Plants

I found this quote just now and it made me laugh out loud. So I thought I'd share it...

“He had heard about talking to plants in the early seventies, on Radio Four, and thought it was an excellent idea. Although talking is perhaps the wrong word for what Crowley did.

What he did was put the fear of God into them.

More precisely, the fear of Crowley.

In addition to which, every couple of months Crowley would pick out a plant that was growing too slowly, or succumbing to leaf-wilt or browning, or just didn't look quite as good as the others, and he would carry it around to all the other plants. "Say goodbye to your friend," he'd say to them. "He just couldn't cut it. . . "

Then he would leave the flat with the offending plant, and return an hour or so later with a large, empty flower pot, which he would leave somewhere conspicuously around the flat.

The plants were the most luxurious, verdant, and beautiful in London. Also the most terrified.”

― Neil Gaiman, Good Omens

Is it cruel that I would love to grow gardens with that tactic?

CULTURAL!

So there's a Chinatown in Houston, and Mom and Kyle (my little brother) and I go there occasionally to get our oriental fix. We really miss the Asian food we used to eat all the time in California, with our Asian family... the vegetables, the cookies, the pastries, the dumplings, and all kinds of stuff that are delicious but that I don't know the names of. Where we lived in California was freakin' Asianland, so all the food we loved was right there. I never realized how much I took it for granted until years after I moved to Texas.

When we go to Chinatown, we immediately go to the Chinese bakery to buy different types of bread I love and some coffee cake stuff. Then we walk to a Chinese restaurant where Mom orders all her favorite foods and I scarf down my bread and whatever Mom hasn't eaten. Then we head to the grocery store where Mom buys dumplings and other food that don't matter because I only have eyes for the cookies/crackers I've loved as a child. We load everything up, and then full and happy, we drive back home.

I'll never forget the first time I went to Chinatown. I had the bright idea to play a game called "Count The Asians" and Kyle enthusiastically (a little too much so) joined in. I even had my phone out, keeping track of the numbers on the notepad. Because believe it or not, there are a lot of Asians in Chinatown.

I think I gave up after 70 or so Asians. Kyle bravely continued until close to 200.

 Last time Mom and I went a couple of weeks ago while Kyle was at school. Oh man, he was upset! He wanted to come with us so badly... haha, sucker!!! I mean, just kidding Kyle, we'll bring you back something. (We did--while wandering around a store, Mom found a clock with Snoopy in hockey gear and bought it for Kyle's next birthday.)

So we arrived in Chinatown, and head through our usual parking lot. I was looking out the passenger window, looking out at all the stores and the dog on the parking lot and the Tapioca House and--wait,  a dog? I did a double take, but at that point we had completely passed it.

"DID YOU SEE THAT?" I said to Mom.

"See what?" she asked, mystified.

"That dog!"

"What dog?"

"Mooooooooooooooooooooom, can you turn around? Look at it!"

 So she turned around in the parking lot and drove back the way we came. I'm sure I was pretty inconspicuous, the way my face was pressed up against the glass. And then... yes! We saw---

You know how when dog owners need to run inside a store, they'll usually leave their dogs in the car with the window cracked for air? This owner must have looked at them with haughty derision and decided "Not me!" Instead, they had left their dog outside in the REAL air. Seriously, the dog was just chillin' there on the parking lot next to the car. Don't worry, the dog was on a leash... the problem was, the rest of the leash was locked in the trunk.

HUH?? I'm really hoping the owner didn't just drive off without putting the dog back inside the car. But it's Chinatown, dogs aren't expected to be treated well there.

(I reserve every right to make fun of Asians since I am very much one. That's what I like about being multiple ethnicities... I get to make fun of all kinds of things.)

Mom saw the dog this time, and burst out laughing. We stopped right in front of it, I cranked the window down, and very subtly took a picture.

You know what I like about my mom? Not only did she stop to let me take a picture, but she dug around her purse for her phone, handed it to me, and told me to take a picture on that too.

Anyways, we went through our usual ritual of going to the bakery. The funny thing is, my mom has known the old woman who is always at the counter for years. Every time we walk in, the woman jabbers away in Chinese to my mom about how pretty she thinks I am, and what a great relationship Mom and I must have. It's kind of embarassing, but she's a nice lady.

We continued on our journey to the Chinese restaurant. We sat down, Mom orders her usual ten plates of food while I unwrap my bread and begin my blissful eating. Mom and I chatted about different things, the waiter came and went, food started disappearing as quickly as they came.

