A Cheerful Reciever

I must have strong puritan roots somewhere in my history. Maybe Quaker. I prefer to live simply and shy away from extravagance. Why buy a new shirt for $25 when you can buy a perfectly good used one at the thrift store for $3? I’m the kind of person who thinks Target is a fancy store.

It’s not that I’m cheap (although that is also true); I believe that the way a person spends their money speaks loudly to their priorities and values. Am I selfishly spending all my money on me and my own? Am I giving to others? Am I using my resources to help people in need? A quick peek into the old checkbook can tell you a lot about someone.

My husband and I had to shop for a car recently, to replace my totaled van. I tended to gravitate towards older, cheaper, no-frills models. Just give me a car that doesn’t break a lot, gets decent gas mileage and has enough seats for everybody. My husband, on the other hand, wanted a beautiful car, loaded with snazzy features. A frilly model, if you will.

“I’m OK with the [old, ugly] minivan,” I said, ever the righteous martyr. “Think of all the things we could do with the money we aren’t spending on a vehicle.”

“No,” he replied, looking at the fancy pants car with its heated seats and MP3 player. “This is what I want for you.”

I closed my fool mouth and signed the papers because somewhere in there I realized someone who loves me was trying to give me a gift.

What do you do when frugality collides with generosity, when blessing conflicts with blessed?

I think I do alright in the giving department. But for some reason, I get weird and squirrely when it’s time to receive. I believe in radical generosity – just not directed at me.

Our God is a loving and generous deity, a doting grandpa pouring out favor on his people. And I’m all, uhhhh really? This is too nice for me; here, let’s give this to someone else. Like I’m some kind of crazy blessing re-gifter. 

It’s something I struggle with: should Christians display the trappings of wealth? Are we better off with vows of poverty and horsehair shirts? You cannot serve both God and money but can you have both God and money?

I really don’t know the answer but it is an important question to wrestle with, especially now that we’re back in the land of Excess. It was easy to live simply in a country accustomed to lack. How do we cope with a culture that encourages overindulgence in every aspect of life?

I will say that I am glad we bought the fancy car. And not just because I can start the car from the living room ya’ll! Where it’s warm! And the car automatically turns on the seat warmers when remotely started. Toasty buns for meeeeeeeeeeee!

Ahem.

I am also really happy for my husband. As we drove away he said to me with bright shining eyes, “I never dreamed I’d own something like this.” For one second I could see the little boy that grew up with nothing. That boy suffered under the crushing hand of poverty for a long time. That boy almost didn’t go out with me because he said he came from a poor family and had nothing to give me. That boy grew to be the man I love best of everything. 

His joy is worth even more than heated seats.  

Sleep

Does anyone want a baby? Between the hours of 10pm and 7am, I am renting mine out. Cheap. It’s a bargain people!

Seriously though…why doesn’t my baby sleep????

He’s on exactly the routine all the books say he should be on. His day starts at the same time every morning, he eats at exactly three hour intervals. He eats, plays, and naps in exactly that order. He eats rice cereal in the evenings to keep his little belly full. We put him down to sleep while drowsy but not yet sleeping. We play soothing rain sounds and carefully control the temperature of the bedroom. We wait a few minutes when he starts crying before picking him up in the vain hope that he will put himself back to sleep.

I’ve tried having him sleep beside me; he just wakes up more often. Although, to be fair, if I were sleeping next to a big ol’ plate of delicious food (bacon anyone?), I would wake up and snack all night long too. We’ve put him on his back, on his side, swaddled, un-swaddled, recently bathed, dirty as a pig…

WHY IS HE WAKING UP EVERY HOUR AND A HALF?????

Why God, WHY?????

I might drop dead of exhaustion. This is torture. Literally. This kind of behavior would be illegal if I were a prisoner of war. At least I think that’s true – I don’t really want to Google “forms of torture banned by the Geneva Convention.” I’d end up on some kind of watch list.

zzzzzzzzzzzzWhat was I saying? Sorry I dozed off there a little.

I have been sick for two months straight with this same stupid cough that won’t go away. I simply don’t have enough energy to function and heal at the same time. If only I could get a good night’s sleep. Whimper.

So I ask you, good people of the internet: how do you make a baby sleep through the night?

I want this - for 6-8 consecutive hours!

I Could Do That

This is the true mark of nobility. The unshakable belief that they can do anything: tan leather, shoe a horse, spin pottery, plow a field…if they really wanted to.

