On Hope

I was talking to some friends about my time in Guatemala and some of the amazing kids that I got to know, and I came back to Antonio's story.

This is Antonio. 

Antonio came to Fundacion Salvacion about a year and a half ago after being picked up off the streets by the police. Antonio was born to abusive, alcoholic parents who lived in a small town in the mountains. His first language was a local Mayan tongue, and he learned Spanish at his job, which was selling snacks on buses. By 8 years old, he was the breadwinner for his family-- earning money to buy food to feed his younger siblings, while his 9 year old sister cooked and tended to the littler ones. Eventually he was thrown out of his house after trying to defend his mother, which is where the police found him, and brought him to us.

He arrived a few months before I did, towards the end of a school year. Alycia gave him a sort of placement test to decide where he would best fit in to learn for the rest of the year, as he had no transcripts to speak of and he would have to enrolled in a grade for the whole year for the government considered it passed. He knew long division, so they put him in third grade for the last couple months of school.

But it turns out that Antonio had never been to a day of school in his life.

He'd never had the opportunity to go to class and learn. He didn't know how to read or write, and he'd never been taught basic math. Then how was he able to correctly solve long division problems? He just "figured it out". That's the sort of incredible mind that this boy has. He soaked in his first months in a classroom with respect and enthusiasm, picking up a remarkable amount of english in such a short time, and started second grade at Colegio Bilingue Esperanza this year. He started not knowing how to read or write, and having never been introduced to the basics of math or science or art. That was less than a year ago. Now, thanks to his excellent teacher, Teacher Judy, Antonio has come distances that you wouldn't believe. He reads and writes in two languages-- he can spell better than I can! I brought him into my third grade class a few of times to help my students with math. And perhaps most amazing are his English skills-- we have some truly impressive english speakers at our school, but I still often double-take when having conversations with Antonio. Normally you'd expect even the most gifted language learners to have trouble with things like tenses and pronouns, but he speaks with such an ease and a natural command of the language that I still find my jaw on the ground. After two years living abroad in Spanish-speaking countries and considering myself pretty proficient, it's easier for us to have complex conversations in English. He's become a translator for the staff of the Fundacion! And that's just his mind. Antonio is one of the sweetest, biggest-hearted, emotionally and spiritually aware people that I've ever met. He's so full of love.

And I was telling some of this to my friends, they commented on how amazing it was that this clearly gifted child might never even had the chance to begin to unlock his potential. How there are probably children all of the world who could be scientists and doctors and writers and teachers and counselors and parents who could change the world, but they are never even given the access to basic opportunities... and it just made me that much more thankful for More Than Compassion, and for the chance to work with them. Thanks to MTC, an abused, illiterate, and essentially hopeless child living on the street is on track to graduate with excellent grades from a bilingual school, go on to college, and have a beautiful future. And that's just one kid, one story of over 130. 130 stories that could break your heart, of the worst kinds of abuse you can think of, of abandonment, of seeming hopelessness... But then comes an organization, a group of people who is determined to give them protection and meet their basic needs, to give them love and an education, to give them assurance that they are adored by a God who loves them enough to die for them, a chance for a future that's brighter than the pasts that they've come from... to bring them hope.

There's a reason that's what our school is called: "The School of Hope". At it's core, MTC was brought about by the idea that maybe Jesus meant what he said about taking care of orphans and widows and "the least of these", and that in moving from compassion to actions, real differences can be made in the lives of precious ones. God's love for us is called "redeeming", and I can't help but believe that God takes a particular delight in taking darkness, in taking what was meant for harm, and turning it into goodness and light. God truly can make beauty from ashes, can grow something wondrous where it seemed the ground was too hard and dry and infertile for anything to take root, and hope is often what causes that seed of goodness to be awakened. Our God is a God of hope, and I could not be more grateful for that.

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Special note: More Than Compassion could NOT do what it does without their volunteers, donors, and sponsors. Please, considering giving a one time-donation or signing up to sponsor a child. We're particularly in need of school sponsorships at this point--click HERE). 

Also, you can help support my amazing co-teachers, Megan, Elise, Jess, and Marcos by financially enabling them to stay another year, tangibly loving on and teaching the amazing kids of Fundacion Salvacion. Contribute HERE

Make a one-time donation of any amount by clicking HERE

Thank you so, so much for helping to change the lives of these precious ones. You truly are giving the gift of hope. 