Halfway through the meal, my attention was drawn towards the music playing overhead. Huh, it sounded strangely familiar... I hadn't heard this song in forever, what was it? I strained my brain, trying to remember. Suddenly the woman in the song started singing and I immediately realized what song was playing. Simultaneously, as I recognized it, I choked on my food. Mom looked at me quizzically as I burst into laughter, probably spraying food everywhere.

The song was "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas. For the uncultured out there, it's PRETTY inappropriate and it's all about a woman's.... figure. I've never been a fan; in fact, I question how this song came into existence in the first place.

Honestly, it was absolutely hilarious to me that half the people in the restaurant probably didn't know enough English to understand the lyrics.

What made it better was when the waiter came over, looked at me (practically crying at this point), frowned, and asked Mom in Chinese what was so funny.

She shrugged and responded, "I don't know, I think it's the song."

Only in Chinatown... well, I'm very much sure this would happen in Nicaragua too.

For those that miss

I feel that all of my recent blogs have been so serious. I keep meaning to write something light-hearted, but honestly, it keeps sliding out of my head! Plus I don't think anything can compete with the series of "for Jules" posts, about strange things witnessed in Nicaragua.

Unfortunately for anyone who might be hoping for something comical, you're at the wrong post. However, I have an idea for my next post inspired by a visit to Chinatown in Houston recently. I'll try to write that tomorrow, or even tonight if I write this one quickly enough.

Not too long ago, I was browsing on Facebook. One of my Facebook friends is in New York (she is from Texas too), for college I believe. She wrote on her most recent status, "I want to go home." Very simple, very straightforward, yet containing so much emotion. And the more I think about it, the more my heart goes out to her.

It feels like I've spent my whole life missing people. Growing up, I lived in California but flew back and forth to Texas to visit family. That's how I met the church I'm a part of now, and how I met many close friends. And it was hard, having wonderful friends and family in two different states that I loved. I will always remember how frustrated I often was, and how much I wished it was possible for everyone I loved to be in one place.

That was bad, but it got so much worse in Nicaragua. It's one thing to miss some people all the time while simultaneously being in the company of other people that you've missed too. But it's a rude awakening to suddenly be in a foreign country, away from everyone. That doubles the size of people you miss, and the amount of pain, the amount of missing.

"We miss you so much," the Kolbs and I were told all the time. While it's great to hear, it's also a melancholy thing. Everyone only missed a few people--we missed everyone.

A. A. Milne, the author of Winnie the Pooh, writes “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” Yeah, inspiring. It makes you feel better when you think of it that way. But you have still said goodbye to them, and it still hurts regardless.

And so it kind of does something deep inside of me, thinking about my friend who wants to go home. The feeling is all too familiar. It's painful, when you're gone and sitting there wondering what everyone is doing and what they are talking about and what inside jokes and memories are being made and what good times are you missing out on and are they thinking about you at all. It's incredibly painful, especially if you have nothing going on at your end. Every Sunday morning, I'd look at the time and think about what people at church were doing. I'd do the same on Wednesday evenings, when youth group always occurs. I'd think, "Oh, worship will be going on there. I wonder who's playing. Now they'll be doing ministry time, now they'll be playing games, now they'll be doing a sermon, now..."

It gets easier as you get to know more people around you and begin to gain a busier schedule. It's no less painful, just easier to bear.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to have a mourning pity party here. This post was completely spontaneous and in fact, I didn't even realize I had all of this inside of me until I sat down to write. It's just... soothing to write it down. To record it.

I began counting down the days on the calendar until my flight home. By that, I mean I started counting just a few weeks into my almost three month stay. Preston and Carrie noticed, and when I was asked about it, I explained that it was somehow comforting to pinpoint a number of days.

One day, Carrie sat down and asked me, "Are you happy here? Because you're counting down the days."

I looked at her, bewildered. "I'm not counting down the days until I leave. I'm counting down until I get to see everyone again."

And man, I was diligent about that. We didn't have a calendar until two months into my stay, so I made my own calendar at the back of my journal. I'd write down what happened each day, little reminders, and faithfully crossed out each day before going to sleep. I counted the days backwards so I knew how many days were left.

Sometime in August, I was told about a youth event that was going on at church the day I was meant to fly back to Texas. It started Friday evening on September 23rd, lasted all night, and went on until Saturday evening the next day. I was scheduled to fly in at about noon, Saturday September 24th.

