Desensitization.....I am beginning to think it's impossible. What about you?

"In psychology, desensitization is defined as the diminished emotional responsiveness to a negative or aversive stimulus after repeated exposure to it."  This is how Wikipedia defines desensitization. I believe that this emotional response has been my biggest fear since coming to live in Mozambique. It has been proven that when a person is continually presented with adverse situations, they respond with less and less intensity each time they encounter it. I was so afraid that my constant daily exposure to the poverty and struggle I see here every time I leave my house would desensitize me to it. Not that I would ever stop caring. But that I might begin to not hurt so much for these people that I have grown to love immensely. I am “happy” to report that I daily do have my heart broken by at least one sight or another. But sadly, I must admit that I do not cry as much as I used to. For example, when I first came, every time I left the children’s center, tears would blind me as I headed down that bumpy dirt road back to my home. I could hardly drive! I no longer cry when I leave. This just may be their fault though. How can one be sad when there behind you in the rearview mirror are a dozen kids smiling and laughing as they chase you down the road screaming your name over and over. Yet yesterday I came face to face with, or should I say face to three little precious faces, that left me weeping. I believe their faces will leave you weeping as well. This is their story.

As my faithful blog readers already know, Berta, the woman who works in our home, has a project for 39 children in her community. She saw the needs of the children and was moved to help them. She opened up her home to these children for the half-day when they are not in school. So half of the children come in the morning and half in the afternoon. We all naturally feel badly for orphans in orphanages. But the children we need to worry about are the ones who are still living out in the communities. The children in the orphanages know they will receive three meals a day, a bed to sleep in, a uniform and books so they can go to school, medical care, shoes, and clothing. The children in the communities have no guarantee of anything…ever. Many children have lost one or both parents and have been taken in by an elderly grandparent who no longer works. These grandparents have no income and therefore no means to provide for their grandchildren. Other children are forced to live in abusive homes when one parent dies and the surviving parent remarries. In such cases, most stepparents do not want the children of the former spouse in the home so the children are neglected, abused, and most often abandoned. These are the children Berta helps. She teaches them skills like basket weaving and how to make jewelry or brooms. She gives them bread and tea in the morning and soup for lunch. She teaches them cultural songs and dances. She reads them Bible stories and encourages them to memorize Scripture. Berta takes in 39 children each day, but she could easily take in 390 more…the need is so great. Berta knows her limitations and she keep her number to strictly 39.

About two weeks ago, Berta shared a sad story with me about three children that she had just discovered. Their ages are 12, 6, and 4. Their father died and their mother remarried. The mother got pregnant to the new husband. He told her he did not want this baby and was going to force her to abort the baby. On January 21^st of this year, she gave the oldest girl money and told her to take her brother and sister with her to go buy some things at the market. While they were gone, she locked herself in her bedroom and in despair, this mother took her life by hanging herself with a cord in their home. The children came home to an empty house. At first they thought she had gone out for something, so they carried on with their day, waiting for her to return. As hours passed, they became concerned and tried phoning her, but they got no answer. After more waiting, they decided to break down the bedroom door. They did this, and these little children were the ones to first to discover their mother hanging in her room. After her death, the stepfather left, feeling no responsibility whatsoever for his dead wife’s three children. He completely abandoned them. The owner of their house told the children they had to leave because they could not pay rent. The children were taken in by an uncle who already has 9 children of his own to care for. He is not able to provide them with much food and has no money to give them for school uniforms, fees, books and supplies. He is only able to provide them with a safe place to sleep at night.

I listened as Berta shared this story. I saw the pain in her face because she could not help them. She can barely survive herself. My heart was broken for these children. But in all honesty, they were unknown to me…they were just another sad story…another of the many sad stories I hear each day. Like we all do after seeing a commercial on TV about starving children in Africa, I moved on with my day. I did think about them and I would ask Berta about them and how they were doing, but that was all. I had other troublesome issues to deal with already. Until…

Yesterday I took a friend to Berta’s project. My friend is a lovely generous person who gives selflessly to others. She has been wanting for some time to see Berta in action. We arrived at Berta’s and were treated to lots of smiling faces, a song and dance performance, and a tour of Berta’s little home converted to a center (with me now translating for my friend- my Portuguese is coming along!) The children present at the time were the younger group. They go to school in the morning. The older children go in the afternoon. I did notice one beautiful young girl with gorgeous long braids wearing a secondary school uniform. I found it odd to see her there at this time of day but did not think much of it. After Berta showed my new friend all around her center, she told us she would like us to meet

someone. She brought over this girl along with a little boy and a little girl. She then asked me to translate their story to my friend. She began retelling the story she had told me just two weeks before. The one I just shared with you. As she began telling it to my friend, big tears began to roll down the older girl’s cheeks. The little boy reached up to be held by his big sister. She complied and he buried his face in her neck. The little girl turned and hid her face against her big sister. I quickly realized that these children did not need to stand by and hear their story told aloud to a stranger. I told Berta that I would just tell it to my friend in English. My friend cried. I cried. Berta cried. And the children continued to cry.  It was heart wrenching to stand with these precious gifts that had been carelessly and thoughtlessly cast aside like they had no value. It is one thing to hear a story. It is another thing entirely to hold the story in your arms and cry with it. My friend did exactly what I know her to do…she immediately asked what she could do to help these children. Berta shared that the oldest girl was 12 and in grade 8. She needed money to buy books for school. Children in Mozambique receive a free public education, but when they advance to grade 8, which is the first year of secondary school here, they must buy their own books and pay fees. This girl had a uniform but she needed 2,400 meticais (about $80 USD) for books- an amount that is close to the average monthly income of people here in Mozambique. The smallest child did not go to school and had no needs, but the six year old did need a book bag and some supplies. My friend had received money from a friend in her home country of Australia to use to help others here. She pulled out the full amount that was needed and passed it on, along with another hug. The young girl now would be able to go buy her books at the markets in Baixa on Saturday and she will be able to start attending classes again on Monday. For the time being, she can continue on. It should have been a very joyful moment, but there was just so much sadness in the air.