-          The Wise Man’s Fear by Patrick Rothfuss

I must have been some kind of noble in a past life. Except for any activity involving actual athletic ability, I look at all these tasks that require skill and training and I think, “I could totally do that.”

It certainly doesn’t help my delusions of grandeur that an alarming amount of the time I totally can. I watched a cooking show on TV way back in high school. That looks good, I thought, bet I could make it. So I did. And my cinnamon scones are some of the best around.

Several years ago, while we were setting up for youth group and listening to the youth pastor practicing his guitar for the worship set, my sister and I bemoaned the lack of a band to play with him. It wasn’t that the church lacked instruments; we just didn’t have anyone willing and able to play on Wednesday nights. I leaned over to my sister and whispered, “Twenty bucks says I can learn the drums in five minutes or less.” It actually took the pastor a little bit longer than five minutes to teach me. But two weeks later, I was playing drums for the teenagers.

I see needs and I want to fill them. Perhaps you are thinking that scones are not a necessity but that is obviously nonsense. Baked goods are always a good idea.

Last summer, knowing that we were going to have a baby boy and hoping to acquire a teenage boy as well, I calculated for my husband how much it would cost for three haircuts every six weeks. As a man used to getting his head coiffured in Nicaragua for 30 Cordoba (around $1.50) a piece, he balked at the outrageous amount it would cost just for cheap haircuts. For a tenth the price, I told him, I could buy a kit and do it all myself! He looked at me dubiously but I knew I had him.

For some time I had gotten it into my wacky little brain that I could cut hair. It looked pretty easy when the trained professional did it. How hard could it possibly be? Eli resisted this idea on the (rational) basis that he didn’t want to look like an idiot. He had some previous experience with his dad cutting his hair as a child. His soul still bears the scars of going to school with bad hair.

I breezed past his concerns with a confidence based on my own special blend of crazy. This will be fun!

It was not fun.

The first time I got near him with the machine he freaked the crap out.

“Don’t cut too much! Concentrate! Make sure it’s even! GOOD GOD FOCUS!”

“Um…I haven’t even turned it on yet.”

“DON’T CUT OFF TOO MUCH!!!”

Suddenly really nervous and aware that I did not, in fact, have any idea what I was doing, I gave him a pretty bad haircut. He ended up with straight up biscuit head you guys. Noooooo. In trying not to cut off too much, I didn’t cut off enough. I had a pretty good idea how to fix it but it took him several days of hat-wearing before he’d let me try again.

The second wack at his hairs proved far more successful. It wasn’t perfect but it looked much more like what I had pictured in my mind.

I get better every time too. Last night was another Haircut Night. Gabriel told me he didn’t want his usual style – he wanted Prince Royce hair. Uh, sure. Why not? He showed me a picture on his iPad and I gave it a whirl. Eli helped me out with the sideburn part since I don’t do razors. Gabriel was sufficiently pleased with how it turned out.

See? This was a great idea! Everyone has decent hair, it’s super cheap and I get to learn a fun new skill. Everybody wins!

I wonder if this is why the baby refuses to grow any hair…

Rookie Mistake

This morning I got up, looked out my window and saw that the predicted snow had in fact, not come. Like usual. Ok, there was a slight dusting on the grass and car areas but the streets were clear. Proceed as normal, I thought.

Rookie!!!!

I dropped the kids off at school then started down the long road to daycare for the baby when my phone rang. It was my husband. My poor sleep deprived husband who has to work the night shift for a few weeks and had only gotten home about 4 hour previously.

“The school called, it’s closed.” He said sleepily.

Shit.

I’m really so embarrassed. Why didn’t I check ONE of the 80,000 methods to divine the school closings?

Daycare, as you might imagine, was also closed. My very lovely husband peeled himself out of the nice warm bed and picked up both the kids and swung by my office to get the baby and take everyone home. I hope God grants him extra-restful sleep this morning. He deserves it.

Seriously, why didn’t I check my email this morning?

I’ll tell you why, because I don’t have time. I have three kids and a me to get ready and out the door. And even though I have two in middle school, I have only been a mom for four months. I still pretty much suck at everything. Which is ok, that’s kind of how this works – skill is acquired over time.

And also – I really can’t stress this enough – there is NO SNOW ON THE STREETS.