I got a brilliant idea. I would show up Saturday afternoon and surprise everyone! Chris Nelson, one of the youth leaders who had informed me of the event, became my accomplice. I explained my plan to him and he promised to send information about the schedule so that I'd know when to arrive. He didn't tell anyone else, and I didn't either except for Tammy (to make sure it was alright) and Jessica Knox (she asked if I was going and I wasn't going to lie). Actually, I take that back. While I told hardly anyone in Texas, I told just about every Nicaraguan who could understand English about my plan. I was just a little excited.

God bless my parents, they were so understanding. I was hesitant to ask my dad and stepmom, because I didn't want to deprive them from family time. It took a while to gain the courage to ask permission for my plan. Wonderfully, they said yes. I almost fell over with the laptop when I heard their agreement to my selfishness. Then came the matter of how I was going to get to the church and back. "Should I drive myself over there?" I asked Aunnie (my stepmom).

"We'll all go together," she replied.

Somehow, things became more bearable after confirming the plan. I was so excited to go through with it that I made a point of telling a lot of people how sorry I was that my flight was that day, and that I couldn't make it to the event. Sure, there was a little guilt after they expressed their disappointment, but... they'd see.

Whenever things got hard, I'd think about the upcoming reunion and my spirits would lift. I often lay on my air mattress at night and imagined what it would be like, walking through the doors unexpectedly. I imagined a brief moment of shocked silence, and then yelling and the flurry of bodies hurling themselves at me for a hug. It was such a sweet daydream.

I'm going to get to the point and fastforward to that moment. Fresh from Nicaragua, with newly red hair, a beach tan, and a shirt that advertised the Managua Vineyard Church, I leaped from the car and marched through the church doors where everyone was inside the Fellowship Hall, playing games. I walked right in, and stopped, looking around with a broad grin at all these people that I had missed.

It was just how I'd imagined. The moment of silence, the silence being broken by friends bellowing my name. The image of friends running at me, and the sensation of being knocked around, held, and ultimately dog-piled. That entire afternoon and evening was amazing. Being back with everyone, knowing how loved and missed I had been, was priceless. Even now, the memory makes me smile and feel warm inside. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Hell, I'd go back to a foreign country again, gladly, since I know how great the reunions are upon the return.

So yeah, missing hurts. Going to new places is always tough. There's always people to miss, and to leave behind. But there are always people to meet, and there are always people everywhere to make you feel lucky to have such hard goodbyes to. And after all, no one said it was easy to be loved.

Of machetes and ice skates and who you are

Three years ago during January 2009, I discovered who I am.

Well, sort of. I was told who I am, and quite promptly forgot about it until September of last year, while still in Nicaragua. I remember when I first remembered. The Kolbs were at the hospital, visiting kids with cancer, and I had gotten up at some ungodly hour that morning with a lesson in my head for my youth group. I'd scrambled out of bed, ran to pee, and then sat down and wrote an entire lesson about Nicaragua. Soon I moved to type everything down on a laptop, in order to organize my thoughts better. I typed frantically for what seemed like forever. Finally, I took a breath and sat back in my chair to evaluate what I'd written. Was there anything I had missed?

Suddenly, so quickly I barely noticed it sliding into my head, I had a flashback.

Tammy, one of my youth pastors, got a vision for me during a youth event we were participating in called D Now (Disciple Now). I'd describe D Now, but well, I assume everyone reading this has the internet and can open up another tab to look it up (I'm cruel to my few, loyal minions that read my blog). The actual event was... not that great, but there were beneficial things indeed that happened. I remember sitting in a room surrounded by other girls, Carrie, and Tammy, discussing what we felt God was calling us to do in our lives. No one else said anything, so I went first.

Out of the blue, Tammy spoke up, saying God had given her a vision for me. I was in the midst of a jungle... with a machete. I was wielding that thing, hacking and slicing away and forging a path in the jungle. God told Tammy, "Ashley is a trailblazer. She will go to places no one else will go, to places everyone is afraid to go. She will make a path for herself, and for others to follow. She is my trailblazer."

At the time, I was more interested in the idea of me being a leader, and being a total, if you pardon the expression, badass with a machete. Seriously, how great is THAT for a vision about you? It wasn't until that moment in Nicaragua--sitting at the kitchen table in a house silent except for my racing thoughts, the echo of my fingers pounding on a keyboard, and multiple fans blowing cool air into the humid world--that it hit me. And when I say it hit me, I mean it punched me in the stomach so hard that it took my breath away.