On Lice and Being Worth It

I had never deloused a head before I arrived in Huehuetenango.

I had a very brief stint with lice in first grade when it went around my school; my parents spent hours going through my hair with a nit comb, doused my scalp in tea tree oil and wrapped my hair in tin foil, and I proceeded to pretty much forget that lice exist for 18 years or so. When I heard that lice was a possibility in Guatemala I asked my mom to send me an all-natural delousing kit and some tea tree oil as a preemptive measure-- I guess the idea of a bunch of tiny little bugs feeding off my scalp and breeding in my hair kind of grossed me out. I was not interested in dealing with the creatures if it was at all avoidable.

But shortly we arrived here, the first massive infestation of the year hit the Fundacion. Getting the bugs and eggs out of a head that's been colonized can take hours of meticulous attention, and generally requires repeat treatments. With over 120 kids and only a handful of staff members, there was simply not enough manpower to begin to delouse each child... so I did what needed to be done. I asked for a lesson, got a lice comb, and went to work. Pulling out a live bug on my first comb-through was a bit of an experience! But I didn't stop, and I still haven't.

With so many kids living under the same room and sharing clothes and bedding, lice is essentially never totally eradicated from the orphanage-- the battle is ongoing. And I've gotten good at fighting it. I search my student's scalps for hidden eggs without even thinking as I help them with math problems. I pull nit after nit out of new kid's hair as they sit in front of me, my once unsure fingers quickly combing through the lice's favorite hiding spot, telling eggs from dander with ease. My roommates and I check each other's heads periodically, but we're not afraid anymore-- lice are simply a part of our reality now.

I'm not going to lie though, they still aren't the most pleasant. While they aren't dangerous, lice are icky and itchy and a nuisance. And it can hours and hours and multiple treatments over the course of weeks to get rid of them, once they've taken hold. I know the work it takes from experience now! So I'm not super keen on getting them. But do you know lice are spread? Almost exclusively through head-to-head contact, or extremely close proximity. And do you know how I spend my days? In extremely close proximity to little ones with heads full of them.

If I was going to be smart about it, I'd always keep my hair up, and I'd try my best to keep their heads away from mine. I would keep a smart distance. And when I first got here, I thought about doing that. But that's not how our kids love. That's not how they want to be loved. No, our kids want to be in our laps, on our backs, heads on our shoulders, hair all tangled up in ours. So Vilma will come up to me, sit on my lap, and lean her head back into my neck to get some quality time and cuddles, and oh, I know she's got nits right now. I start to pull back, and I see the confusion in her eyes-- where am I going? And I stop, and I pull her back against me and hold her close and smile, because I love her, and she is worth it.

I don't think anyone would say I was necessarily "unloving" for trying to keep physical space for a valid reason. It would be rational, it would be looking out for myself. But man, I love the crap out of these kids. And I could probably love them from a distance, in a more sterile way-- but it wouldn't have the same depth as the beautiful, simple way that I get to love them right now. I don't want the distraction of making sure I'm avoiding lice to at all hinder my my unconditional and wild love for them. I don't want them to feel me pulling back, I want them to know that I'm present. So I tickle them and wrestle them and hold them to me and tuck their heads into my shoulder when they cry, I let their hair tangle up in mine, because they are worth it. They crave that love, and I'm privileged to be able to give it to them. Loving them close up, without barriers, is worth the risk of lice.

And I think maybe loving any human is kind of the same. The natural reaction when we see each other's mess and baggage might be to hold back, to keep distance, to keep our love checked. Maybe even keep walls up as a preventative measure, because we know that loving up close can (and most likely will) cause us annoyance, time, effort, and even pain. And that's okay, and you can get through life that way fine. But I think that we'd be missing out. I think that we feel it when someone pulls back, holds back. And I think that handshakes are fine and you probably won't get lice that way, but I think that hugs and tickles and playful wrestles full of laughter and heads resting on each other's shoulders are better. I think that's how God loves us constantly, in spite of our brokenness and failings-- He doesn't hold back. I think Jesus gets right down here with us and our lice-infested heads and holds us close and rest on His shoulder and doesn't even tell us to clean ourselves up, and all we have to do is let Him. 