We finished out our time at Berta’s and left to go home. The children waved profusely and smiled as we left. But I did see three children standing in the midst of this happy group that were not smiling or waving. They simply watched us go. Since I left, I have not been able to get their faces out of my mind. I have cried every time they come to the forefront of my thoughts. They now can go to school. The oldest girl gets up every morning at 4 am so she can leave the house by 5am to walk 1 ½ hours to arrive at school in time for the 6:30 start. She cannot afford to pay 25 cents to take public transport. These children will need so much more than books and a bookbag to survive. And I can’t stop thinking about the fact that they will never have a mom or a dad to love on them and support them. I wish I could bring you here myself and let you see their faces and hug them. It would make a difference for you. I know, because it made a difference for me.

The problem is that the sad story of these three children is repeated again and again and again here. When my parents recently visited here with me, my dad’s parting words were, “I am going to go home and tell people about what I saw. I am going to show people pictures of what I experienced, but they will not get it. You have to be here to get it.” This is so true. You can’t just read an article, see a statistic, or watch a commercial on TV and understand the suffering people experience. You have to walk it out with them. You have to see their faces. You have to hold them in your arms. You have to wipe their tears, and sometimes their runny noses too. Only then can you begin to know the Father’s heart for them. I recently read that the Bible has over 2,000 references to caring for the widowed, poor, and orphaned.  God has a heart for the poor, so shouldn’t we have one too?

Friday Giveaway

Each day, we can never know what is in store for us; what types of experiences will come our way. How often have you gone out on a regular day and seen something unexpected and wished you had a camera there to capture it? Our cameras are never around when we need them the most. Yesterday I had such an experience in a most unexpected place.

I was asked to take a friend to catch a bus to South Africa. She arrived at my house around 6:30 am so we could go wait in the parking lot for her 7 am departure. Africa being what it is, the bus arrived about an hour late. We waited in my car and passed the time with conversation and people watching. We began to notice more and more elderly people arriving to our right. They sat down on the sidewalk outside in numbers that grew by the minute until about 40 people filled the space.

There is something that I just love about older people. They carry such a dignity to them. They have such a history behind them. They have stories to tell and experiences to share. I especially admire the elderly here in Mozambique. The average life expectancy in this country is 40 years of age. If this were true for us in the US, most of us reading this blog would not be alive right now, and I would not be here writing it either.  People who make it to senior citizen status in Mozambique are revered, as they should be. Imagine the stories these people have to tell! They have lived through their country’s rise to independence from colonialism, they have lived under both communism and democracy, and they have endured a 17 year long civil war followed by severe flooding- both of which ravaged the land. They have experienced all of this hardship as well as their own personal struggles to survive in this third world country.

They were all so content. They came using walking sticks for support. The upper part of these brown sticks were worn smooth and white from years of use.  Some struggled just to step up the curb to get on the sidewalk. Others had no shoes and came barefooted. A woman came leading a blind man who used a white-tipped walking cane. Women carried bundles on their backs, tied up with capulanas. The majority of people by far were women. Only a few men were in this group. They sat and patiently waited, conversing amiably with one another. One older man caught our attention. He had such a friendly face and seemed so gentle and kind. There was something about him that made you want to go up and hug him. Another old man arrived in wearing a blue suit jacket. It was old, worn, and showed the wear of many, many years, but we were touched by his desire to look his best for this outing. The women were all wearing the traditional capulanas. They were a beautiful tapestry of colors and patterns.

Then the gate near them began to open. They stood and made a line. A young Muslim girl wearing a beautifully ornate head dress began to pass out bread. One at a time, they filed by accepting a small roll from her hand.  The young girl did not smile at them or speak to them. Her face was passive as she went through this duty her family had left to her to complete. As the people passed through, they then began to form another line on the opposite side of the door. We later discovered this was to file through a second time for the extras. We marveled at the generosity of this Muslim family, who clearly have done this every Friday for some time. We marveled at the sadness of a people, who would be so desperate for a small piece of bread that they would wake up early and walk who knows how far to sit and wait to receive it. We marveled at the discipline of a people of faith, who so obediently carry out the command we all have received to care for the poor. And it made us question how obedient we are to this same command.

As they filed through, a woman wearing a capulana decorated with bunches of grapes arrived late. I vividly remember her because I intently began to watch to make sure she at least got one roll. The first handouts had already been completed, so she took her place about two-thirds of the way back in the line of people waiting to receive a second roll. I kept my eyes directed on her as person after person received their second roll.  I prayed asking God to make sure that these extras lasted long enough for her to receive a bread. And she did! In fact, she received the very last of the rolls! Thank you Jesus! There is always enough!

After the bread supply was depleted, the people filed off, down the sidewalk, and around the corner. I had already been told that on Fridays, Muslims are required share a portion of their earnings with the poor.  This is why you often see old women begging for money out on the corners at the street lights on Fridays. I don’t know if this is true everywhere, but it is here. Amy told me that the elderly go from place to place on Friday accepting these gifts. A butchery near our old house prepares little bags of meat and passes them out every Friday. Another place passes out vegetables, and another may pass out fruit.

So now I am left with how to process this and what to do about it. I see need here every day. Most times I am overwhelmed by the extent of need there is. It is more than a person could fill in a lifetime, and it can make me feel so small and inadequate. Each day I see people begging, people wearing dirty, tattered clothing and going without shoes, and people just sitting with despair written all over their faces. But then I remember that I serve a big God who owns the cattle on a thousand hills. I remember that Jesus said, “Blessed are the poor, for they shall inherit the kingdom of God.” And I remember that, as Heidi Baker teaches, Jesus died that there would always be enough. And I am blessed by so many of you who have given to the people here, some of you who have not even visited here! I realize that if we all do a little bit…whether it be passing out a small roll to a hungry person, sending money to buy pillows for children to lay their heads on at night, donating shoes,  sacrificing our time and comfort to come and play with orphans or build a church…together we can make a difference. Together we can be the hands and feet of our Father. 