About a month later, I was back in Texas and sitting across from Bill (Tammy's husband and fellow youth pastor). We were discussing this same lesson, preparing it. He loved it from the start. When I mentioned the vision and the trailblazing part, he proclaimed enthusiastically "Man, I think it's so awesome that you're figuring out who you are at such a young age! I bet if you went around and asked a lot of adults you know, they wouldn't be able to tell you who they are!"

That struck me, and it stuck. I'd never considered it was discovering who I am... in fact, it had never crossed my mind to discover who I am. Is it true, I wondered, that some or most adults don't know who they truly are deep inside? Why didn't they know? How come I'm figuring that out at my young age? Why me? Why not everyone else as well?

I gave my Nicaragua lesson January 4th, 2012. I wish I had a recording, or a good retelling for the curious who weren't present, but honestly, nothing will ever live up to the original. I could give a brief summary of my lesson, I could send you my notes and my powerpoint, but nothing could ever replace being there. My lesson was based off of the vision and the trailblazing part, where I did my best to encourage everyone to forge paths and not to be afraid of making mistakes.

At the end of the lesson, Bill stood up and crossed the room to stand beside me before everybody. "I'm going to put you on the spot," he told me ("I'm already on the spot," I said wryly) before announcing to everyone, "Ashley is a trailblazer." He said some other stuff, but mainly I sat there, face burning and heart swelling with pride at this confirmation.

Now I've gotten a reputation with it. This past weekend at another youth event, Acquire the Fire (stop your groaning, dear readers, this is the last thing I'll make you look up due to my laziness of descriptions!), I apparently drove people to near madness. Whenever we were told to meet up at our cars for snacks, or to go inside the church for worship, I would immediately set off on the quest. Mind you, we were in a huge church surrounded by hundreds of kids pushing and shoving to get past each other in a manner that invoked memories of mob violence, and everyone in our youth was told to stay together. Yeah, well, that "everyone in our youth" would walk incredibly slowly because of the amount of kids in our youth we were trying not to lose. Everyone would walk a few feet, and then stop, then walk a few feet, and stop. Being the impatient person I am, I'd begin walking quickly towards our destination. "Follow Ashley!" was the universal cry, but most everyone found it impossible to follow me due to the large crowd of kids we were fighting our way through, and also the fact that I'm one of the smallest and can squeeze between people quite easily.

"Slow down!" I was told--more than once. "Stop that trailblazing for a second and slow down!"

Out of everything at Acquire the Fire, that small thing impacted me greatly. If I can fight my way easily through a large crowd of kids heavily influenced by mob psychology, what else could I do with "that trailblazing"?

Tammy got another vision for me last night, at the very end of Acquire the Fire. Funny thing was, it was while one of my friends was asking for prayer. Tammy waited until he was done describing the pain in his shoulder before leaning over to me and saying to me, "I just had a vision."

She had gotten a picture of ice skates... ice skates that belonged to ME (I don't own ice skates). In order for me to go out on the ice, in order to work right, in order to use the skates the way they were meant to be used, it needed sharpening. God is telling me to sit still ("CRAP!" I thought) and to wait because He is sharpening my skates before I go (wherever that takes me), and He's getting me ready to leave. Mind you, it's no fun task sharpening skates: you have to grind a rough edge against the rough blades in order to make them sharp enough to function right. He's sharpening my skates so that my path will be as smooth as possible. Maybe not smooth, but smoother than the alternative.

When I heard that, my mind went back to Costa Rica, to the small church where I was on my knees with Jules next to me, saying that my looks blended in with different cultures and made me accessible to places that tall white gringos can't go.

It all goes together. People not being able to tell what culture I am, my trip to Nicaragua, Tammy's two visions, even though they were three years apart, and Julie's words. It's all going together, separate pieces beginning to form one big picture. The picture of my future. The picture of who I am.

Now I want you to think. Who are you? What has God created you to be? Do you know, do you have an idea, do you have no idea? There's no shame in not knowing. What are you going to do if you don't know who you are? Will you wander off on your own journey to figure it out, or will you go directly to God and ask?

If you know who you are--are you living up to it?

Who are you?