So I think that maybe next time we notice that we're pulling back because we know that leaning in could cost us more time and effort and energy or even pain, we should try to catch ourselves and lean in anyway, and see what happens when we love without inhibition and freely, when we let our hair get tangled up in each other's, because it's actually really beautiful. And because I think that Jesus is right: I think that we're worth it.

On Watching Fireworks When You're Not In Love

I've always loved fireworks, but there came a point during my teenage years when I realized that every time I saw fireworks, I wanted to be in love so much that it ached a little.

They just have that effect for some reason, don't they? They make you want to have a hand to hold and arms wrapped around you, someone to squeeze a little tighter as they go "BOOM" in the sky. Fireworks made me feel alive, and I wanted someone to share in all of that with me, because awe shared is exponentially better than being awed alone. Whenever I saw them, I wanted to adore someone and to have them adore me back, to share the moment with me. So I decided that I needed to be in love to fully enjoy a firework show.

I am not in love.

And while I've never stopped liking fireworks, they had definitely lost some of their magic for me. Watching them alone stopped making my heart ache sometime during college, but I also stopped deeply drawing in breath as they lit up the sky, stopped staring, captivated and grinning, as displays went off, stopped getting that beautiful, warm sensation all over my body that reminds me how very alive I am.

Tonight, a visiting group of volunteers put on a firework show as a surprise for the kids at the orphanage to celebrate their last night before leaving. A few adults got the fireworks ready while the rest of the visiting volunteers and the 120-something kids and a few of the teachers sat up against the opposite wall, getting ready for the show. They passed out popsicles and the younger kids found laps to sit in, and we waited as they started to light the fuses.

I am not in love.

But Antonio found me and sat at my side, and little Willy let out a joyous, "TEACHER!" and leaned back against me with his legs stretched out, happily sucking on an orange popsicle, and Gladys carefully studied and held up the glow stick she was wearing around her neck and asked me what it was called. And then they started. And these were not cheapo backyard fireworks, let me tell you-- these were 4th of July quality. My eyes widened as burst after burst lit up the sky. I smiled at Antonio, remembering how one of the first nights I got to spend at the orphanage was New Years Eve, and remember how we had just become friends and he spent the whole night bringing me sparklers because he'd learned that I loved them. As though he was reading my mind, he looked up at me with the reflections of the fireworks dancing in his eyes and a sweet, knowing smile-- "Teacher, you remember the first night.. ?"I laughed. "I do... I definitely do," and I hugged him closer. And I watched, eating a popsicle that tasted like a mixture of blue raspberry and hand soap, soaking in the moment. Willy would turn around at each particularly spectacular burst of light and look at me with wide eyes, laughing in delight, sharing his awe. And my heart drank it in, and I remembered that I am indeed quite alive. And I realized that maybe I was wrong about watching fireworks. Maybe, you don't have to be in love for them to be special, because I don't think that I will ever forget these moments and all of the beauty in them, and I am not in love.

Or maybe, I am. Maybe it just looks a little different than I thought that it would. And maybe that's beautiful. 

On Still Being Angry And Being An Asshole

*As this post has gained a much wider viewership than I anticipated, I'm adding some clarification at the bottom

I tried to go back to my old home church when I was home for winter break.

Not for the whole service, but for the response time of prayer and worship at the end. Even though I've been doing better moving on from all the pain that I experienced there, some hurt and unforgiveness still lingered, and I wanted to get rid of it. Those aren't fun things to carry around, you know? I was going to try and pray the rest of it away, and I thought being present there would be a good catalyst.

So I went. And I stood in the back. And I could not even bring myself to close my eyes or bow my head. I just looked around the room... I recognized about a dozen faces. Each and every single one of those people had personally hurt me or one of my very dear friends. The leadership standing in the front row, who'd ignored email after email and even after multiple meetings refused to acknowledge me. The person leading worship who'd gotten one of best friends pushed out of church. The guy who'd been my best friend who'd refused to talk to me for months. All of them, lifting their hands and signing, huge smiles on their faces. You are *not* nice people! was pretty much the only thought running through my mind.