Through our actions we can show His love for His people and let them know He sees and He cares.

From Cassava to Cookies and Chocolate

I am privileged to experience the most incredible adventures in my life here in Mozambique. As I have these experiences, two thoughts are foremost in my mind. First, “I can’t believe I am experiencing this!”, and second, “How can I share this experience with others?” I so wish you were with me to experience my adventures alongside me, but since you are not, I am left with the challenge of putting it into words for you. So here goes…

Rosita is a twelve year old girl who came to live at Iris Matola-Rio about two months ago. She was brought to Central Hospital in Maputo by her uncle. She was very sick- extremely malnourished, sores all over her body, and swollen feet. The hospital psychologist was concerned about allowing her to return to her home when she was ready to be released. Upon questioning the uncle, her concerns were confirmed. Rosita lived with her grandmother near the Swaziland border. Her grandmother was very poor and had no food in her home for her or her granddaughter. Her parents are both deceased. Because of this, Corrie, the director of Iris Matola-Rio, was asked to take her to live at the center. At the center, Rosita has become healthy and happy and is making new friends. But she has missed her grandmother and worries about her. So Corrie invited me to come with her to find her grandmother. We had no address to use and no directions to follow. We would have to depend on 12 year old Rosita to guide us to her old home.

Because she lived near the Swazi border, we headed out towards Boane. Our first obstacle was when we came upon a bridge that was washed out over a year ago and is under construction. I had recently been this way before with a friend and knew that it would require driving through the river in its most shallow spot. So we followed a truck in front of us and did just that, only to discover that once through the river, the path back up to the road is now blocked with large boulders. Apparently they are discouraging people from using this road. So we had to turn around and traverse back through the river past women washing their clothes curiously looking at us again. We were told that we could go further on and find a road that would connect us in the direction we needed to go. So off we went- way, way far out of our way. The drive, however, was beautiful. As we headed out into the bush, we were all impressed with its beauty. Recent rains have kept everything nice and green. We had to frequently pause for cows, goats, and chickens who were crossing the road. We passed school children who had miles upon miles to walk to get to their school. The entire time, Rosita was on the edge of her seat- eyes scanning the scenes around us for a glimpse of something that looked like home to her. After over an hour more of driving, we still had not come to a place she recognized. We still had not found a person along the roadside who even ever heard of her village, Nevenuane. But we had to go on, hoping against hope that we would find her village and her grandmother. After another hour of driving, we stopped to ask a man with two goats and a machete for directions. He took off his hat and approached the car, glad to have the attention of people and someone with whom to talk. He was the first person we encountered who did not look puzzled when we mentioned the name of her village. For the first time in three hours, we had hope! He spoke to our driver in the local language of Shongana and made gestures with his hands. We headed off in the direction he gave us trusting that he did indeed know what he was talking about. We continued on the paved road and finally reached a dirt road. After 15 miles on the dirt road, we came to Nevenuane!

Rosita directed us through the village, past the medical clinic and the school, to a mud home where her grandmother, Avo, was sleeping on the ground outside her home. I opened the door and jumped out of the van to allow Rosita to exit, fully expecting a joyous reunion filled with hugs and tears. What I saw really astounded me. This culture is so different from our own. Rosita came before her grandma and there were no tears, no hugs, no smiles; they simply shook hands and nodded at each other. Her grandmother went inside her home to bring out a grass mat for us to sit upon. 

She rolled out the mat and we all sat down. It was a bit awkward at first as no one knew what to say. The grandmother shared with us that she did not know whether Rosita was alive or dead. Rosita had never returned from the hospital, so she had no way of knowing what happened to her. Rosita’s grandmother survives on the little she is able to grow on her property- which to me appeared to only be cassava- a root that is kind of like a potato. The past harvest was not a good one, and she was hungry. I sat across from this woman, carefully observing her hands, feet, and face, worn from years of hard work under the hot African sun. She wore the traditional capulana and an old oversized shirt. Her gray hair peeked out from under the capulana that was wound around her head. I find the older women here to be so honorable, and I am held captivated by them as I ponder the life that they have led. They are so regal and beautiful in their own way. As I sat on the old worn out grass mat outside the mud home of a woman who has no food to eat and does not even know when or how she will have food, I realized that we have absolutely no concept of what it is like for the poor of this world. No concept at all.

Rosita also wanted to see her uncle, so she led us to his home. Here we were greeted by him along with his wife, daughter, and grandson. They offered us their plastic chairs to sit in while they sat on the grass mat on the ground. The conversation at first was a bit stiff, but as Corrie shared with them about Rosita and how she was doing, it loosened. While we were talking, Rosita's uncle nodded to his daughter as to direct her to do something. The daughter and her son got up and went to the garden area and began digging up cassava. 

Tears came to my eyes as I realized that these people who have absolutely nothing were going to offer to us a gift of the only thing they could- a part of their meager harvest. Rosita’s uncle had just told us that the soil in their area did not produce good harvests, but they did the best they could. Because everyone in their village is so poor, they had no money. Therefore, they trade what they are able to harvest for the things they need. This family seemed to be pretty well off because I also saw ducks and chickens roaming around on their property. They also had a little puppy, so thin that you could see every rib on his side.

Rosita’s family truly seemed happy to see her again. As they relaxed with each other, and us, they chatted with her and learned about her new life with 36 new brothers and sisters at Corrie’s center. Her family was glad to see her looking so healthy and well fed. Because all she had to eat when she lived there was mainly cassava and some vegetables, she never had proper nutrition to grow well and to be healthy. They gave Corrie 100 meticais (the equivalent of three American dollars) to buy something for Rosita. This was a very precious sacrifice for them to give. It was a clear demonstration of their thanks that their Rosita was now well cared for. They wanted to offer something to her to express their appreciation and love. Corrie also shared about God with them, and we were able to pray with them as well. 