Happy(?) New Year

I can't describe how relieved I am that 2011 is over. It was a pretty crazy year: full of wonderful things (being a senior, prom, graduation, driving, Nicaragua, being viewed as someone maturing into an adult, discovering a lot about God and myself) and some incredibly crappy things (problems with friends, graduation, Nicaragua, being viewed as someone maturing into an adult, insane spiritual attacks, the job situation, etc).

While there was a lot of good out of the last 12 months, this past month has probably been the worst out of them all--and if it's not the worst, it's pretty high up on the list. So feeling that way right now, I'm rating 2011 (probably unfairly) to be a rather bad year.

Earlier, I shut off my laptop and climbed into bed to get as much sleep as I can get before church occurs in approximately 8 hours. I've been trying to build a habit of talking to God for at LEAST 5 minutes before turning off the lights, but with it being past 2 in the morning, I didn't think I'd make it.

So I lay there, trying to sum up everything inside of me into a more suitable amount of words. Finally I came up with "Lord... just let this next year be better."

I was about to leave it at that when I heard something odd, literally seconds after the words left my lips. It was a slight rustling noise coming from outside...and it was growing louder, and more audible.

It was rain. Raindrops, pattering on the street and the sidewalk and the driveway and then on the roof of the house. How strange, it hasn't rained all day and all week and it's not even meant to come up in the forecast as far as I know. Yet the rain threw itself down.

And then I got a random thought in my head. That's all it was, just a thought, yet I knew instantly that I had not come up with it myself.

"Do you hear that rain?" the thought said to me. "That's what I want to do inside you. I want to cleanse you. I want to pour myself into you to cleanse and heal the wounds. I want to wash away all the hurt and the anger and the bitterness that's grown in the past year, and I want to take it away so that you can have a new start for this new year. But you're going to have to want it too."

It was a startling thought, but it made sense. I looked through drawers to find something to write on and, failing that, reopened my laptop to type everything down. During that time, while I had gotten off the bed to search my room, the rain had quietly ceased.

Since I'm here, I might as well share something I found today. Neil Gaiman (author of the novels Coraline, Stardust, American Gods, Neverwhere, and more) is one of my favorite writers. He has such a way with words that just really strikes me deep inside. Because, well, no one writes quite the way he does. He gets right to the matter and twists and bends words and sentences to do his bidding, and I deeply admire (and covet) that.

Anyways, here is an excerpt from his blog today:

Saturday, December 31, 2011

My New Year Wish

A decade ago, I wrote:

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.

And almost half a decade ago I said,

...I hope you will have a wonderful year, that you'll dream dangerously and outrageously, that you'll make something that didn't exist before you made it, that you will be loved and that you will be liked, and that you will have people to love and to like in return. And, most importantly (because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now), that you will, when you need to be, be wise, and that you will always be kind.

And for this year, my wish for each of us is small and very simple.

And it's this.

I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.

Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You're doing things you've never done before, and more importantly, you're Doing Something.

So that's my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself. Make New Mistakes. Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody's ever made before. Don't freeze, don't stop, don't worry that it isn't good enough, or it isn't perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life.

Whatever it is you're scared of doing, Do it.

Make your mistakes, next year and forever.

I realize this is long... but this is from the HEART, man!!

I never liked people calling what I did a “mission trip”. It was the easiest thing to refer to it as, but I always loathed it. Mission trips are fickle. Mission trips are something you embark on for a few days, weeks, months. Mission trips make your conscience feel better and open your eyes for a moment…as short or as long as it lingers, it still lasts for just a moment. Mission trips are mere glimpses into other countries, into the lives of others around the world. That’s all it is—a glimpse. How could you possibly get to know an entire country when you have a time limit?

I hated being labeled with the terms "tourist" and "mission trip" so much that I complained to the Kolbs about it. Carrie told me something interesting: "You're not a tourist. Tourists and backpackers have no obligations when they go to different countries... they don't try to create relationships. But you're LIVING here. You're helping us move in and learning about the country and making relationships. You will always be able to say that you lived in Nicaragua for three months."

There's a HUGE difference, which I am extremely adamant about. And I know for sure that I didn't learn everything there is to learn about Nicaragua for my extended stay... but it bugs the crap out of me when people visit for an even shorter time and suddenly assume an air of superior knowledge.

