionate love from the Lover of your soul…you are ruined. Nothing else will ever measure up, no other love will take your breath away, and no human can compare.

In London she met a girl that was more like a man -strong and gruff, masculine and angry. She had been sexually abused and mistreated in a horrible homelife. She had run away but the past was still haunting her and taunting her. She would have none of Heidi’s love. She made that clear.

She also met a man, a drunk. He was hopeless and depressed. He didn’t want what Heidi was pushing. He was fine on his own, Jesus didn’t want him anyway. Reluctantly, Heidi realized that as much as she wanted to, she couldn’t drag them to forgiveness and grace and love…they had to make that choice. She prayed they would.

One night Heidi decided to try to talk to the girl one more time, but whatever she said or didn’t say set her off! They were in the stairwell of the apartment that they were living in and she hit her. Heidi said, “I love you.” She hit her again, and again through the pain Heidi said, “I love you.” Anger welled up and pain was unleashed and the girl was pummeling her, beating her with every lash of memory into her face. The whole time, through tears and confusion and severe pain, Heidi kept saying “I love you!” The man, drinking on his stoop, was privy to this whole scene. Awestruck he was unable to move as he watched her being beaten to death. Before it was too late, he yelled and frightened the girl off. He picked up Heidi, carried her to his apartment, and nursed her back to health. Her love for the girl was more than he could stand, and suddenly he understood that it wasn’t her love but Christ’s love in and through her! He wanted that Savior! He needed that Savior! And he found Him.

Heidi then says that weeks of recovery went by, and then one day there is a knock at the door, it is the girl. In her hands, she carried some flowers, and with tears she apologized and wanted to know more about this Jesus.

That is LOVE. All out love – that Paul talks about. He says in Romans 12:9-10 that our love for one another should be an all out love! Not holding back but giving all we have…the kind of love that the World cannot understand…the kind of love that is beyond comprehension or explanation…the kind of love that will allow someone to beat you to the point of death while you whisper, “I love you.” Irrational, crazy love…the kind of love that will take on the penalty for sins He never committed… that will allow Himself to be crucified on a cross a symbol of shame, reserved for the worst of criminals…that will speak through a deformed face as blood drips from His face, “Father forgive them.”

All out love.

That’s what He asks…that’s what it’s all about…that’s what we should be all about. Are you? Because I want to be, and I won’t stop until I am.

Poor is an Attitude

This year I have had the pleasure of being a mentor for the CWJC (Christian Women’s Job Corp) which is a ministry for women that want to better themselves by learning life skills, job skills, and having the training and education to take and pass their GEDs and ACTs. I fell in love with these women of all ages, some with kids and some with grandkids, but all had a heart needing love and care and grace, rarely if ever offered.

I have learned a lot in this process. I have learned what it truly means to say “I am poor.” I have learned that you can be homeless and still care for your family and long for a better life. I’ve learned that the system is broken and the government misses those who really need aid while trafficking those who know how to work the system, but mostly I have learned that God loves the poor and their circumstances aren’t a reflection of their faith or His favor.  I’ve recently learned that poor is an attitude, and even the wealthy can be poor.

In March our women graduated, ready to take their GEDs and move on. I watched their faces shine with hope and excitement at what this test would mean for them and their families. I watched mamas grab babies and hold them above their heads in anticipation that this marked a change for their generation. I watched women weep as they moved their yellow tassels to the other side of their caps, something they had never done, and had never thought they would do. I wept and clapped and hoped and believed!

Before we left that last day, they asked us to pray. The enemy was already playing on their insecurities. One girl was convinced that she would fail. She always had, nothing would be any different. Our hearts ached, and we dared the enemy to come against these women; he would not win! We patted and hugged and reassured, and we believed that on test day they would shine.

Only, it didn’t happen that way. This is where I have to interject my absolute hatred for the devil! He will not stop until he devours and destroys everyone one of God’s amazing creations…and with women he attacks their insecurities. Even as I type this I want to cry. These precious women were timid and shy and every thought of failure and unworthiness and inequality was already running through their precious minds…the lies were stacked up against the truth. And, the devil knew this.

The minute they got to the place to take the test, they were refused their prayer time. It was late. There was a time limit, and they had to get started. Funny, the lady that tested them was in such a hurry since when she finally got them in the room she proceeded to berate them, and degrade them with her harsh words and actions. She told them they were worst than criminals and every word out of her mouth spoke hatred and judgment. She even forced one of the ladies to remove her shirt because it looked like a jacket, even when the woman insisted that she had nothing underneath, that it was her shirt, the instructor didn’t care. Even though there was a young man in the room, rules were rules…and our sweet lady was mortified and embarrassed, appalled and shamed.