Someday we will all be good at being a family. Someday we will not just be making it up as we go. We will have a rhythm, our own traditions, and our own family culture. This, we will know, is what it means to carry this last name.

Someday I will have 40 years of mom-ing under my belt. I will be awesome. And when new mothers ask me how I do it, I will be very gentle with them and remind them that sometimes it takes a few decades to feel steady on your feet.

Just like all the awesome moms I admire have reminded me.

And in the meantime…I will check the school closings list whenever one single flake falls out of the sky. 

Counting Blessings

We have a big whiteboard in the lunch room at work. On it everyone has been writing what they’re thankful for: family, friends, freedom – ya know, normal stuff. And while I am also thankful for all those kinds of things, I find myself filled with gratitude for a multitude of things I would never, in a million years, write on a whiteboard at work, lest people think I am weird.

So instead, I will write them here, on the internet. And everyone will know that I am a crazy salty nut.

***

I am thankful for the ability to eavesdrop on Spanish-speakers who gossip to each other secure in the knowledge that anyone wearing this super gringo face can’t possibly understand them. Oh, but I do! Muahahahahahahaha.

I am thankful that daycare always puts out pastries in the morning so on those (frequent) occasions when I run out of time or chose to sleep an extra five minutes and can’t eat breakfast, I can snarf down a muffin or crumb cake in the car.

I'm thankful for the turkey recipe Marissa found
on Pintrest. Yum!

I am thankful my baby is the world’s fastest eater. The books always say to make sure they (the babies, not the books) eat at least 15 minutes per side. Sometimes I worry that my son isn’t getting enough food because he only eats about 3 minutes per side – and then I look at him. Yeah, that fatty-watty isn’t hurting for food.

I am thankful that I can drive a stick shift. Sure, it’s not going to be the smoothest ride you’ve ever had, but I will get us there! And now, every time some snotty car salesmen doesn’t want to show me a vehicle because it has a manual transmission I can haughtily sniff, “that will not be a problem.”

I am thankful for the dryer. And the washer. And the Dishwasher. And the programmable coffeepot. And all the many devices that do the job for me so I can be the exact same amount of busy – but I will be busy doing other things. Also, my towels aren’t crunchy. I love you, dryer.

I am thankful for the generosity of our friends, who bring us food, toys for baby, school uniforms for the big kids, and a TV that randomly speaks Spanish during football games.

And lastly, I am thankful for the gizmo that turns a light bulb holder into an electrical outlet so we can hang Christmas lights on the house. My entire childhood I longed to put up Christmas lights but we never had any way of plugging them in. Driving around and feasting my eyes on all the lights in December is one of my very favorite things ever – it’s right up there with automatic car washes – and thanks to the thingamajig, I get to see sparkly lights even as I pull into the driveway.

Clearly, I am so blessed.

What are you thankful for? 

Cereal Killer

I nearly had a meltdown in Target last night.

All because of this:

I was buying rice cereal so that soon the little babushka can start eating solids. My baby was born like 15 minutes ago! How can he possibly be big enough to start eating anything that did come directly from my person??

Shit. I'm THAT mom. The lunatic who can't let go and ends up teary-eyed in embarrassingly public places. Today the grocery store, tomorrow the kindergarten parking lot. 

Children grow up. That's kind of what's supposed to happen. Babies come out all purple and gross and filled with unlimited potential.  Little by little they learn and develop and, with God's grace, become all they are meant to be. 

So why all the crazy?

Because, ya know, I made that kid. Me. With my self. I've got the stretch marks and out of control belly jiggling to prove it. And after all that hard work and that waaaaaay harder work of getting him out, I helped him grow big and healthy with more me (sometimes we call it milk). Me!

You know what that box of rice is? Not me! 

weep.

It's just the first tiny step in a long slow descent into abandonment. Or, as my husband so helpfully pointed out, "Pretty soon he'll be getting married and leaving us forever." Thanks sweetie! That will help the hysterical overreaction. 

I know, I know, more food means more sleeping through the night and that is definitely a good thing. And I really love how each day he has more personality. He makes clam noises with his mouth and then starts busting up laughing his deep baby belly laughs. He can even see me now and hold onto my fingers

Yes, growing up is a very good thing.

Sort of. 

Just not in the baby food aisle. 