Usually people on mission trips stay with some sort of organization, and have arranged meals and arranged lodgings. Everything is arranged for their comfort—everything is carefully laid out for the travelers. And the travelers “oooh” and “ahhh” over the quaintness, the difference, perhaps even charm that a third-world has churned out for them who are doing God’s work. It makes them feel good inside, like a better person for having seen another part of the world. They work in the dirt, the mud, with poor people who come willingly for help and to help. They do arranged activities and pray with people in the arranged places.

Then they go home at the arranged time, proclaiming themselves a changed person. They stand in front of the church and speak about their arranged experiences. They make everyone else feel good inside too, for having sponsored and supported and prayed over the travelers successfully. And then life goes on. The travelers are back in their large houses and comfortable lives, and they feel wonderful for fulfilling God’s plan, for being so “uncomfortable” for a time.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against mission trips, and I’m not against catching glimpses of other countries. If you say God led you to that trip and that country, I will sit and listen to your story. But if you say that your ten-day trip has entirely opened your eyes and that it was the best experience anyone could have and that you really feel you made a large impact and that your life and their lives were forever changed… I will get up and leave the room. Confide in someone else about it because I will be of no use to you and vice versa. Yes, you helped them for a while—but they are still in the dirt and the mud while you are back to your privileged life. You have the option to move about—in most cases, they are forced to stay in the lives they’ve always had. Are you sure what you are doing actually has anything to do with them?

Do you truly want to make an impact? Move there. Do you really want to change the lives of others? Brace yourself. I firmly believe the most effective way to impact people, to impact a country, to impact the world, is to move to said country. To move, to make friends, to build a life for yourself with the same people you are trying to help, in the same dirt and mud. Don’t you know how much it touches other people when they realize you’re there to stay with them? When they discover that you’re willing to do what it takes to live in the country? You must make EFFORTS for them. That’s when they see something different about you… something that either makes you insane or perhaps like Jesus. Jesus hung with the lowest of the low. Honestly, I don’t think He’d spend much time in America if He were here. Sure, He might step in every once in a while and say, “What’s up, dude?” but I believe He’d be more likely to be in Nicaragua saying “Que onda, mae?” or in any other country saying the same thing (but in different languages according to the location). Maybe we don’t see Him much in America because it’s our comfort zone and He wants us to get out of it.

Now I’m not saying everyone has to get the hell out of America and spontaneously move to a new country. Not everyone can do that… everyone has a different calling. Also, people who DO have that calling shouldn’t just go whenever—they must go once they feel God egging them on. It’s God’s timing that is right, not yours. Certainly not mine, in case you think I’m screaming at everyone to leave (yeah, I’m totally trying to get people to leave the country so I can claim the land for my own and name it Ashleytopia).

I’m trying to get my point across. You create more waves once you have made the effort to reach out, once you have the time to reach out, once you have people to reach out to. For all those natives willing to help and be ministered to at those mission trips, there are thousands more who aren’t willing. And that’s fine. You aren’t there to change their minds… not really. You aren’t there to madly convert the hell out of everyone you see—what kind of God would want that? Be their friend. Be an example. Live how Jesus did, but always remember that you are human and make mistakes. Once people see that in you, they will realize you are the real thing and that you aren’t the same as everyone else who prays and then hops on a plane ride home. Suffer with them. Live with them, as Jesus did.

Course, you can’t create waves without Satan seeking you out and attacking relentlessly. And it sucks. I know this firsthand: Carrie once mentioned to me how she knew I was being attacked because she had never seen me cry so much. It absolutely sucks to be spiritually attacked any country… ESPECIALLY a country you aren’t used to. But if he’s not at your throat, you ain’t doing it right. And you know what? You’ve already won the battle—you’ve made it there, haven’t you? Stick it out, give it to God lay it in His hands, and you will emerge laughing at the devil for what he couldn’t do to you.

The other day I was speaking with someone (remaining anonymous, out of courtesy and plus I didn’t ask first if I could spread this to the world) about the Kolb’s absence. She said she couldn’t stand other people constantly going on and on about how much they miss the Kolbs. Yeah, we all miss them and they were my and your close friends and family—we understand and respect that. But—these are my own words now—it is hard to remain sympathetic with you when you constantly dwell on their absence and always tell them how much they are missed and wanted. Look, they didn’t call themselves to Nicaragua; God did. Take it up with Big Guns Upstairs who can handle anything you say, not the Kolbs themselves. I know it may seem cruel for me of all people to say this, since I alone spent three months with them—but come on! It’s not healthy to show the Kolbs how much you regret the absence that was God’s intention. They have enough love for you and Nicaragua simultaneously. Accept God’s plan for them, like they graciously have already, and set them free. Don’t you think it’s better for them to hear “I love you,” and “I support you,” instead of “I miss you” all the time?