One of the leaders walked past where I was and acknowledged me with a head tilt and a lifted hand and a look of confusion, as if to say, haven't seen you here in awhile... but he did not stop or speak to me. I've come to expect this, but it still sucked. Really? After all the talks we had you can't say hello or check in? Is that hard? It appears that not much has changed around here, I thought. And I couldn't do it. I couldn't pray, and I couldn't sing. I just stood with my arms crossed and waited for it to be over. When it was over, I sat down in a chair and tried to pray silently to myself, to pray for help letting go, and forgiving... but didn't feel much of a release.

Throughout my week home I continued to crave healing, and I felt like being present at a service was an important step. So I went to the pre-Easter concert. I even went to the multi-church Easter Service at the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater by myself. And I sat there, off to the side, and I watched everyone raise there hands and clap and smile and listened to them talk about Jesus and loving each other. And all I could think was...

All of these people are assholes. 

They tell you to come to church and find community, but then push you out of it after all you want is to go deeper after almost 8 years. They won't respond to text messages or emails or voicemails and they'll kick you off prayer team for trying to sing to yourself during a prayer meeting and causing an "interruption". They say they believe Jesus is Lord and everything is for Him but they don't seem to mind leaving millions upon millions of orphans uncared for and sick people un-visited and dehumanizing the homeless when Jesus said he'd judge people by how they took care of the "least of these" and loved each other. They seem to care more about drinking Starbucks and going to concerts than sponsoring one of our precious kids at the orphanage who wear one school uniform until it literally falls apart and they're holding their skirt up with safety pins. They preach community and love, but it's all fake. They post Instagrams telling people to "Come and See" but then don't have time to meet for coffee and get the reconciliation that is so desperately needed. I feel bad for the people who don't realize that it's fake yet. God, these people are assholes. 

I was still angry. In spite of my genuine desire and even *efforts* to reconcile and forgive, I couldn't seem to stop the pain welling up and turning into a righteous rage.

And then I heard words in my head that were not my own: "Yeah, they really are assholes. They're messes and screw ups and they're dragging My name through the dirt much of the time. They're pretty shit at loving. But guess what? You are, too." 

And there it is, isn't it? I'm an asshole. I'm totally an asshole. I was so busy being pissed at how these people singing to Jesus were hurting me and hurting others that I forgot how much of an asshole I am.

Let me be clear here: what I'm trying to say is different than the "the Church is broken because we're all broken and Jesus came for the sick, not the healthy". That's all absolutely true! But I think far too often I've seen it used as an excuse. There's a difference between hurting people and repenting and trying your best to walk in love and humility and using the above reasoning not to try to be better, to love better. To be honest, I feel like I experienced the latter with insincere apologies at the churches that I've attended, and that makes me sad.

BUT. But. I sure did need to swallow several spoonfuls of humility and graciousness. See, it's not hard for me to acknowledge that I'm deeply sinful and broken. While I feel like I could never do such a thing, the same potential to do horrible acts like abusing or killing people lies in me. It lies in each of us. It's terrifying and hard to accept, but it's true. There aren't "good" or "bad" people, just people who make good and bad choices. But for some reason, it's easier to accept that I have the potential for great evil than it was to accept that I have the same asshole-ish tendencies of the people who were hurting me. I would certainly never just not respond to a passionate, heartfelt email expressing hurt or seeking reconciliation, right?! I would certainly never avoid someone for being difficult! That's just straight-up UN-LOVING and UN-CHRISTIAN! Except that I have. I have done those things. I was allowing myself to get proud, as though I'm great at loving people who I might not particularly like. As though I'm great at acting out of love instead of hurt. (Spoiler: I'm not). I was so focused on how suck-y other people were being that I forgot to look inward and invite God in, and lift everything up. The people on leadership at my old church might have logs in their eyes, yes, but I've got a log in my own. Even if my hurt is justified, it's not something that I want to carry, so I think it would be best to focus on learning to love God and others better instead of being preoccupied with what I've experienced, or how other people are acting. I don't want to carry it with me anymore. And it might still be a painful process, but I think this is an important step for me. God can change hearts, and I cannot.

I think I'm better off repenting of my own sinful tendencies and asking the Lord to work with me and in me and make me more like the person I was created to be... to make me more like Love.

*A Couple Notes

I only expected this post to be read by my family and close friends who know my story pretty well, but it has spread beyond that. In light of this fact, I'd like to clarify a few things: first, some of my frustrations expressed here were with the church I called home for many years. Others are with the Church. For example, I do not think that my former church is particularly lacking in its concern for orphan care and community development, and I've actually seen them to great work in this area. But I think as a national and global Church, we're far too apathetic.