Beer for Jesus

A while ago, one of my co-workers asked if I had heard about the Big Thing that had just happened. I forget exactly what it was, maybe a shooting or something large on fire, or Colorado being underwater, whatever it was – I hadn’t heard a thing. Slightly embarrassed by other people now knowing that I live in a cave, I make it a point to scan the headlines of an internet news site at least once per working day. 

If something Big happens during the weekend, please call me.

And so it was that I stumbled across an article entitled, “Why Craft Beer Won’t Lure Millennials Back to Church.”

I drank this blueberry wheat ale for Jesus

Blink.

Blink.

Hold onto to your hats – this is about to get sarcastic.

Really? I mean really? I felt like I was looking at an entire piece devoted to the idea that “Putting on Underwear Before Pants is a Good Idea.” Do we need a whole article on why this is a stupid idea?

Apparently we do. It seems a whole bunch of hipster churches are trying to pander to the coveted 25-40 demographic by serving craft beers during their services. Weirdly enough, that approach isn’t raking in the coverts as expected. Huh.

Who could possibly have predicted that?

Several years ago, I was a member of a church undergoing a change in leadership. The new pastor pronounced that he KNEW what Young People Wanted. Oh? And what is it that you know I want?

A live internet feed of his sermons. Apparently that’s what I was craving.

I’m sure you will be shocked to learn that nearly every single young person (including me) left that church within a month.

Craft beer. Fancy technology. Slick worship sets. These are all just the latest in a long line of gimmicks desperate to attract a generation that is slipping ever further away from the Church.

Just stop. Please.

If you really super have to know why none of that is going to work, I – a young person (well, ish) – will tell you. The secular world already offers all of it, in a much nicer package, without sermons of any kind. When the Church barfs out a low budget imitation, it looks pretty lame. Suddenly, the Bride of Christ is a poser with its underwear on over its pants.

“Be imitators of Christ therefore…” I mean, Jesus!

No really, I mean Jesus. Remember that guy? Remember how he hung out with all the cool rich 20 somethings?

No? You do not remember that?

God Incarnate spent a whole lot of time chilling with thieves, whores and outcasts. His target demographic was the failure pile. The Kingdom of Heaven comes alive and comes to earth when adulterers, homosexuals, greedy thieving con men and drunks encounter the Living Spirit of the Most High God. Jesus preached Good News to the poor and the unwanted.

Who are we aiming our gospel at?

What if the Church stopped trying to be a sexy hangout and started trying to be a sanctuary? What if, instead of lattes and microbrews, we offered quality affordable daycare for working moms? What if we didn’t upgrade the sound system and instead sponsored a team fighting human trafficking in Asia? What if we stopped shouting about gay marriage and started screaming about the child slaves who grow our chocolate?

What if we had a little bit of faith in the inherent attractiveness of restoration in a hopeless, corrupt world?

Imagine a Church that went hard after the rejects, the bullied, the people with nothing to offer and made them family. Imagine a Church that got serious about repairing the earth – healing broken systems, broken relationships, broken homes, even broken ecosystems. Cool huh? Wouldn’t you want to be a part of that?

Maybe a millennial would too…

Well This is Awkward

Do not anticipate trouble, or worry about what may never happen.

Keep in the sunlight. - Benjamin Franklin

Back in the day, before I had all these kids…you know, that magical time when I frivolously wasted all my free time on peace and quiet (and sleep!)…I felt incredibly awkward around young children.

Um hi, I would think, you are small and strange, and you might bite. Yeaaaah. Please stay over there.

Is this a pretty stupid attitude to hold towards the young of my species? Probably.

Now that I am a parent, however, I am exactly as awkward around other people’s children.

What? That’s not even fair!

Sometimes when my baby is sleeping, I stare at his beautiful face and even as I fall more madly in love with him (and both his chins), I am seized with anxiety that I won’t know how to be his mother as he grows. What if all our future interactions are a bumbling shambles of maternal ineptitude? Oh my god, he’s going to get big! I have to baby-proof this entire child-murdering house RIGHT NOW. We’re all going to diiiiiiiie.

I really am trying to climb down off the CrazyTrain.

How about I get through this day and not borrow trouble from tomorrow? Also, no matter how it may later feel in hindsight, babies don’t actually turn into 5 years olds overnight.

I know all this on an intellectual level – just like I know that I will be spending every day with this baby so it’s not like he’ll be a stranger to me. And I’m totally not awkward around him now. I’ve learned what he likes and what he needs and I’m sure I will continue down that path of discovery blah blah blah. The knowing doesn’t stop the panic.