I don’t know, they might feel differently. This is strictly my own opinion… maybe I’m getting all riled up on their defense for naught. But I do know this: when God provides the opportunity for them to come back to America, whether for vacation or to move back, they will come back to you with the same open arms they extended to Nicaragua.

And it is my prayer that you will open your arms to wherever it is God leads you too—be it America, in Nicaragua, or in the dirt and mud of another country.

In loving memory

Twice a week, Preston goes to the children's hospital with our friend Rodrigo to pray specifically for children with cancer. I went with them once on August 19th.

It took us a long time to get in. The part of the hospital we wanted to get to was guarded. To get in, we needed to walk up to guards, explain what we were doing, get interrogated about our business. There was a very good chance that we could've gotten turned away. But after a while, they had us sign in on a clipboard and allowed us access. Rodrigo knew his way around--he led us through a garden, down hallways, twists and turns. Eventually we made it to a specific ward, and found ourselves in a green hallway. We began knocking on doors, asking to pray for the children and their family members. It was a little difficult for me because yet again, the language barrier rendered me unable to understand everything that was being said. Preston interpreted for me the best he could in a whisper.


The first room we went into was very dark and very hot. There were four beds, all of them occupied with a sick child. We went to all of them to talk and pray, and I took pictures of everyone--the sweet little girl, the older girl who had no hair, the tired-looking boy who smiled big for the camera, the small child who slept the entire time. The next room was smaller with only two beds. One of the boys there had the most swollen, largest belly I'd ever seen on a child. Interpreting his family's words, Preston told me that everything had already been done on him and there was nothing else to do but wait.


Strangely, I felt very sleepy the entire time. I wanted to wake myself up to really concentrate on what was happening, but I just felt so tired. It was very odd. I'd had a good night's sleep and everything. Preston felt the same way--he figured it was the heat in the hospital. I think it was that and the fact that everything felt wan and dead.


I felt so tired that I nearly groaned when Rodrigo beckoned us into one last room. He let me go ahead to take a picture, and I squeezed into the small, barely lit room. I found myself looking at someone with only one leg. Their hair was so short that I had to ask if it was a boy or a girl. It was a girl. I angled myself the best I could, and took a picture of her stretched out on her bed. Rodrigo said "Take a picture of her face," and so I did that as well. I leaned over and showed the girl her picture, and she gave me a quiet little smile. Then we left the hospital.

I'm going to cut myself off here to post a link to the Kolbs' blog about this topic... read (it's pretty short) and watch the video.

http://bigpicturemissions.wordpress.com/2011/09/19/la-moscota-childrens-hospital-nicaragua/

See the girl, Scarleth Altamirrano at the end of the video? That's the same girl at the beginning with only one leg, and yes, those are my pictures of her. She died about two weeks ago.

Last week Carrie was sitting at the table and I was doing dishes when Preston came home from the hospital. He flopped heavily into a chair, telling us that one of the girls Rodrigo had often visited had died. He and Preston had asked to visit her, but a nurse said "Oh, you didn't know? She passed away last week." They hadn't known at all, but it wasn't very surprising. She had cancer in her leg, and the doctors decided to amputate it before it could spread any further. So they went ahead and amputated her right leg... only to discover that they were too late and cancer had already spread to her lungs. She lost her leg for nothing, and she was only twelve or thirteen.

I washed the dishes, listening to Preston talk when it suddenly hit me that this girl only had one leg. I ran to get my camera, went through it until I found my hospital photos, and showed the picture of the one-legged girl's face to Preston. He looked at it and said "Yeah, that's her."

The huge sense of loss began to really sink in. Her story was sad enough, but it suddenly took on a much heavier meaning to me because I had seen her just weeks before she died. I had been in her room, taken pictures, spoken to her, showed her the picture of herself. Carrie and Preston had used my pictures of her in their video because there were no other pictures of her.

I'm slowly realizing everything as I'm typing it down. Honestly, this entire post is like an epiphany that I never knew I had in my heart until my fingers began hitting the keyboard.

And you know what, I don't know how to end this post. I've been sitting here staring at the screen for several minutes, and I'm completely lost. How do you end something like this?

Might as well end it the way it started.

                                                              In loving memory