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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.”

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.

My last blog left off with my conversation with God, my desperate call for help to do what He was leading me to do, and His answer that we would heal others. I have to say, I immediately checked that thought, after all, I’m talking to teen girls about how to take their thoughts captive and make them obedient to Christ, I have to do the same. Was it a selfish thought? Was it a thought that served myself or others? Was it good, lovely, and pure? Did it perpetuate the Love of God in me and through me? Did it line up with His Word? Yes. It did. I knew my Father spoke it, but what did He mean?

 

I looked back over what I was reading and listening to when I heard God’s voice as He spoke to Heidi and regardless of where I was and what I was supposed to be doing, I knew God was calling me away to focus, to get what He was saying, to understand. I shut the book, listened to the birds and the bugs (and saws) just outside my window and reached in to hear His voice. It was there, like a breaking wave, “You will heal the blind, cause the lame to dance, and set the captives free.”

 

Me? Surely I heard wrong. Who was I? I was little old Leslie with a lot of heart but very little power. I had just read Heidi’s story…she had kept her hands up for 3 hours, laid on her face for three days, and was consumed and ignited with the fire of God – of course, she would heal! I understood this. But I was no Heidi! I could barely pray for an hour without losing focus about a million times or fading off to sleep!

 

Then I heard the same thing He had been saying to me for a while, the very same answer He gave Peter when he wanted to know about John’s fate, “What’s that to you? What does what I do through anyone else, and what anyone else does for me have to do with you?” I was listening. “Leslie, when will you see that there is no prescription for My working power, no set of rules, or secret to unlock? When will you get rid of your box and take hold and trust in My Love?”

 

I was still struggling to process, but I was beginning to understand…it wasn’t about me at all. It wasn’t about me following a set of rules, or obeying a scheduled pattern of practice. It wasn’t about what I could do to earn His favor and walk in His power, it was about accepting that I had His favor and I was walking in His power by His grace!

 

A few months ago someone told me, “Leslie, God gave me a word for you.” I was open to receive that word…if it was from God, I was desperate to hear it. Then he said, “If you don’t stop your ego-centrism, it will destroy you!” I admit that I was immediately offended, and even more so deeply hurt. I tested that word, and looked it up in the dictionary…ego centrism- caring about no one but yourself, self-involved and selfish. Really? If God had said this, did He know me? I shared it with my mentor and it didn’t resonate in either of us, in the voice in which it was shared, so I was told to dismiss it. But, it has served to haunt me. Anyone that knows what I have been through in the last couple of years in my life, has seen me struggle to find purpose, and question my life, knows that pride is something that was intentionally plucked out of me, not nicely or with gentleness, but in it’s place came grace and mercy and understanding…for all things but PRIDE. Pride doesn’t sit well with me. I am righteously indignant against it. It rises up my cackles and requires me to settle my spirit before God to control and to calm. I have made that “word” my prayer that I would never truly hear those words from the lips of God…that I would always be humble in my faith and in dealing with others…and that everything I have been given to do, and every gift that He has bestowed upon me would be offered back in love and thankfulness that He might be glorified.

 

I say all that to say that as time has passed I have come to the conclusion that my friend was both right and wrong. He was wrong because He translated that word as accusation and warning, but it was meant to be (or has come to mean to me) a word of wisdom and advice. It had nothing to do with only caring about myself, or not being willing to get dirty to minister to others, or putting myself on a pedestal. It has everything to do with not thinking that anything that God is doing in me and through me was based on who I am or what others saw in me. Doing God’s work is about being obedient and being open. It isn’t about playing a part, or gaining the favor of man, it is entirely about being pliable in the hands of my Maker, my Creator, my Lord, and my King. Sure others can and will do what I do, and many can and will do it better. It’s not about me being special or an expert, it is about me being obedient to the call He’s placed on my life, without looking to see what He is doing through and in others.