Maybe that’s why everyone keeps telling me to “Treasure Every Moment” (that’s not why – they say that because they have completely forgotten what it’s like to have a newborn). At least when I’m evaluating the moment to see if I will actually be treasuring it or not* I am not freaking the crap out about the future.

If you need me, I’ll be over here, taking deep breaths and trying to stay in the sunlight.

 

He sleeps so peacefully

*Kissing his irresistible fat cheeks? Yes! Wiping poop off his arms – his freaking ARMS people!! – in Denver International Airport? I’m thinking NO on that one.

A Mile Haiku

beautiful Denver

land of aspens and chapped lips

the West calls my name

If We Faint Not

Pretty soon our entire family is heading out west for my sister’s wedding. And even though she isn’t throwing a super formal kind of wedding, it’s not a t-shirt sort of affair either – so Gabriel needed some clothes with buttons. My husband and I left the baby to snooze for an hour in Juli’s arms and headed out with Gabriel to our favorite second-hand store.

On the way, the conversation somehow veered onto the topic of food. Eli asked how the kids ate back in Nicaragua. “Pretty simply,” Gabriel replied but added, slightly defensively, “We ate delicious things too.”

“Of course.” Eli said gently, “But how often?”

“Maybe once a week.”

And it hit me – he was talking about meat. On a good week, they ate meat once! What? No! That means every other day they were wielding rice and beans like a sword and shield to beat back hunger.

Rice and beans.

                           Beans and rice.

                                                    Every damn day.

                                                                                  Or starve.

Sometimes, in the midst of the grinding daily routine that is slowly pulverizing me back into dust, I forget about mercy. I forget the why behind all of this extra laundry and grocery shopping. And I realize that I am such an asshat.

So even as I am pretending like that’s a totally normal thing to hear and trying to discretely scrape my jaw off the be-doughnuted floor of my husband’s car, I am thankful for the reminder. It seems like Doing Good should feel good. Maybe it will later – I’m not giving up on future warm fuzzies! But really, serving people involves, well, people. And human beings are needy as hell. So instead of feeling fulfilling and uplifting, it feels a whole lot more like the next person who calls my name while another person is currently talking to me and jeezy creezy can you not see there is a crying baby in my lap?! is getting punched in the face. I mean right in the chupabanano.

Uh what was I talking about? That’s right, doing good.

“Let us not become weary in doing good,” Saint Paul wrote to the Galatians. Well there’s a handy clue right there; doing good is exhausting. “For at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.” I also appreciate the other versions that say “if we faint not.”

You know what happens at harvest time? You get to eat! Maybe that’s not exactly what Paul meant but I see no reason to stop taking Paul wildly out of context now.

Maybe Doing Good doesn’t feel good but it’s still worth the doing. Before, my kids didn’t eat very well; now they do. Before, my kids didn’t have nice clothes; now they can go to this wedding without shame. So I don’t get to spend all my time making my baby giggle or hanging out with my awesome husband. So I have to re-learn how to subtract fractions and find the area of some random shape. In a short amount of time, things are already changing for the better and I have faith that these great kids will continue to blossom in the light of opportunity.

So long as I don’t pass out. 

But Not Anymore

When my husband was first learning English, he really liked the verb tense “I used to…but not anymore.”

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about identity and the tremendous amount of change and upheaval my own has endured the past few years. I blame autumn. This time of year always turns me into a big ol’ nostalgic sap. It’s a time to reflect on all that I’ve gained and all that I wish I could get back – a harvest of memories, if you will.

I used to…

But not anymore.

I used to be a college student. I used to sit in classes and prowl through libraries, absorbing interesting facts and beginning to catch glimpses of the shape of the world. But not anymore. Now the best I can manage is listening to snippets of podcasts in the car or while I’m pumping – anytime I have 10 consecutives minutes without anyone calling my name.

I went to see a play on the campus of a local university and looking at the classrooms and dorms I felt strange. I honestly couldn’t tell you if I felt relieved that no one makes me write 12 page essays anymore or homesick for the structure and security of school. I used to know exactly where to go, what to do and how to succeed.

But not anymore. Now I know nothing.

I used to be an artist. I used to pull out my brushes and paints and revel in juicy, vibrant creation. Anytime I walk past the art section of a store, I cast my eyes longingly on my old friends, cadmium, ocher, and cerulean. Is there anything more spectacularly filled with possibility than a brand new sheet of thick, high-quality watercolor paper?