Can you imagine? Can you for one minute take on the heart and mind of that woman and feel what she felt? These are women that have been beat down their entire lives, many of them physically abused, several sexually abused, and I would venture to say all of them have been emotionally and verbally abused. They had believed the lie that they would amount to nothing. They had listened to the voice of the enemy taunt them and stab holes in their hearts, and poke at their wounds. But they chose to rise above their circumstances and make a better life for themselves and for their families, and in the process they learned more of the God that rescues and redeems, restores and saves, and that can’t be taken away!

It is no wonder that none of our ladies passed completely. My heart breaks as I relay this tragic story – even as it did as I heard it! One poor lady almost had a heart attack due to the stress all this caused, and all of them were scared, broken and shaking when they met with the program leader later that week. But even considering all of this, they only marginally failed those sections…what a miracle! And God’s grace shines through because they will not be charged for their retakes. They are stronger than the devil gave them credit for, and they are eager to show him Who decides their fates!

Here is the beauty and strength of those women, proof that their hearts are healing – rightly so, they filed a complaint against the lady that tested them, but in spite of the pain they were handed, they offered back grace. They are praying for the woman. And, by their example, I am praying for her, too, for she is poor.

Looking at scars

Scars.

We don’t want them. We try our best to avoid them. To mend the cuts that leave them well enough that they are fine slivers of pink, barely acknowledging the pain that caused them. But, we manage to get them. And they serve as reminders, whether we want them to or not.

I was talking with a lady today about trust and commitment, about the scars that keep her leery and watchful, the scars that remind her to be wise and to be patient, and the lies that encourage her not to trust again. She wanted to know why? Why is it so hard to see past the scars? The answer – the pain from where the scars come, haunts us, and we never want to re-experience that pain. So, we guard it, we protect ourselves, we isolate ourselves, and we pray that we never walk that way again, always looking behind our back for the moment we will be tricked into the pit where our pain began. There is no joy in that. There is no hope in that. There is no freedom in that. That is right where our enemy wants us.

Friday my oldest was jumping on the trampoline in our backyard. Squeals of laughter and excitement suddenly turned into a scream and a torrent of tears. Unaware of a jagged piece of metal, she had ripped open a three inch hole in her leg. As a mom, I did my best not to freak out. It wasn’t the blood, there wasn’t much of it because of the way the cut happened, but looking at the hole all I could picture was the scar. I suggested an ER visit. Only stitches could pull together that kind of wound, the skin was pulling away instead of repositioning itself to close the wound. The blood had stopped but the wound was still gaping. I called in reinforcements, not trusting my own instincts. Everyone assured me that it would be okay. So, we bandaged it, and are still hoping for the best.

Why am I telling you this? All that day, Maddie looked at the trampoline, longing to jump again. She said, “If I had just been careful and watched what I was doing, I would still be having fun.” She pouted as she watched her little sister soaring through the air, care-free and gleeful, longing for that freedom and that joy. She remarked, “All I can think about is this wound, the feeling of the metal in my skin, and the pain. I can never jump again. And, I will always have this scar to remind me why.” (Did I mention she’s a little dramatic?) There was something about her comment that didn’t settle with me. I didn’t like the prison bars she was closing around herself. Never jump? That didn’t seem logical.

Scars.

They are reminders – of mistakes we made, or the mistakes of others, of the pain that we bore, and many of us have to look but once and we will feel that moment all over again. The fear stops our breath, reminds us of our failures, and the voice threatens us, “This will happen again.” So we isolate ourselves, and install bars around our hearts and minds, and all the while we notice the freedom that everyone else enjoys, knowing it can never be us. We messed up. We must pay. But where does this thought come from? Not from Daddy God. I was thinking this morning, about scars…about my pain and my shame and my guilt and my bars of protection…when God gave me a picture of His scars. You see, He has scars, too. And, there is a reason. When Jesus walked the earth after His resurrection, one disciple in particular was skeptical, Thomas, the doubter. So, Jesus, in order to convince him, offers, “Put your finger in the scars in my hands.” Jesus, the resurrected One, the transformed One, still has scars. Why?

God talks to me in pictures. So when He shows me things, we talk in order to understand them. (Who better to ask about the meaning of Life than the Creator of Life?) He showed me a scripture verse, one that I use often and share with girls that are struggling with self injury, “See, I have engraved you on the palms of My hands; your walls are ever before me.” (Isaiah 49:16) Those are the Words of God of the Old Testament…both the God of the Old Testament and Jesus of the New Testament bear scars. And He says, “I bear these scars for you, and I will NEVER forget you.”Here is where I see the twinkle. (This is the picture I get when He has revealed something to me.) He spoke,

Scars.

We don’t want them. We try our best to avoid them. To mend the cuts that leave them well enough that they are fine slivers of pink, barely acknowledging the pain that caused them. But, we manage to get them. And they serve as reminders, whether we want them to or not.