 

Healer God was pointing out my blindness, opening my eyes to see what had obscured my sight for so long. Healing my vision blinded by my insecurities. This was an important step…because no one gets anywhere when led by a blind person…but when the blind leader begins to see…the journey is clearer, and the passion is stoked to remove everyone’s scales so that we all can see!

One of the most God inspired moments I had at Prince of Peace had nothing to do with the girls. I was actually talking with one of the interns Yolanda, asking about her experiences, and sharing my fears about them having so many in and out of their lives, and hearing her journey of faith that God has begun in her. After less than an hour of sharing our hearts she says, “I have a book that you should read. I got it for my birthday. Do you read fast?” I laugh thinking about it, and the thoughts that filled my head, “Yes, I do read fast, and I love to read, and I rarely have time to finish a book.” I started to decline, but then I felt an excitement in my Spirit and I knew I had to read that book. “On a mission trip, ministering to girls and serving them, I should take up her offer to borrow her book?” As we often do, I tested the prompting. There was no doubt about it, the answer was, “Yes!”

The book was “Compelled by Love” by Heidi Baker. I had never heard of her before, but Yolanda had shared with me a little of her testimony, her amazing miraculous wake, and I was very interested. I should add here that I am not from an Apostolic background, but I have seen miracles, have witnessed them, and I believe that nothing is impossible with God. Immediately I was pulled in as Heidi’s husband writes the forward expressing her character and her personality, and how just being around her you could feel the love of Christ. I was jealous. If there is any characteristic of God that I feel most acutely it is His love, but I don’t exactly put off that aura. I dove into the book thinking to learn her “secret”.

Heidi’s is a testimony that you have to read to believe, and I highly recommend you reading it. But, she talks about her surrender to the love of Christ, the love that compelled her to go out of her way and do the unthinkable so that she could share what she had found. One day she was in an intense prayer time and she felt the Lord say to her that she would be a vessel of healing. I say vessel because only God can heal. The first miracle she heard Him say she would do is to heal the blind. Immediately she believed it. She looked for it, and the time came. She brought healing to a woman, an elderly woman, and she was amazed…she was even more amazed to hear that the woman shared her same name! The next time she brought healing it was also to a woman, a younger woman, and remarkably again she shared the same name! When it happened a third time with another woman named “Aida,” she knew that she was missing something. So, she asked God, “What are you trying to say to me?” God is very intentional. He answered, “You are blind, Heidi.” As I read this exchange I felt the Father speak the same to me, “You are blind, Leslie.” Even as she asked it, I also questioned how. His response was, “You are blind to my works, to my purpose and to my power.” Heidi asked, “Father, heal me! Help me see!” And she did, and the works that He did through her far surpassed what her faith before would have been able to see!

I read through some more, more miraculous works, more missions that she had led that brought life and healing to so many. “Is that what you want me to do, Lord? Go to another country and take in orphans and live and share Your love?” I asked with anticipation, almost a sense of eagerness, that He was indeed asking exactly that.  I thought about everyone I had chanced to meet and had spoken to in the last week: Yolanda was going to the Philippines to minister to women in sexual slavery. Ann was going to India to start another girl’s home, modeled after Prince of Peace. A friend was considering leaving the States to help another mission. It wasn’t hard to believe that He might not be asking the same of me. He wasn’t. As I read, He told me to look deeper.

“That would be too easy.” I wasn’t sure I heard that right. Too easy? To uproot my family, to move thousands of miles away, to start a church or a mission or a ministry – Who was I kidding? There was no part of that that would be easy. I heard His voice again, “Where does your heartache lie?” Immediately I started to cry. I thought of those that I minister to, those that I write for, and all of those that I meet and have yet to meet. Teen girls and women – my heart breaks daily for broken and used and scared and deceived girls that are longing for answers and hope and Truth. And, the truth hit me, and I wailed out loud, “It’s so hard, God!” He was confronting me with the truth that the hardships of leaving and ministry in a foreign land wouldn’t be easy, but what He had given me, the ministry that He had laid on my heart, His aching heart for His daughters, it was hard work.