But

I don’t paint anymore. The only art projects I’m involved in these days involve 7th grade social studies or posters of the human respiratory system. Still, I know the art in me will lay quiet, waiting for the chaos years to pass until I again have the opportunity to say with my fingers what my mouth never could.

I used to have my own name. Now I am Mrs. Troy’s Mom. I used to wear perfumes called Indian Gardenia, or that pink one by Ralph Lauren that smells awesome but I have no idea what its name is. Now, I’m rocking Eau de Baby Vomit (slightly sweet with just a hint of cheese!).

I used to be a musician (or not, depending on your view of drummers). I actually picked up some sticks last night and jammed with my husband on guitar for a few minutes. It felt great! Sure, my fills are terrible after nearly three years of rust collecting but it’s nice to know I can still count to four while hitting things. Maybe someday I can return to providing the masses with a truly mediocre percussion experience.

I used to be restless and discontented with my life.

But not anymore!

My life no longer includes sufficient amounts of sleep but a sense of purpose? That I have in heaps! I feel most like myself these days. Maybe I don’t know what I’m doing but I know who I am. And I know that what I chose to spend my life on is as it should be. It’s not perfect (it’s sleepy and covered in vomit, remember?) but it is real and it’s good.

Those things I used to be, sometimes I miss them. But I’ve packed them up and put them away for now. 

They just aren’t relevant to my life.

Not anymore.

Awwww Snap! You Got Her Started.

Whenever I hear about people starting up missions in Central America, I always think “Yay! Someone’s paying attention to my beloved tierra.” But at the exact same time, a big part of me really wishes they wouldn't. It’s a bit like having a stranger do your laundry – you appreciate the thought but they shrunk all your pants.

For so long, the way the Church has done (and continues to do in many cases) mission work has, well…sucked out loud. So while I love the idea that religious organizations are spending their time and resources in countries with profound needs, I worry that they’re really doing more harm than good.

As I mentioned previously, I’m highly interested in ending world poverty. The old model of fighting poverty has failed but where can I find a new model that works? This can be done. God calls us to the possible. 

My ponderings on the subject always start in Nicaragua for obvious reasons: I know the most about it and it’s where I have, as they say, skin in the game. And instead of focusing on how much I do NOT know about my ridiculous windmill tilting, I am going to talk about what I actually DO know.

I know it starts with families. I heard a podcast by Pastor Joel Biermann, a guy who knows infinitely more things than yours truly. He said that families are the foundation of society. As the family goes, so goes everything. I saw a lot of broken Nicaraguan families. The number of children I personally saw raised by other relatives or only their mothers vastly outnumbered the children living with both biological parents (and many of those lucky few lacked the stability of having married biological parents). Part of the reason for this is economic. Fathers (and in some cases mothers too) can’t support their families with local jobs and must immigrate to Costa Rica, Spain, the US, or somewhere else in order to find work. Another piece of the reason is cultural – there is no social stigma against being a deadbeat dad. Or mom, I guess. Who are we kidding though, this is a Papa Problem.

My sister in law got pregnant at fifteen by a guy God loves and values but in my (worthless) opinion is a total piece of shit. He tossed her and his two-year-old son on the streets when he got tired of being with her. I take back my original opinion – I do not wish to give shit a bad name.

Her story is normal. This simply cannot be. 

Any program aimed at poverty extermination has to promote and protect strong family units. If the foundation is no good, the whole building will crumble.

I know toxic cultural norms must be addressed.

Any serious discussion of culture as it contributes to poverty has to include the topic of machismo – chauvinism. This is not the opinion of every Latin man and I never want to imply, even accidently, that it is. But I’m talking in broad terms here, and the terrible fact is that all-too-many men place little to no value on women. They see women as disposable. This attitude manifests itself in families abandoned, widespread domestic violence, and women denied access to education and jobs outside the home. I can’t give you hard data on this (and there’s always a good chance that I’m totally talking right out my butt) but I’m pretty sure any system without gender equality is a one-way street to Poortown.

A small but important step to redeeming this part of Latino culture is for the Church to recognize the problem and start speaking against it. Or at the very least, stop actively participating in it. Our family attends a Lutheran church on Sunday mornings (or gringo church as we call it) and goes to a Hispanic Assembly of God church Sunday evenings. I used to help lead worship in the Hispanic church as there is a real dearth of people willing or able to sing. They kicked me out for wearing the scandalous clothing referred to as “pants.” 