Right before we were about to leave, the uncle’s daughter’s daughter came home from school. I waved at her as she came into the yard. She immediately hid her face in her sweater. She was so shy. She went inside their mud hut and changed out of her blue school pants into a skirt that didn’t even have a waistband to hold it up. She came out and hid behind her mother. Her mother directed her to greet their guests. She was so obedient, and despite her shyness, she immediately came to shake our hands and kiss our cheeks. She then crumpled next to her mom in a fit of laughter. She was so excited and said, “I have touched a white woman!” We were the first white people she had ever seen, let alone touched. This little girl was absolutely beautiful and had the most adorable dimples I have ever seen on a child. Assuming she had never had her picture taken before, I asked her if I could do this. After she gave permission, I took a picture of her and showed it to her in the view finder. I was then rewarded with the biggest smile and explosion of laughter. So I then took a picture of her with her mom and was again treated to her joyous laughter at seeing herself. She was just adorable!!

It was time for us to go, so the uncle led us back to Rosita’s grandmother’s house again. We then gave Rosita the gifts of food we had brought for her family and she passed them on- fish, rice, beans, oil, sugar, flour, cookies, and washing powder. Rosita shook her grandmother’s hand to say goodbye. I noted that they did not even make eye contact with each other. We climbed into the van with the bag of cassava, waved goodbye, and pulled away. The tone in the van took on a completely different feel. It did a complete change from anticipation and excitement to a somber and quiet sadness. Rosita sat with her head and eyes down. She knew it would be a very long time until she would be able to see her family again. She may now be in a center where she has food, a bed, an education, health care, and sisters and brothers, but clearly none of these things make up for her being with her family, even as poor as they are. My heart ached for this child sitting next to me. We simply sat in silence; Rosita sandwiched between Corrie and me. There was nothing we could really say. They say that time heals all wounds. I am not sure if that is exactly true, but as we continued on, Rosita eventually began to accept her situation. Corrie offered her a chocolate bar, and I gave her cookies. Corrie laughed as Rosita gobbled them down commenting on the fact that who would have ever thought that this little girl who was so malnourished from eating only cassava would now be spoiled with cookies and chocolate. She is a blessed girl indeed. She has the love of a family in the bush, where she can always return to visit. And she has the love of a new family at the center that can provide what she needs to thrive and grow into the young woman God has destined her to be. And as for me, again I am privileged to share in an experience that has forever been etched into my mind and my heart. 

The Joys of a Life Lived in Mozambique

My favorite Disney character is Eeyore. I have had a soft spot in my heart for this sad, little donkey since I was a child. I am not sure why. He has always just tugged at my heartstrings. My husband likes to occasionally compare me to Eeyore saying that I share his melancholy outlook on circumstances at times. As I look over my blogs that I have written since moving to Mozambique, I wonder if my husband is correct in his assessment. I began to worry that I may scare some of you off from coming here to visit me, so a few months ago I began to compile a list of the things that make me love this place hoping that it will make you love this place too. Please read on and don’t be put off by the length of this blog. The list is shorter than it looks - it is only the spacing makes it lengthy.

The things that make me love this place:

- Seeing my little friends who sell oranges in the parking lot at the grocery store. I always buy two from each boy. They love seeing me pull in and are so helpful to return my cart to the store for me.

- Watching one of these little boys as he crossed the street at the stop light one day. He carried his tub of oranges on his head. While balancing this tub on his head, he crossed the street doing very precise, very deliberate karate moves. I stopped to chat with him about his moves, and he told me he had been watching Kung Fu movies and was very inspired by them. Too cute!

- Participating in an African worship and prayer service. The people sing and dance with abandon. Every person sings. Every person claps. Every person dances. No one is standing still. No one is just moving their lips. No one holds back in expressing their love for God. No one cares what the person next to him thinks about what he is doing. They love to worship and it shows. They express their worship to God and God alone. They are not putting on a show for the people around them. It is a privilege to worship alongside them.

- Then when they pray, everyone erupts with prayers said out loud at the same time with genuine fervor. It illustrates to me how important prayer is to them and that they know to Whom they should turn to with their requests.

- Buying my vegetables from the lovely women along the street. I always give them a bit extra. It is pennies to us, but such a blessing to them.

- Watching a young man cross the road. He was all by himself, but apparently could not contain his joy. He was skipping, lifting his feet as high as his knees- just because.

- Hearing women breaking out into song as they walk down my street.

- Watching children run alongside my car racing me, laughing hysterically as they try to keep up.

- Watching the kids from the center in my rear view mirror chase my car as I pull away from the center. You would be as surprised as I am to see how fast and how long they run after me on those little legs!

- Greeting the lovely old mamas who come to church at the Bocaria garbage dump. They warmly embrace you and plant a kiss on each of your cheeks. Such a privilege!

- The chicken man - he rides his bike through town with at least a dozen chickens hanging from the handle bars by their feet.

- Simply greeting a stranger walking by my house and seeing them light up from ear to ear with a smile - all because you noticed them and said hello.

- Visiting with cashew farmers in the bush bush. They honor us by bringing out their best chairs for us to sit while they themselves sit in the dirt.

- Bringing a group of teenaged girls from the children’s center for a special day. Washing their precious hands and feet and painting their nails.

- Driving up to the children’s center to a chorus of “Mama Terri! Mama Terri!”

- Seeing my men (Don, Brent and Will) interacting with and loving on the kids at the center.

- Driving 4 year old Zefanias back after bringing him to Kids’ Praise and Play at our church. He sat in his seat carefully studying the craft he had made that day. It had the words “Merry Christmas” printed across the top of the paper. His picture was on the left side. On right side we painted his feet green and put his footprints like a wreath with a red heart in the middle. He was so happy to have made something like this. We hung it on the wall above the bed he shares with another boy.

- Successfully being able to send a text - in Portuguese!!!