Also, I do not think that I attended a "bad church". If you haven't read my first blog post on this site and this topic interests you, I'd encourage you to check it out. As I state there, I had LOVED my church. Very, very much, for many, many years. That's what made feeling shut/pushed out so painful: I felt like it was a breakup, an ending of a very serious relationship that I desperately wanted to make work, while the other party didn't seem to care at all. I experienced many good things and love there, and that's what made the events of the last year hurt so much. If it hadn't been such a place of healing and joy for me for so long, I probably wouldn't have tried so hard to make it work and I would have left before much of the hurt happened. This post was intended to reflect my feelings in the midst of everything, and was an attempt to be very genuine and transparent with my process of learning more grace and healing. 

Also, I would like to say that there were a couple of individuals that did not fit that pattern that I felt from the majority of leadership at the church. In particular, my woman's small group leader and the lead pastor's wife were particularly kind and gracious with me, and showed themselves willing to walk through things with me and prayed with me for reconciliation. I cherish the love they showed me and I hold it in my heart with gratitude. 

On Being in Back in California

I came back to California for Semana Santa (Holy Week, not Santa Claus Week for those who might have been confused).

It's nice to be back, but it's weird. Like, really weird. Like, I feel like I've spent the last four months living in an alternate universe. Because I've lived the way that I live here in the States almost my entire life– sleeping in my own room with my own bed, waking up to a view of the Pacific, driving a luxury vehicle to a vegan eatery, browsing designer brand bronzers at Neiman Marcus, closing the curtains on my canopy bed before I fall asleep... It wasn't hard for me to fall right back into that lifestyle. I'm honestly not as repulsed by the extravagance and excess here as I expected that I might be, because I'm still used to it, I guess... It's always been weird to me, so it sort of feels like it always has. But it is weirder to go about all of that while I'm thinking about my life in Huehuetenango. Even though Huehue now feels normal and I adjusted quickly to that world, too, they're just so different. It's the dissonance that's weird. I mean...

I was caked in dust and pulling lice out of children's hair before coming home to my shared house with 10 people to eat a communal meal of rice and beans and sleep in my child-sized bunk bed and the closest available thing to a swimming experience would be the dirty/rank mostly-empty kiddie pool on our roof that we purchased in Mexico... and then 48 hours later I'm sitting in a jacuzzi watching the waves eating an organic avocado with pink Himalayan sea salt and root chips and drinking a lemon drop martini. Like... what? [Sorry about the run-on sentences, but I want to convey how those thoughts sound in my brain.]

But I'm not dreading going back at all. I actually really miss Huehue. If you're comparing which of my homes is more luxurious, there's no competition, of course. But luxury really doesn't feed the soul. Luxury doesn't run to you full speed and throw its arms around your neck, but our kids at the orphanage do. Luxury isn't sitting on the couch next to you asking you how your day was, but my nine roommates know more about me and my life than is socially appropriate, and it's awesome. My life in Guatemala is simpler, slower, and so much fuller.

Anyway though, this is not intended to be an in-depth reflection piece, because I have about 17 of those that I need to write already. I more just wanted to quickly document a few lighthearted impressions of being back so that I can look back on them:

-The smell of ocean is really strong after you've been away from it for awhile. It's also delicious.
-The dogs in the states are basically a different species than the dogs in Guatemala. More on that at a later time.
-It's not all hype: In-N-Out is actually wonderful.
-I sometimes forget that I can flush my toilet paper.
-As a whole, Southern California is full of very attractive people. Like, I'd forgotten but was reminded before I even left baggage claim that DANG SON.
-The modesty code here is different than it is in the rest of the world, and I don't hate it. Backless, strapless short sundresses to Easter church? Good call. It's hot.
-THE INTERNET IS SO FAST THAT IT'S MAGICAL DO NOT TAKE YOU MAGICAL INTERNET SPEED FOR GRANTED
-If you are not praising the Lord in heaven every night for your hot, clean shower with water that probably does not have Typhoid Fever in it you're doing things wrong
-Walking into Trader Joe's or Whole Foods feels like walking into a place of worship
-After you've been living and doing life with a group for months, being alone gets old really quickly... even for someone with strong introverted tendencies. Have you heard that saying, "A trouble shared is a trouble halved, and a joy shared is a joy doubled"? There's truth in that. If something fun is happening, it doesn't feel fun if I can't look around me and delight with other people. Why would I want to drink a Margarita alone? That's just depressing. Missing my roomie/fam friends a lot. I guess I'll have to find a community living house after this!
-All I want in life is to bring the kids from the orphanage here to California and take them to Disneyland and play with them at the beach. All. I. Want. If you knew our kids, you would know how glorious that would be.