Wha?

1920 called. They want their dress code back.

That offended me in a myriad of interesting and colorful ways but the main objection I had (at least for the purposes of this blog post) is the propagation of injustice within the walls of a building dedicated to a God of Justice! Despite what the proof-texters may post in facebook memes, I firmly believe that the Bible radically promotes women’s rights.

But Liz, you may be saying, the Lutherans don’t allow women to preach or be pastors. Why aren’t you calling them out?

Well, I’ll tell you – that’s a hill for someone else to die on, I’m busy trying to end poverty! Also, hitherto, no one in the Missouri Synod has ordered me to clad myself like a Puritan.

Also, where is the outrage when a man in the congregation won’t let his wife learn to drive? Where is the sound and the fury for the douchebuckets who abandon their families? No, really, let’s focus on what I use to shield my booty from prying eyes!

I have wandered somewhat from my original point and that is this: misogyny contributes to poverty. Cut it out already!

I know problems must have locally based and locally led solutions. No matter how much this crazy white girl rages against the machine, the machista attitude towards women will not change until godly MEN come alongside these guys and teach them how to BE MEN.

In the exact same way, a bunch of rich United Statesians cannot waltz into a poor Central American country, dictate the Best Way to Live and expect anything good to happen. It sounds pretty stupid when you say it out loud but lordy, have we ever been doing it that way for a reeeeeeeeeeally long time!

How many mission programs ever sit back (assuming programs have sitting capabilities) and think about what it’s like to be in need?

A few weeks ago I got an email from a church thing that upcoming event-type information as well as a list of things to be in prayer for. One of them was to seek out ways to be in ministry to my family. And that kind of seems like a good thing – I mean, I understand the intention. But my only thought was: “Ick! We aren’t a ministry opportunity, we’re a family.”

People in materially poor countries may not always be able to articulate that sentiment but I guarantee you they feel it. It’s embarrassing to lack things that everyone else seems to have.

Ok, so maybe I don’t know anything about locally based or led solutions. But I know about needing help and feeling terrible about it.

There’s an old song, one of the few I know how to play on the guitar. It has two chords; I’m pretty sure mice can be trained to play it…Anyway it contains lyrics we would do well to tattoo in front of our eyes whenever we endeavor to minister:

                And we’ll guard each man’s dignity

                And save each man’s pride

                And they’ll know we are Christians by our love. 

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Dear Immune System,

This is going to be difficult to hear. But it’s just got to be said. We’ve been in a relationship for a long time now and I think we both know it’s just not working.

Our problems started with your drastic failures in the fall of 1998. You let yourself be seduced by literally every single new germ you saw, leaving me to stay at home and wonder why the love had gone so suddenly. I missed 28 days of school that year thanks to your dirty mistresses leaving their garbage all over my upper respiratory system. But since I still managed a 4.1 gpa and you gave me those sad puppy dog eyes, I forgave you.

We could start again, you assured me. You had learned from your mistakes and it would be better from now on.

The years passed and I worked hard to keep the fires going. I gave you little gifts of multivitamins to help you with your housework. I took you to beautiful countries and bought you big sparkling vaccines. I tried to make you happy. You have just not held up your end of the bargain.

I’ve been making excuses for your lack of concern for my well-being: you had a sheltered childhood and can’t handle yourself in social situations or you are suffering from post traumatic stress disorder.

I see all my friends with their allergies – proof that their immune systems care too much – and I’m just a little bit jealous. Maybe if I ate more vegetables you would like me more. But it’s time to face facts; it’s not me, it’s you.

This is really the last straw. This latest round of germs you have allowed into my body is disgraceful. They came from a three month old baby! An infant! You cannot even roust yourself to protect me from a teeny tiny baby virus. Instead you let me wander around my office – fevered, achy and disoriented – wearing pants that I’m about 90% sure aren’t even mine. Oh the shame!

I’m so over you.

Elizabeth

A-A-A-CHOO!

A Fine and Fancy Ramble to the Zoo

I have some serious blog-envy for all my neighbors in the blogosphere with their fancy cameras and their beautiful photographs. How come I don't post amazing pictures?? 

What? 'Cause I'm a terrible photographer? Nonsense!!