- Buying tomatoes from Ajla - a dear sweet woman at the local market who has scarring from burns on her neck and chest and her hand is crippled- she hides it in her pocket. When I come, she greets me with a kiss on each cheek - such an honor!! And she always throws in a couple of extra tomatoes for me!

- Watching two little boys walk hand in hand down the street sharing a pair of blue sandals - one boy wore the right shoe, the other boy wore the left shoe.

- Tickling little Salito and hearing his giggles. He loves having his stomach poked at and can’t get enough of it. He rarely says a word to anyone. In fact as I think about it,  the only sounds I have ever heard him evoke are giggles.

- As I drove Will to school, a man was waiting at the side of the road for traffic to clear so he could cross. While waiting, he passed the time by dancing. I was last in the line of traffic, after my car passed, he threw his arms out and crossed the road with them spread wide - the picture of freedom!

- The creativity of children in the toys they make. A plastic grocery bag with a rock tied to the handles becomes a parachute. An old spool that once had wire becomes a pull toy when a rope is tied around it. Plastic grocery bags are torn into strips, tied together and become a Chinese jump rope.

- Watching all the “goings on” as we drive along the roads - people walking, talking, laughing; children running and playing; chickens and goats meandering about; goats riding on top of buses; venders selling their wares- I could go on and on, but suffice it to say that it is a visual delight and I never get bored of it!

- Having 20 year old Lyria come alongside me and hook her arm into my elbow in a Mozambican gesture of friendship and acceptance as we watch the workers at the center gut the fish for the evening dinner. Then hearing the laughter from the women at the look on my face when I was invited to join them in this effort. 

- The amazing Portuguese baked goods- yummy!

- Morning tea with Don up on our roof, overlooking the beautiful scenery beyond with a palm tree perfectly placed a bit to the left and the Matola-Rio in the background.

- As sad as this was for the cow, it was so funny to watch some men trying to lift a dead cow back up onto a wagon they were using to haul it on.

- Waving at the little children along the road and being gifted with a big smile and return wave from them. This brightens up the darkest of days.

- Chicken dinner at Tubiakanga! Come eat one with us - you will see!

- Driving by the large banana and sugar cane plantations in South Africa. So very lush and green!

- Listening to Berta sing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” as she cleans our home.

- Watching a young girl of about 12 dancing along the street like Ginger Rogers with an imaginary Fred Astaire. She was in her own little world, oblivious to the fact that anyone was watching her. She was just beautiful!

- Stuffing ten children into my car and driving them to school. When we arrive, all the doors are opened and they spill out into the school yard so excited for all their peers to see they had a ride in a car to school that day. Each one gets a kiss on the forehead and is told to study hard and have a good day.

As I drove them to school yesterday, I realize that I have become a part of a new community. Children from the center who were returning home from the morning session as well as the local village children waved at me and called out my name. Men and women who have gotten to know me waved as well. We passed a deaf and mute man named Domingo who sells me brooms and mops. He waved from his bike as we passed by. We saw Pai Sitoe with his children and got lots of smiles and exuberant waves from this happy bunch as well. I have been invited to little Teneka’s fifth birthday party in May and have been given the honor of cutting her cake. Mai and Pai Sitoe are planning a church wedding in July. Mai Sitoe has asked me to be her madrina (This is the term for matron of honor, but it is so much more here. I will be more like her godmother and will be look to for marital advice and wisdom-uh oh!).  I am touched deeply by the happiness we share together. I am touched that I am accepted and have earned their respect. I frequently feel the need to pinch myself to see whether I am dreaming or whether I really am experiencing a life in a place so far removed and different from where I have lived my whole life, a place I only ever dreamed of visiting. I am so often tossed into a feeling of awe for where God has placed me and what He has opened up to me. I am blessed and privileged indeed!

The Children of the Dump

It is not difficult for my husband and I to recognize the fact that we live in a third-world country. The very moment we step outside our front door until we return home again, we come face-to-face with some of the poorest, neediest people in the world. I view these people as the most courageous people I have ever known. Their daily struggle to survive is an experience that I can honestly and selfishly admit I am glad I will never, Lord willing, have to know firsthand. I don’t know that I could be as strong as they are. I would probably live in self-pity, whining my way through my day. The fact that they are able to laugh, sing and find joy in life only increases my admiration for them. Each day I see people in tattered, dirty clothing. I see people walking long distances because they have no transportation. I see men laboring for a few dollars of pay and children selling oranges and peanuts in the parking lots to help their families. I see children and old women at my car window begging for a few pennies. Begging is pretty much the only source of income for the handicapped here. I see small children carrying their younger siblings on their backs as they go about their day. I see other children pushing wheelbarrows far distances to get water to bring home for their families.

Yet all of the impoverished conditions I see pale in comparison to what I see when I visit the Bocaria garbage dump with the missionaries and visitors from Iris Zimpeto. Here live the most courageous people in the entire world. They work daily searching the garbage for food or items to sell so as to tweak out an existence for their families. It is without a doubt the saddest, bleakest place on this planet. But it also is a testimony to their strength and perseverance. Saddest of all is to see the little children who are being raised in this squalor. And it is even sadder to see the faces of the moms who yearn for a better life for their children. Yet as much as darkness rules in this place, God reigns here. We walk about talking with people and ministering to them with prayer and sharing the love of God with them. They ask for prayer for health and for their families, and they close their eyes to receive our prayers. Often tears roll down their cheeks as we bring their needs before the throne of God in heaven. Two weeks ago during a visit there, I was blessed to seeing God heal a woman of back pain and another of knee pain. Another woman committed to turn from seeking the help of witch doctors for her illness. She committed to seek help from God alone and recommitted her life to him. She was immediately healed of stomach pains that have troubled her for months. You can “poo poo” away these testimonies, but had you been there to see the dance in their step and the joy in their tear-filled eyes, you would have no doubt that God heard and answered their prayers. He was, is, and always will be Jehovah-Rapha- the God who heals!