I’m a runner. Not in the sense that my husband runs half marathons, I escape. When I was molested in boarding school, I ran to furthest recesses of my mind. When I was afraid that I was about to lose everything that I had ever known and faced never seeing my friends again, I tried to leave Earth. When I was raped in college, I ran to the ledge of reality and refused to believe it was happening. When I am scared or tired or overwhelmed, I try hard to find a way out…only there wasn’t one this time. With each passing day over the last couple of years, God was reminding me over and over in a million different ways exactly what He had called me to do, and still, I was looking for a way out! I argued with Him, “You don’t know what You are asking?! I am old. I am irrelevant. Let others, like Abbi, do this thing!” I gave a million reasons and excuses and better options, and at the end of my rant God said, “Are you quite finished, Moses?”

In the stillness, I realized there was no running. To run away was to abandon everything that He had gifted me with and had broken my heart over. So I did what a defeated, weary, and surrendered soul does, I cried out, “Help me!” And His answer came back, “You will bring them healing.”

I woke up to the blue Guatemalan sky and the sunshine pouring through our window Tuesday morning. It was a beautiful start to the day, but I was lonely for family. I tried to push them out of my mind, but their little faces and dimples and smiles kept intruding on my best attempts.

After breakfast, we went straight to work painting another two rooms in the school building. While we worked, we could hear the kids singing and chatting in the courtyard, and we wondered what they were up to so we leaned over the balcony to see. They were having a party! They were given bags of candy and a piece of cake that some of the workers had made for them. (We had smelt the lingering tendrils of baked chocolate at breakfast and now we knew why!) They were the happiest children on earth it seemed! It made my heart smile, but immediately I wondered at my own kids and their class parties and missed them all over again. I knew they were fine, figured they were happy, and I jerked my mind back to the task at hand.

With each brushstroke I found myself daydreaming about my girls. When out of the corner of my eye, I saw a girl from the home; it was Alicia (14) and she was smiling at me. I smiled back, and then I saw that she held something in her hand. It was a change purse like the one that I had been given the night before, and she was opening it up to hand me what was inside. She handed me a folded note. As I read it I stopped –“To my forever sister.” In the letter she wanted me to know that she was praying for me and my family and that she was pleased to meet me. I almost cried as I reached out to hug her. She was precious…and she was exactly right. I felt God speak to my heart, “Here is your forever family! You will go back home to your girls, but these are My girls, your sisters, and they are happy to spend today with you!” I folded the note up and put it in my pocket, thanking my sister for thinking of me. She handed me the change purse, “Here.” I didn’t want to take it. I had already been given something and these girls didn’t have much, but I accepted her eager gift. “Thank you.” She smiled, “I love you, sister.” I thought I would crumble, but the day was looking up.

Lured out to the balcony again later that morning, we were met with cake and juice. We smiled as we ate and watched the girls chattering and dancing and inspecting their bags of candy. My roommate Donna and I laughed and smiled and commented on how precious this day was for us. We saw Sarai, our little performer, and waved. She smiled and bounded up the stairs to us. She gave each one of us a piece of her candy. Donna was speechless, but as Sarai walked off she finally spoke, “Do you realize how big that is?” To be honest, at the moment, the significance of her treat had slipped by me. Donna explained, “She gave us her candy! It’s not like she gets that all the time, and she chose to give it away to us.” She looked at the wrapper in her hand, “I’m going to keep this.” (I love that lady… she shares the heart of Christ.) After day two of edging out walls and climbing up and down a ladder my back was hurting, and I knew that I needed to take a rest after lunch or I’d be no good for the rest of the week. I walked back to our room and pulled my “gifts” from my pocket with a smile. I turned the change purse with it’s love letter over in my hand. I now had two of them…two pink change purses with pirate skulls and the words, “Buried Treasure.” I was getting the message…He was pointing out His buried treasures. I was blessed to have discovered them. I picked up a book that Yolanda had given me and listened intently to the heartbeat of Daddy God as I rested.