So anyway. I'm loving listening to the waves and cuddling with my dogs and dancing with my family, but I'm excited to be back with the teachers and the tinies and blackberry popsicles in a few days. I will be posting a couple real entries very soon.

Love to everyone!

"Nunca te vayas."

I was snuggled up with this little one the other night while we were all watching the Robot movie when he looked over, laughed and laughed and said, "Teacher..." touched my cheek, put his hand on top of my head and said in Spanish, "Never leave." Last night before I left gave me a big smile and said, "You are my big sister. El mejor sopresa de mi vida (the best surprise of my life). Mi regala de Dios (my gift from God)! I never want to pass a day without you." I hugged him and told him I feel the same!

... So whoever wants to help me smuggle a child (or ten) into the United States in October, holler.

On Absolutely Not Wanting to Go to Church on Christmas Eve and Coming to Guatemala

My mother asked me if I wanted to go to church on Christmas Eve. 

"No."

The vehemence with which I responded surprised even myself. 

"I absolutely do not."

The past several years, it's been my sister and I coercing my parents to join us at our home church. My parents do go to a church of their own, but Jade and I started going on our own not long after I got my license when I was 17, which means we’ve called it home for 8 years, and we have loved our church.

I have loved our church.

I've sung its praises to so many: of its worship, teaching, and guiding values. It's been a place that I've been prayed for through some of my darkest times, and was given the opportunity pray with others during theirs. It's where I learned what it was like to hear from the Spirit and operate in its gifts. It's a place that I've been challenged and encouraged and grown. I've worked in the nursery, greeted, ushered, attended a weekly recovery ministry and small group after a sexual assault, taken part in an 9 month discipleship program, completed an Alpha course, served in India, talked about orphan care, and my favorite, been a part of prayer team. And in all of that, I've always looked forward to the attending Christmas Eve service as a family, walking in to the Sufjan Stevens Christmas album and hearing the story of Christ coming to this world with a creativity and freshness that makes my heart want to dance inside of me, and singing that joy to the Lord.

But I absolutely did not want to go to church this Christmas Eve. 

You see, over the past several months I have felt systematically unloved and rejected by the church that I had called home, in particular by its leadership. And do you know what my Flesh wants to do? It wants to tell you exactly why. It wants to show you screen shots and emails and recount conversations in which words were said to me that I don’t think should ever be spoken, but particularly not by those who are paid to be in ministry. I want to show you how I reached out and how I tried and sought reconciliation and how I was ignored in graphic detail, with dates and names. I want you, reader, to cry out in sympathy and support until those who have hurt me are forced to acknowledge the error of their ways and repent… I want them to hurt, too, until they’re truly sorry.

Yes, if I’m being honest, that’s what my flesh really wants. I would never say I was sharing my story vindictively or selfishly: I would say it was for the sake of genuine transparency, because I am very passionate about eradicating the patterns that I’ve been a victim of from the Church, and that I was sharing for the sake of justice and for the sake of the name of the One who loves. But if I search my deepest heart, I know that I’m not in a place where I can truly tell you about my experiences in detail without my flesh grasping for its own agenda. So for now, I will simply say that I have felt systematically rejected and unloved by multiple churches, including the one that I’ve called home.

My experiences filled my heart with pain, and eventually each new experience planted bitterness that sank down into that pain like seeds into fresh soil, and those seeds took root deeply. I began to feel repulsed by anything that reminded me of the patterns of unacceptable and unloving behavior of both “ordinary” Christians who I had considered brothers and sisters and those in vocational ministry, who are literally paid to love and seemed to be failing me so grandly. When I somehow ended up at my parents’ church on Christmas Eve, I couldn’t handle it: when the music started, all I heard was dissonance and hypocrisy  (and If I speak in the tongues of men and angels but do not love I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal resounding in my head). I mouthed the words but I couldn’t force any sound out. Every cell in my body was screaming at me to get out of that building, and after about five minutes, I did. I straight-up left and went home. The experiences had taken such a deep hold of me that I couldn’t even sit through a Christmas Eve service, and I no longer felt able to sing.