I was talking with a lady today about trust and commitment, about the scars that keep her leery and watchful, the scars that remind her to be wise and to be patient, and the lies that encourage her not to trust again. She wanted to know why? Why is it so hard to see past the scars? The answer – the pain from where the scars come, haunts us, and we never want to re-experience that pain.  So, we guard it, we protect ourselves, we isolate ourselves, and we pray that we never walk that way again, always looking behind our back for the moment we will be tricked into the pit where our pain began. There is no joy in that. There is no hope in that. There is no freedom in that. That is right where our enemy wants us.

Friday my oldest was jumping on the trampoline in our backyard. Squeals of laughter and excitement suddenly turned into a scream and a torrent of tears. Unaware of a jagged piece of metal, she had ripped open a three inch hole in her leg. As a mom, I did my best not to freak out. It wasn’t the blood, there wasn’t much of it because of the way the cut happened, but looking at the hole all I could picture was the scar. I suggested an ER visit. Only stitches could pull together that kind of wound, the skin was pulling away instead of repositioning itself to close the wound. The blood had stopped but the wound was still gaping. I called in reinforcements, not trusting my own instincts. Everyone assured me that it would be okay. So, we bandaged it, and are still hoping for the best.

Why am I telling you this?

All that day, Maddie looked at the trampoline, longing to jump again. She said, “If I had just been careful and watched what I was doing, I would still be having fun.” She pouted as she watched her little sister soaring through the air, care-free and gleeful, longing for that freedom and that joy. She remarked, “All I can think about is this wound, the feeling of the metal in my skin, and the pain. I can never jump again. And, I will always have this scar to remind me why.” (Did I mention she’s a little dramatic?) There was something about her comment that didn’t settle with me. I didn’t like the prison bars she was closing around herself. Never jump? That didn’t seem logical.

Scars.

They are reminders – of mistakes we made, or the mistakes of others, of the pain that we bore, and many of us have to look but once and we will feel that moment all over again. The fear stops our breath, reminds us of our failures, and the voice threatens us, “This will happen again.” So we isolate ourselves, and install bars around our hearts and minds, and all the while we notice the freedom that everyone else enjoys, knowing it can never be us. We messed up. We must pay.

But where does this thought come from? Not from Daddy God.

I was thinking this morning, about scars…about my pain and my shame and my guilt and my bars of protection…when God gave me a picture of His scars. You see, He has scars, too. And, there is a reason.  When Jesus walked the earth after His resurrection, one disciple in particular was skeptical, Thomas, the doubter. So, Jesus, in order to convince him, offers, “Put your finger in the scars in my hands.”  Jesus, the resurrected One, the transformed One, still had scars. Why?

God talks to me in pictures. So when He shows me things, we talk in order to understand them. Who better to ask about the meaning of Life than the Creator of Life? He showed me a scripture verse, one that I use often and share with girls that are struggling with self injury, “See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands; your walls are ever before me.” (Isaiah 49:16) Those are the Words of God of the Old Testament…both the God of the Old Testament and Jesus of the New Testament bear scars. And He says, “I bear these scars for you, and I will NEVER forget you.” Here is where I see the twinkle. (This is the picture I get when He has revealed something to me.) He spoke, “Leslie, I don’t bear these scars out of fear or disappointment. I haven’t marked My body for you out of pain and regret. I love you. And I have engraved these scars on My hands because I want you to KNOW that I am aware of your scars…but in comparison, they are nothing in light of Mine. Mine are eternal, made before the mark of time ever stole the first second, and yours will be erased in the twinkling of an eye. They are merely marks of flesh…Mine are forever symbols of love.”

Then His question: “Do you trust Me?” Before I had the chance to answer, I heard peals of laughter coming from my backyard. I looked out my window and saw Maddie, smile shining, high in the air with freedom from fear etched on her face. I was so proud of her! No matter what her scar may look like in the years to come. She refused to let it hold her captive, and with one daring jump, she conquered fear! I was so proud of her! I relished that moment, delighted in her freedom, and I felt the Father’s heart – “This is where I want you! Not in the enemy’s clutches, watching your back, waiting in fear, but free and fearless! You don’t have to protect yourself…I AM protecting you!”

His voice echoed, “Do you trust Me?” I nodded my soul to Him, Him Whom I trust. His Light radiated with a smile, “Then, jump, My child.”

Flipping Pages

Everyone has a story.

We know that intrinsically. We are all working out of a story, His story in us. But hearing the stories of the girls in Guatemala, reminded me of the words that God was telling me, that He had rescued them…that they are His hidden treasures.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent.

We see that line from time to time, in a crime story or in a scandalous tale that supposedly happened in real life. But the truth of the matter is, I have met these girls and in the day and age of social media and websites and bullying that can come from that, I never want these girls to be targeted so I WILL protect them.