During our rest time, two of the ladies had been plotting. Christine (the Yellow Rose of Texas) and Louanne were discussing something special they could do to show the girls our love and, more importantly, God’s love for them. Louanne wanted to “kidnap” them and take them to McDonalds in the city, but we convinced her that this would not be safe or possible on such short notice. She settled for ordering food into the compound. Christine took a more romantic approach and bought roses for each one of the girls and the workers. We would all pass them out at supper and were excited about our banquet!

I don’t think I can adequately describe the feeling in the dining hall that night. Kids were grabbing our hands, guiding us to tables, and calling out our names. I was led to a table by Alicia (my forever sister, or one of them) and Yeymie…I have to tell you about her. Yeymie is a precious little angel with dimples and a personality that goes on for days. She was abandoned by her mother when she was either an infant or a toddler. The woman that she was given to loved her and took care of her, and I believe that Yeymie really loves her and wants to be with her. Sadly, it was not an official adoption and years later after Yeymie’s mom had a couple more kids and needed some help taking care of them, she decided she needed her back. So, they went to court because the no one knew who was the real mother. The judge sent Yeymie, now 7, to the Prince of Peace Girls Home with the decision, “Whoever comes and sees her in the time specified, she is her mother.” Her biological mother has not visited her once. Her “adopted” mother comes as often as she can. Yeymie will most likely be going “home” soon.

That night I learned why God brought Yeymie there, no matter the short time. It was in the midst of Alicia and our leader, Karvin, teasing one another that she spoke. Alicia was telling Karvin her name was “Nada” meaning “nothing.” He pretended like he believed her, and then he asked, “Is that what is in your head?” She giggled and said, “Nooo.” Then he looked at her and smiled and asked, “Is that what is in your heart?” To which Yeymie in all seriousness piped up and said, “No. Jesus is in my heart.” She silenced Karvin, and she almost made me cry. I was reminded again, “These are My girls, Leslie… I AM rescuing them.” Right then and there I prayed for Yeymie and for Alicia, that they would always cling to their Savior.

After we had finished eating, Christine and Donna got up and sang with the girls, “Thank You” by Ray Boltz. Nothing can quite prepare you for hearing 50 kids and adults singing with a Spanish accent a song that says, “Thank you for giving to the Lord, I am a life that was changed. Thank you, for giving to the Lord, I am so glad you gave.” I was choking back tears as I tried to hold the video camera steady. I took the moment into my heart and soul as a forever memory with my forever sisters. Talk about your Valentine gift!

Donna, my beloved roommate on the trip, was the next to touch my heart. Slowly, so the girls could understand, she said to them, “There is no where else I would rather be and no one else I would rather be with than here with you on Valentine’s Day.” This was the heart of a woman that was still healing from a painful divorce and longing to be loved again. I looked at her, feeling the truth in every word that she spoke, and I felt God speak to me, “Tell her and Christine that I am loving on them as they love on my kids.” I started to cry. I never doubt the Father’s heart, but when I feel His desire so deeply and the delight He feels, it never ceases to take my breath away.

We ended the night as the girls made a line, and we handed out a rose to each one of them. I wish I had spoken Spanish because I wanted so badly to say, “This is how the Father sees you, as His perfect rose!” It’s probably good that I couldn’t. I have a feeling it would have come out sounding cheesy instead of passionate.

That evening, after group devotion time and as I pulled out my journal, my two change purses fell to the floor. They had been at the foot of my bed under my blanket. I smiled as I picked them up, “Buried Treasures and Perfect Roses what a Valentine’s Day it’s been.” I reached to put them in my suitcase when I felt a tug in my Spirit, the language of romance from the Lover of my Soul, “You, My Love, you, too, are a buried treasure, and I delight in you.” Sometimes in those moments of conversation, when His words seem too good to be true, I question if I am going crazy; after all, why would the Creator of the Universe speak such love to me? But, in the course of twenty four hours, two separate girls, at two separate times gave me the same gift with the same message. I don’t believe in coincidence, and like I said, I don’t doubt my Father’s heart. He is my Eternal Valentine, and He does delight in us and longs to lavish all of us with His love! Sadly, we don’t always let Him…nor do we realize that we are His Valentines.