So there’s some background, and here is now: in the midst of all of this, and opportunity came up teach a bilingual school for orphans and abused kids in Huehuetenango, Guatemala, for 10 months. I’d heard about the opportunity last January and had come close to applying, didn’t, but couldn’t quite shake the thoughts of it. I felt my soul suffocating in both the comfort and complacency of Orange County and the crippling bitterness that was continuing to wind it’s way around my heart like a fatal vine, and when a position opened up last minute, I knew God was opening the door. I had a Skype interview, and I had a job offer less than an hour later, and less than two weeks after that, I arrived in Guatemala.

Guatemala is dirty. Trash lines the streets, stray dogs roam and scavenge, and a thick layer of dust coats everything. I live in a house with ten other teachers, four to a room and we share a bathroom. You’re lucky if the toilet flushes, and it usually smells like sewage. You’re absolutely stoked if you get a hot shower. We’ve been dealing with a bedbug infestation and I’ve had a bad bout of bronchitis. Most of the kids at the home that we work with have been severely abused, and understandably often have some pretty challenging behavioral issues as a result. I’ve been almost completely physically exhausted, and it turns out, I brought all that bitterness from home with me.

But when the kids call my name and run to me with open arms and unabashed joy on their faces and I scoop them up and hold them close, everything else melts away. When little Ulalia, who has been so severely abused by her father that she and her three siblings were removed from their home in a country where domestic abuse is considered par for the course, smiles her radiant smile with her missing front teeth and sings to me in Spanish that no matter what I am doing I will always sing to You—my heart is full of waves from the ocean of Your love!, I start to remember the power of Jesus. I never have a free hand while walking the kids to and from school because a little one will grab it and hold on, and when I look down at them walking by my side, my heart overflows.

There are challenges in Guatemala, and working with orphans does not automatically make one spiritually healthy nor holy, unfortunately. But I’m shedding all of the pretense and politics and getting back to the heart of the Gospel, and I’m getting to practice what James 1:27 calls pure and undefiled religion. In a dozen little moments each day, God is whispering to me and cracking the cement that’s formed around my heart, and breathing life and healing into my wounds. I’m in a situation were it’s very apparent that I’m absolutely incapable of doing what I’m here to do without God’s Spirit empowering me. Last week He laid His hand on my chest still swirling with bitterness and indignation and said, “This isn’t about the people who hurt you anymore. This is about you now, you and Me. This is you holding on to what will bury you, and refusing to forgive—refusing to give the grace that I continue to give you day after day.” And as usual, God is right. So with God’s help, I’m working on that forgiveness.

I have a new best friend named Antonio, called Anton in his native Mayan tongue. Anton is incredibly bright (he speaks three languages), very sensitive, and when he smiles he lights up all of Huehue.

 One day when we were wandering around the playground at dusk I started singing absentmindedly, as I am prone to doing. His little face lit it up and he cried, “You are a singer!” I laughed. “No, I just like to sing, that’s all.” He shook his head. “Eres una artista Jazz, en serio!” Now his eyes get bright and he makes little sounds of delight whenever I sing anything, and looks at me as though I’m the most beautiful singer in the world, and it sure does pour something into my soul that makes me bloom. As he held my hand and walked me to the gate that night he said, “Canta.” Sing. “What do you want me to sing?” “Cual quieres, whatever you want.” So I sang the first thing that came to mind:

Over the mountains and the seas

Your river runs with love for me

And I will open up my heart

And let the Healer set me free

I’m happy to be in the truth

And I will daily lift my hands

For I will always sing of

When Your love came down…

His hand tightened around mine, and warmth spread over me as his little voice joined my own

I could sing of Your love forever

I could sing of Your love forever
I could sing of Your love forever
I could sing of Your love forever

I know that this is a process, a journey, and that I will likely need to travel through more mess and pain to get where I need to go, but I'm happy and have peace about being where I am, and I’m excited to be moving forward… and for the first time in awhile, I’m remembering how to sing like I mean it.