Sarah, is precious. She has freckles across her face, her skin is paler than the others and she is fairly quiet. The moment I met her, I knew. Maybe it was what she was wearing or the way she carried herself, but I knew where her pain must lie. I wasn’t wrong. I hate when I’m not wrong. She was taken to POP with her sister, taken out of a dangerous situation where they were being raised by their older brothers. Sarah was the older of the two girls and had already experienced years of sexual mistreatment. When the brothers began to seek out her sister, she ran. She was one thing, but her sister was another entirely…she would not let her be hurt. Looking to protect her sister, she found rescue for herself. She is still healing…years of sexual abuse takes a lifetime to heal, but she is healing…and Daddy God is restoring what was selfishly stolen at far too young an age by her brothers who were meant to protect her. Pray for Sarah and her sister, Rachel.

Becky, Vanessa, and Gigi are all three sisters. They came to PoP when their mother died of cancer. Their father had been killed a couple years before, at knife-point by a drug dealer. They were left in the care of their brothers, who had themselves become dealers. Not a good or safe situation for three young girls. When I think about what might have been, I weep and thank God for rescuing them! There is no telling what their little eyes have already seen, but I pray that God will restore hope in them – that someone can love them, that they will feel protected, and that they will know that God has a plan for them, and it started with His rescue.

Diana is beautiful. She is beautiful to behold -long hair, sparkling eyes, and smooth skin. She grew up at “The Line” the area of the city that is adjacent to the railways, where the prostitutes set up shop. There is a missionary couple that has been called to minister to these women…to tell them that they are worthy, that their value is more than their body, and that God created them for His delight which is pure and rich and good. Diana’s mother was one that heard that Truth and wanted more of this Love and this Jesus that would take her shame and guilt and emptiness and replace it with His peace. Unfortunately, she had already contracted AIDS so her earthly life was coming to an end before her dance would begin. Diana was rescued. Her beauty required her to be protected or she would be taken and used. She was taken to PoP and there she has found her protection, her home, and I pray that she always is…that she finds a man that will cherish her and love her and see her for the beauty that she is, the buried treasure she is, and treat her like a princess.

Even as I find a name for this little one, I smile. Her smile still haunts me. Such a treasure. There is no telling what she has seen in her six short years. She was found on the street by the police. There is some speculation about how long she had been there. She was for all intents and purposes “a street rat.” The most perplexing thing about Susie is that she wants nothing to do with her mother. I don’t know what that can mean. It’s unusual. Even children horribly mistreated by their moms and dads and brothers, when given the chance to see them will at least reluctantly agree. Not Susie. She wants NOTHING to do with her mother. Doesn’t want to talk about her, and refuses to see her. She’s such a loving kid, laughing and smiling and playing and entertaining, but it all goes away when you mention her mom. She was rescued. We don’t even know what her story is in full, but it must be horrible and so I pray for her. I pray that she knows that she brings her Father God great delight and pleasure, that when she dances and sings that she does so for Him. I pray that she understands that whatever her mother did to her or allowed done to her, Daddy God did not approve, and He will restore her past with His abundant plans for her future.

I’m crying as I wrap this up. There is no way for me to bring these girls home. I would if I could. I would take out a second mortgage if it required it. But, there are no more adoptions from Guatemala. I pray this changes. I know there are many families that would LOVE to have these girls.  In fact, there is one girl at PoP that brings me to tears every time I think of her story. Her name is Olivia. She was all set to be adopted – had met her adoptive family, was excited about the prospect of making her home in the States. The couple had already adopted another girl from Guatemala, who would be her older sister. Then the freeze. Can you imagine? You have parents, you have a child, you know each other, you’ve met each other,  you love each other, but because of some stupid bureaucratic red tape they are separated, forced to remain a split family. It breaks my heart. I can’t imagine. And, yet, I know, that even in all of this, God is working out a story…and I believe in His beautiful endings though I can’t foresee His plan.

Our stories can be heartbreaking and seem impossible. Some of our stories are mysteries and some feel like tragic comedies, but all of us HAVE a story. We often see God as the narrator, overseeing the action and moving the players around…but He is the main character. He is actively involved in each story…working within even the most tragic tales to bring a beautiful resolution. We can’t flip through to the end, we have to wait through each painstaking turn, the flipping of pages, but I can promise you, even if you think you have it figured out, the ending is better than you can imagine. I believe this. For all of us. After all, God didn’t tell me we are buried debris or covered trash, but we are all BURIED TREASURES… in the end we will shine.

*If your heart has been moved, you can help these girls. I have a link on my blog site home page. Every sponsor helps – it takes 8 sponsors at $30 a month to fund one girl. Consider aiding their rescue.