Something happens when the God of the universe points out you’re living in a box. You notice it. Immediately it becomes tight and constrained and not nearly as comfortable as before. Claustrophobia kicks in and you find yourself wanting to tear off the sides and breathe! Only it’s not that easy. You not only see it surrounding you, but you see the boxes that others live in and you are desperate for them to be freed, also! But again, it’s not that easy. First, they have to see that they are in a box.

It was the second day, the first full day, in Guatemala and we were headed to church.. I don’t know what I expected, a church like the ones I have visited in Mexico and grew up attending in small country villages in Korea? But, the church we attended was huge! Mega.. To borrow a commonly used term. It seated thousands in an enclosed ampitheater, with engaging praise music, a huge information desk in the lobby, and familiar literature about what the church believes and what they have to offer all age groups of all kinds. It was a great place to get lost if you needed, a place where an orphan or cast-aside girl could blend in and maybe find a home.

I say that because we discovered on our bus ride that the girls hadn’t always gone to this church. They were once attending a church just outside the gates of their home which was far more convenient. Only, the church was not acting like the Body of Christ – they were discriminated against, not allowed to attend regular Sunday school, and consistently left out intentionally as if something was wrong with them – bearing the stigma of another person’s judgement cast in ignorance.
Looking around us, my two team partners and I found ourselves separated from our leaders, but we were in church and we saw one of the girls. She spotted us, smiled nervously, and apologized that she didn’t want to sit with us but with her friend that she only saw on Sunday (Please! I totally understood! We were there a week; this was her friend. No offense taken!).
I sat in my folding theater seat and took in my surroundings. I’m a watcher, an observer, I like to see where I am and absorb what I am experiencing. Again I heard the voice of God, “Look around at your family!” And, I did. I drank them in: families, children, men, women, girls, arms lifted up offering praise to my Daddy! Our Daddy! And I wondered, as I looked at their faces – some longing, some basking in His glow, others looking around them – “Do you see the box? Do you like it there? Are you content or tearing at it’s walls like me?”

After the service, we left, and I watched as families filed out, laughing, hugging, moms and dads and sons and daughters, sisters and brothers going home. I looked at the girls we were with.. Did that ever hurt? Did these glimpses of family sometimes feel like a stab in the heart that longs for that kind of connection and love? I knew it must. Maybe not for all of them, but no doubt most felt that pain. My compassion for them grew afresh, and whether or not I fully realized it, that was the moment I pulled back. My whole life I’d had people come in and out of my life and that had left bitter scars and pain and reluctance to trust. That was throughout decades, these little girls welcomed teams from America and beyond every week during the summer and often during the year! What scars might that leave, what issues would they later face? I decided I would love them and pray for them and serve them in anyway available or necessary, but I wouldn’t expect them to open their hearts to me, not again, not to a stranger, only to watch me walk away in 4 days. That wasn’t fair. I wanted to protect their little hearts.

We jumped back on the bus full of smiling faces, girls chattering and whispering, no doubt discussing life just like all teenagers and little girls the world over. I sat by Lucy – precious, beautiful Lucia whose smile and eyes twinkled with shy delight. “What’s your favorite color?” she asked. Strange. But then I understood, she was practicing her English. And the fleeting thought came, “When was the last time I answered that question?” I was stumped but she was waiting so I said, “Green.” She smiled; she agreed. I said, “There are so many shades!” I don’t know if she knew what I was saying but she nodded like she did. I asked her name. “Lucia,” she replied in her most beautiful Hispanic accent. I attempted, “Lucheeya.” She smiled, “Yes, but they call me Lucy.” Plain Lucy. I preferred Lucia, there was nothing plain about her.