My visit today was a lesson in Heidi Baker’s mantra to “love the one before you”. As I entered the church, a little boy spied me, reached up his arms to be held, and became my new best friend. He latched on to me and would not let go. He was very solemn and quiet. He was just content to snuggle in my arms. This little guy smelled of urine and the filth on his clothes was overwhelming. All the children here are unclean, but this boy was almost offensively unclean. There are times when you must overlook such things and push yourself to ignore your own senses and love like Jesus did. I could not resist him. And once you do wrap your arms around them and hold them close, God gives you grace to pull them in close and love on them. You no longer mind the smell and the dirt. All you feel is an overwhelming peace and satisfaction. You feel the Father’s love for the child.

The time came for us to go out and pray for people, so I told my new friend that I would return for him. The children stay in the church while we go out to minister. When I returned, he was right there waiting for me. I scooped him back up in my arms and found a seat on one of the wooden benches that were filled with children just as dirty as he was. We sat next to a girl of about ten who had big, brown eyes and round, chubby, endearing cheeks that I couldn’t help but squeeze! She was there with her little brother. I shared with her how beautiful she was and how much her Father in heaven loves her. I told her that I loved her eyes and her round cheeks. I talked with her about her school and asked about her family. It was then that she told me that the mother of the little boy I held was very ill. She had gone to the hospital and had not yet returned. I asked her where he lived, and she pointed to the community beyond the dump. I asked her if he had any brothers? No. Sisters? No. Father? No. Grandmother? No. Anybody at all to care for him? No. I was stunned and asked who was caring for him; did he live alone? She said he was alone so her mother took him in and is caring for him. I was immediately consumed with a love and appreciation for this little girl’s mother, who would take on another mouth to feed when she probably had barely enough for her own children. I prayed for this mother, that God would provide all she needed and that He would bless her for her kindness to this little boy. I prayed for the mother of the little boy, that she would be well and would be able to come home to him soon. And I prayed for the little boy, that he would be at peace and content.

As we drove away from the dump, I reflected on the lesson I had learned. There were so many other children that I could have given my attention to today who smelled better and were not as dirty. But God brought me this boy and called on me to love him on His behalf. I am so thankful that I did hold him and love him for the time I was there. Knowing what I know now, I could never have lived with myself if I had turned away from him.  I did not choose him. He chose me. And I am a better person tonight because of it. I guess this is what the Bible means when it tells us to die to self. I put his needs before my own. And words cannot even begin to express how privileged I feel to have been the arms of God for this little boy.

The definition of Selfless - my friend Corrie Ockhuysen.

There are two jobs I have always said I will never, ever do no matter how desperate I will ever, ever get. The first job that you will never see me doing is cleaning a public bathroom. No need to explain this any further, so on to the second job you will never catch me in- bus driver. Neither of these people are paid what they are worth or what they deserve. I have now come to add a third job to my list that I will never, ever be employed in- director of a children’s center (or you may call it an orphanage- but out of respect for the fact that every one of these children has a heavenly Father, I prefer not to use that term. They are not orphans at all, but daughters and sons of the Most High King.).

I have gotten to know several directors of children’s centers here. There are no people on this planet for whom I have as much respect as I do for these people. They are completely selfless in their service to the children for which they are responsible. One of these directors humbles me completely in her work. That person is Corrie Ockhuysen, director of the Iris Matola-Rio children’s center, known to some as Project Raphael. When I think of Corrie, I think of the verses in the Bible that speak of dying to self. Corrie is not just "dying to self"; Corrie is "stone cold dead to self". I have never seen her once express a want or a need for herself. Her whole life is lived for others- her children, the people around her center, and her church members. She not only directs the center, she lives there. Therefore, she is on duty 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Her only break is a trip to her native homeland, Holland, once every two years. She has given up all the luxuries that life here on earth has to offer in order to take in and love sick, dying, abandoned, abused, and unloved children back to life. She lives in a small cement home with few possessions to call her own. The only two indulgences I have seen her partake in are a bottle of Coke and a tub of yogurt. She is an example to all who know her of a servant of Jesus.

This was the first day I met Corrie (on March 28, 2011) when Don took me to

Africa for the first time.  She was holding one of her new children - Armandinho. 

Armandhinho is my favorite.....but I seem to say that about every one of her children. 

On a typical day, one can observe Corrie doing any one of the following:

-taking children to the hospital

-meeting with a school official or teacher regarding her children

-leading a team meeting of her workers

-hosting a visitor and giving a tour of the center

-talking with the educators who work for her

-translating for those of us who are not fluent in Portuguese (yet)

-leading her workers in a weekly praise and worship service

-counseling a church member

-administering medication

-giving money to a person in need

-giving money to pay for a need at the center

-giving money to a worker

-giving formula to a young mother, or an older mama who is caring for a grandchild

-putting a Band-Aid on a cut

-meeting with the pastor or a member of her church

-going to Jumbo Cash and Carry for a multitude of food and items for the center

-constantly being interrupted by the ring of her phone

This list could go on and on, but suffice it to say, Corrie literally oversees every aspect of the running of the center and the care of the children. And as she does these things, she is carrying a child, has a child hanging on her leg, has a child sleeping on her lap, or has a whole brood of them following her around. Her house is usually full of children. They cover her sofa, every chair, and every square inch of her floor. When a guest enters her home, she shushes the children off the furniture to make a place for her guest as she offers them a drink. She then finally takes a seat herself to converse with her guest- but not before the children get shushed right out the door. The both the metal protective gate and the wooden door to her home then must be shut and locked to prevent reentry from the more obstinate children who try to get back in. Often a child or two receives the special privilege of being able to stay inside. Corrie then relaxes in her chair and thoroughly enjoys the time she spends talking and catching up on you. When it is time to leave, it is just hilarious to open the wooden door to her home only to discover the iron gate beyond it is covered with little children that have climbed it and are assembled there like little monkeys. They excitedly call out your name and are so happy to regain entry into Mama Corrie’s home again.