Just check out these little gems from our recent trip to the zoo.

The most dangerous thing about Rhinos
is their propensity to walk straight into your ear.

Two Hippos Fighting - a study in light.
Also, that's one of their asses there in the corner.

Troy getting a kiss from my husband. Or the Gaping Maw of Darkness.
It's hard to tell.

The frolicking joy of a sea lion and the pensive expression of half
my husband's head is a profound (and artistic!) study in contrasts.

This is not a picture of grass. It's a lion. Really. 

And IIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIIII IIIIIIIIIII will always love YOUUUUUUUU!

Tekken the easy way out. 

The tiger wished to protect his anonymity in anticipation of
Prince Fielder's epically bad slide 

A Continuing Conversation

As I'm thinking about and wrestling with how to end poverty, I came across this blog post, written by Kelsey Howerton, which I loved, so I will share it with you! She's talking about sticking kids in Christian orphanages, which is a slightly different concept than my original post about Central American children leaving home to try to come to the US. But really, it's the same story of poverty breaking up families and hurting vulnerable, precious children. This post can be found here.

We are called to do justice for the orphan and the widow. But what happens when that justice looks a lot more like injustice?

In a small village in Uganda there was a family in crisis. Their granddaughter had just fallen into their care and she was sick. Her mother was struggling with mental health problems and had not been giving her proper care. When she arrived at her grandparents, abandoned by her Mom, she was so malnourished they feared for her life.

With limited resources and the hospital an hour away, the family did not know what to do. They loved their granddaughter and wanted to find her help so they approached the leaders in their community about the situation. The leaders contacted some missionaries in town and told them about this family.

And just like that, this little girl was brought to an orphanage, where she would be separated from her family for the next 3 years.

The family wasn't offered transportation to the hospital, or advice on nutrition for a malnourished child, or high caloric foods or help paying hospital bills. The only option presented was the removal of their child.

So for the next three years a child with a family that loved her sat in an orphanage. She became one of many children cared for by multiple caregivers a day that came and went and picked up their paychecks at the end of the month. She got three nutritious meals a day and toys donated from America to play with and the occasional trip to town for ice cream, but she lacked a child's greatest need- a family to love her. She watched adoptive parents arrive to take their kids home and was left wondering where her family was and why she wasn't with them.

Essentially, an orphan had been created.

While this little girl wondered, an hour away a family in a village was left missing their daughter.

After helping to reunite children living in orphanages, back home with their families I wish I could tell you that this story was a one-time deal. That children weren’t constantly being separated from their families because of poverty.

Unfortunately I’ve heard this story more times than I’d ever be able to count. Each story I’ve heard has been unique but the fact that poor families are placing their children in orphanages because better services aren’t being developed isn’t unique at all. Not to Uganda or even to Africa. 

All over the world we are confusing poverty for families not loving their children- In Haiti, in Cambodia, in Kenya, in Brazil, in Honduras. I’ve spoken to folks working on the ground in all of these countries and the common experience is that not enough is being done to help poor families keep their children.

Nearly every family we have resettled a child to has told us, had support been available to help them keep their child, they would have never put them in an orphanage in the first place.

Poverty can’t be the reason the majority of children are growing up in institutional care. But this is what is happening and this is what needs to change.

Which brings me back to my question- Would Jesus be cool with keeping poor kids in orphanages?

Knowing what we know of who Jesus was, how he engaged with the people he served and worked alongside of and what he advocated for, I think the overwhelming answer would be a big fat “NO”.

Jesus liked messy. He tended to run toward it. We think of the disciples he chose to do ministry with, the stories of the misfits and the outcasts he loved so well. He gravitated toward people that didn’t have their crap together.

Working with families and trying to tackle poverty and the issues that stem from it is MESSY WORK. Throwing kids in orphanages and ignoring the problems that are facing their families and communities? 

That’s a lot easier.

But we aren’t called to easy. We are called to enter into the mess.

I don’t think Jesus would be about institutionalizing children just because we wanted to find an easy fix to the problem.

I believe He’d be asking us to challenge each other. He’d be all about ministering to and reaching an entire family, rather than removing a child from their care. He’d remind us that His Father didn’t accidentally choose these families for these children and that we should be fighting for families who love their kids to get to keep them.

Removing a child might be the easy answer, but it's not the right one. I believe we're called to true justice for "orphans" and widows, and to me that means coming alongside families in need rather than removing their children.