In the corner of my eye I see another little girl resting on one of the seats, she has a phone to her ear and she is singing. I know her name already, because she is an entertainer, knows no stranger that I can see, and immediately she looks fun and mischievous. “Sarai!” Lucy teased as her singing voice got louder. (You have to say it with an accent, “Sara-ee.”) A daughter of promise… One of a whole bus full. She smiles at me, “You like Selena Gomez?” and sings a snippet of her song. I recognize it as the very same song my daughters belt out through the halls of our house. “Si!” She smiled and cocked her eyes daring me to say no to her next favorite, “Justin Beiber?” Having understood the threat, I answered, “Si!” before she belted out into what would be her song of choice for the rest of the week “Baby, baby, baby, Ohhhh like Baby baby..” She fell back on her seat, phone back to her ear, absorbed in her music world.

She wore gold stiletto heels, and a flower in her hair. She looked to be twelve dressed like a woman. I felt her injury distinctly though I didn’t yet know her story. “What’s your name?” I asked. “Fernanda.” She giggled, and shyly smiled. Her freckles and light skin reminded me of my daughter, Lily. Angel Kisses…our term for freckles. Did she know that? Did she know that her freckles were beautiful? She propped herself on the side of the seat, standing up, and watched me. I was new. I kind of felt like an intruder in their world. Not that they made me feel that way, but I didn’t understand their language and they didn’t know anything about me, or I them. She rattled something to Lucy, who smiled and looked out the window. “What’s your name?” she asked turning her attention to me. “Leslie” I answered. “Leslie” she repeated. (My name sounds so much more beautiful in an accent.) “Si!” I smiled. “Leslie,” she whispered as she slid into the seat behind me. She was trying to remember. That meant the world to me.

Veronica had been standing beside me the whole time, watching me talk to the others, politely listening, and always, when she caught my eye, smiling. I found her captivating. Lucy had told me her name, so I asked her, “What’s your favorite color?” She smiled, “Azul!” then she swallowed and repeated in English, “Blue.” I smiled and let her brown eyes pull me in, “It’s beautiful.” She smiled and said, “You’re beautiful.” I was touched and smitten.

My box wasn’t gonna last the week. His love for me and my love for the world around me was compelling me to reach for so much more. The walls I wanted to hide behind were of the weakest plaster.. I felt incredible love for these girls – His love – and with each look, smile, or awkward name pronunciation, I prayed, and still pray, that He is Who they saw.

 

I’ve been in ministry long enough to see that some of those that are destitute and impoverished choose to be that way. They have found something that they value more than their clothes, their food, and their shelter. They choose to live in a cardboard box rather than to give whatever it is up or to accept what is being offered. It is no less sad to me.

In Guatemala I learned that there is a whole community that live on and in the dump eating whatever they find, living in boxes or makeshift shanties. They have made this a village within the city; they even have electricity there! Children are raised in this place, babies are born here, and what looks like a trash pile to us has become their home. As our leader was briefly telling us about this, God nudged my heart, “You are a box dweller.”

Immediately I disagreed with Him, “Me?!? A box dweller!? No way! I am open to all denominations. I don’t discriminate. I believe in gifts and the power of the Holy Spirit! I am NOT a box dweller!” Even in the midst of my argument, He spoke. He addressed the biggest box that I live in – FEAR. And He pointed out over and over the places that I attempted to contain Him and revealed that all the time, I was only containing myself and His work in me.

“I AM not in the box,” He repeated.

No. I was.

With fresh awareness I realized that I had not only been living in a box but I had made it home. I was living off the scraps of faith and the crumbs of grace and I called it a feast! I didn’t want to hope too much because then I would be disappointed. I didn’t want to believe in miracles because when they didn’t happen they were easier to dismiss. I didn’t want to trust in His work because if I wasn’t being used that meant I was worthless. I didn’t want to address demons and sickness as enemies of God because I didn’t want to be seen as charismatic. And, the big one, I didn’t want to be ordained because I didn’t want my family to be disappointed. So, I folded the four corners of my insecurity around me and expected nothing more, which is exactly what I got.

I had come on this trip asking God to be what He already was – wild and free and passionate and amazing. And the first day in, He was asking me to be the same.