As you can see, Corrie has absolutely no time to herself. For just this reason, she gets my adoration, praise, and appreciation. I watch her and realize, I could not be so selfless and giving each day- or even for a part of the day. While she was home in Holland recently for some much needed rest and relaxation, I had a small taste of what she experiences as I ran children to the medical center for malaria tests, picked up medication for them, and dealt with people asking me for money, baby clothes, baby formula, and even housing. And all the while, I was either holding a child, had one (and usually more than one) hanging on my legs, and was surrounded by a brood of attention starved little ones. It was no picnic, and most days I couldn’t wait to get to the solitude and peace of my home. And I was only at the center for a few hours each day!

Corrie helping me pass out dresses to her girls.  These dresses were made

by my sister's classroom back in Virginia.



Yet today I experienced first-hand an additional reason why I could not occupy her position as director. I arrived at the center for the Tuesday morning Praise and Worship time for adults and found Corrie in her home, in her chair, talking with a man I did not recognize who was seated on her sofa with one of the educators at the center named Salima. In between them were two little boys, probably around three and five. I was invited in to take a place in the empty chair. The father had just shown Corrie documents regarding his sons. My suspicion that he was looking to place his two sons at the center was confirmed as I heard more of their continuing conversation. Here before me sat a young father who had recently lost his wife and the mother of his two sons. He now was unable to care for them and maintain his employment as well. His only choice to maintain his existence and theirs was to give them up. He was a neighbor of Salima’s, so she brought them here for help. They had traveled from the north most of the morning by chappa to seek assistance from Corrie. They did not look desperate- they were all healthy, well dressed, and articulate. The youngest son sat on his father’s lap and was talkative, interrupting the conversation for a glass of water and other such things. He kept looking my way, curious about who I was and why I was there. He was a normal little boy, for all appearances. His older brother was quieter and sat sandwiched between his father and Salima. I wondered to myself what must be going through their minds. They had just lost their mother and now they faced living in a children’s center because their father could not care for them. They had to have known what was being discussed, but they showed no signs of the weight of the discussion and the impact it could have on their futures. And the father…what could he have been thinking and feeling…losing his wife and now being forced to send his two sons away. The discussion between Corrie and the father ended. The decision- she had to tell him that she could not take his children and care for them. I know Corrie’s heart for children, and I can only imagine how difficult it was for her to tell them that she could not help them. Her reasons- her center is full, in fact it is overcrowded at the moment. She can only take in the neediest of children- those who are sick, dying, and desperate. These boys were healthy and strong. She had to choose. She offered for them to stay for the praise and worship time that was about to happen. After that, they would get a lunch and she would give them some food to take back home to them. The father did indeed join us for praise and worship- singing and praying along with us while his two sons sat at a nearby table and gobbled down a plate of rice and beans. I left before they did, but as I sit and write this, I can’t help but wonder what they will do to get by. How will this father work and care for his children? Will the children be left to fend for themselves each day until he gets home? Will neighbors or family members step in and help? Or will they be left to tweak out an existence by themselves in this harsh world they live in? Whatever they face, I pray that they will seek God’s provision and that their faith with sustain them. This is exactly the message from the Bible that I shared with those present for the praise and worship today- a message to guard and grow your faith even when faced with trials and challenges. Maybe this was exactly what this father needed to hear today. I pray that it did encourage him, and that Corrie’s kindness to him will encourage him as well.

So you see, I am glad I was quietly sitting in my chair off to the side today. I am glad I did not sit in Corrie’s chair. I am glad I did not have to make this difficult decision. I will continue praying for Corrie as she selflessly serves her children and her church members. Not many of us could do a fraction of what Corrie does each day. One day she will stand before God, and I have no doubt that He will tell her, "Well done, my good and faithful servant. Now enter into your rest." And He will have prepared for her a mansion that will be the quiet, restful place she never had here on earth. It will be a place that someone like her deserves to enjoy for eternity. Maybe He will even throw in a refrigerator full of Cokes and yogurts. And as for me, I may just be charged with cleaning her bathroom!! Which for you, Corrie, I will happily do!

A Mozambican Funeral - Laying a good friend to rest.

Precious in the sight of the LORD

Is the death of His saints.

Psalm 116:15

We arrived at the cemetery in Machava shortly before the 10 o’clock service for Pastor Berto was to begin. The parking lot was crowded with cars, buses, vans, and people. There were processions of people going in and out of the walled cemetery. There were many people waiting around outside with us. People who would attend Pastor Berto’s funeral and others as well, quietly talking. It was sad to see how many people were there. More vehicles came carrying even more people as we waited. A truck came in with its bed full of passengers who were softly singing. The sky was filled with dark, gray clouds. It sprinkled several times as we waited, but the downpour that they threatened never did come.

We had to wait quite some time for the service to begin. The vehicle that was bringing Pastor Berto’s family had driven through some deep waters and broke down. We have had rain the last several days, and with no drainage system, the roads get very difficult to traverse. A van was sent to pick them up. This van also broke down. Yet they soon arrived. There was also a bus load of people from Iris Zimpeto, Pastor Berto’s father, Jose, is a pastor there. The last to arrive was a van and truck loaded with people from the Iris Matola-Rio center and from the church Pastor Berto shepherded. I greeted these people who I have come to know and love. It broke my heart to see Mama Helena. This always joyful, smiling, loving woman was simply blank. Her pain and hurt was so visible on her face. She was emotionless. Everyone began to file through the gate of the cemetery. Before they entered, they stopped to buy fresh flowers from venders located outside. We were one of the last to enter.

Before me I saw graves in every direction. The grave sites here are different than in the northeastern US. While the bodies are laid in the ground, they are not placed very deeply. Each grave is filled and a mound of dirt about 2 feet high that covers the grave site it left. Later, for those who can afford it, these dirt mounds are boxed off and tiled or cemented. It is similar to what I have seen in the south or in the Carribean. There was a cement building for registering for a burial site. On the side wall was hand painted the pricing for burying a person- one amount for an adult, another amount for a child. But what drew my attention was the sight of our gathering of mourners. The coffin had been placed under a large tree and everyone was gathered around this tree. I wish it had been appropriate to take a picture of this to show you. It is a sight I will always remember. The coffin under the tree, at least a hundred people encircling the tree singing, and the graves that surrounded them as far as the eye could see. The songs they sang were deep and soulful. Each was led by a woman with a strong voice and the people echoed and joined in. A few people quietly cried. Others were so distraught that they were taken off to the side to be consoled. It seemed that this was the proper etiquette. Mama Helena was the first to be taken to the side. She was so upset that she could barely walk. Young Albertina soon was taken to the side as well.  I, too, wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Pastor Berto is in heaven rejoicing with all the saints before the throne of God. He loved His Savior deeply. He is home. He does not need our tears. To cry for him just seemed wrong to me. Yet I did want to cry for the people here. Pastor Berto’s gain is our loss. He was loved, valued, respected, and is needed here. Yet I have faith that God will use this for good. He will not let Pastor Berto’s flock go unattended. He will send us another shepherd. My prayer is for this man to come soon!

Pastor Alberto on the left.....with Alberto on the right.

“Where, O death, is your victory?

Where, O death is your sting?

The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. BUT THANKS BE TO GOD! HE GIVES US THE VICTORY THROUGH OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST.” I Corinthians 15:55

Songs were sung and interspersed with pastors and others sharing encouragement and words from Scripture. Pastor Paulo shared with the assembled group the hope that we have in Jesus Christ. Without Jesus Christ in our hearts and lives, we cannot be saved. We are by nature sinful.  Romans 3:23 “…for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” Because of our sin, we are separated from God and will spend an eternity separated from Him. Romans 6:23 “For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”  But, we have hope. Our Father God loved us so much that He sent His only Son as a once and done sacrifice for our sins.  Romans 5:8 “But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us. “  Romans 10:9 And so, “If you confess with your mouth, ‘Jesus is Lord,’ and believe in your heart that God raised Him from the dead, you will be saved.” Romans 8:1  “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus because through Christ Jesus the law of the Spirit of life set ‘us’ free from the law of sin and death.”  Jesus has set us free from the bondage of sin and death. He waits for each of us to accept Him as our Lord and Savior. He knows how long eternity is. He faced death because He could not spend an eternity without us! I once read a quote that said as Jesus hung on the cross, He had my name (and yours) on His lips. This is how much He loves us! If you do not know Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior, I encourage you today to seek Him. Read the Gospel of John. Find someone who does know and love Him that you can talk with and ask questions. Go ahead and ask the hard questions. Be honest and share your doubts. God is big enough to handle them! Pray and ask God to reveal His love for you. If you seek Him, you will find Him. This is the message Pastor Paulo shared with us yesterday. This is the message that I want to pass on to you.

Pastor Jose, Berto’s father, spied us in the back. He immediately sent someone to translate for us. How kind of him to think of us at his son’s funeral. Pastor Berto’s brother was in the center circle of people as well. His face was full of disbelief and he held his hand to his mouth. He bears a striking resemblance to his brother. Towards the end of the service, the casket was opened and people were invited to come by and see Pastor Berto one last time. As people passed by they anointed his head with powders and perfumes. I chose to remain in the back. I wanted to remember the vibrant joyful pastor who just one week ago led the service at his church in Chinonquilla.  This part of the service caused much pent up emotion to flow from his friends and family. People were overcome with emotion and began wailing and crying. This changed the whole tone of the service and it became very difficult. Mama Helena was again taken to the side where she fell face first, prostrate on the dirt path, her body wracked with sobs. Albertina again was overcome with emotion. Several of the younger girls from the Iris Matola-Rio center came to Emily and me for comfort after seeing his body. Beatriz was the most affected, crying uncontrollably, so I took her to the side to comfort her. Even Pastor Berto’s brother, Silas, needed to leave the congregation for a while. It was a blessing to see that each person was immediately surrounded by others who tenderly held and soothed them for as long as they needed it.

It was at this time that the most difficult time came for me, which almost sent me to the side to be consoled.  A new procession of people entered into the cemetery, quietly singing. It was led by a man carrying a very small, white coffin followed by a young grieving mother. Tears fill my eyes even now. My  heart hurts for this mother that I do not even know. I tried to look away, but then all I could turn my eyes to was the row upon row of graves that surrounded me. I wondered how many of these graves were filled with children taken by the enemy well before their time as well. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of despair for how difficult life is here. I cried for these people.  My Brent was at my side and held my hand, giving me strength and peace.

The coffin was sealed shut and the service under the tree came to an end. Pallbearers carried the coffin to its resting place, followed by the crowd of people. Final prayers were said and it was lowered into the ground.  As the dirt was shoveled in, people went forward to throw in a handful of dirt. A mound of dirt was piled on top of the site where the casket had been buried. People began going up and forming small holes in this mound and planting the flowers they had purchased in these holes. Don went up with me and helped me place our flowers. It was a beautiful sight to see the flowers covering his grave. Then a large container of water was brought forward. People began washing the dirt off that was on their hands from planting, letting the water flow over the flowers. More water was added to the flowers. Then water was poured over the sides of the dirt mound, smoothing out the sides as well as people forming and smoothing the sides of the mound with their hands. Each grave also had an arrangement of hand-made paper flowers on it. These were made from scrap paper and assembled on a circular piece of cardboard. They were beautiful. All around us were fresh graves covered by the same bed of flowers and paper flower arrangements. You knew they were recently buried because the flowers were still fresh and the paper flowers had not been ruined by last night’s rains.  There were too many of these around us. A closing prayer was said by Pastor Paulo. As he did so, the clouds began to release a gentle rain over us all.

Pastor Alberto's service with the J-Term team on Sunday - a few days before his passing.