guatemala, new shoes, & Jesus.

So here it was, the day after I returned from Guatemala. I was eager to go to church, thinking I would be bubbling with excitement & stories from my previous 5 days. I wasn't. In fact, I was mad. I couldn't think of the words to describe my experience, so I replied to the inquiries with a smile and an "it was awesome, it was really good." But in my brain I was running through the crowds of perfectly manicured people in their Sunday best, shaking them and screaming "It's not ok! People are dying! People are hungry! You have to help!" 

Tears streamed down my face as I tried to convince myself that the words I was singing in the worship songs really are true. It didn't feel like it. It didn't feel like God's freedom was here...or at least the people in Guatemala didn't seem to be free. They are completely enslaved to a life of poverty, hunger, sickness, sexual abuse, grief, pain, dehydration. Sure, I can sing about God's unfailing love, never running out or giving up on me, but can those people in Pueblo Modelo or Del Rio? I felt my husband's arm around me as I sobbed, and my mind flashed back to 10 months ago, recalling all of the Sunday mornings I would barely make it through praise and worship, holding onto the chair in front of me & my husband's arm around me just so I could stand, but still forcing myself to sing His praises as both my heart and arms were empty. I thought to myself, "this was a bad idea. I just got to the point where I could stand on my own two feet, and now I'm back to square one, grieving over every single face I laid eyes on." And that's exactly where God wants me. Broken. 

I realized that in the past 10 months of brokenness, I've accomplished more for His Kingdom than I have in my entire life. God doesn't want "whole" Savannah who feels comfortable. He's saving that for eternity. Right now, He wants a brokenhearted child of God who is longing to be a vessel, pouring out His love into the lives of others. So again, I pray a prayer that I never dreamed of uttering. I pray that I'm continuously broken for Him, never content with what the world deems as accomplished, but always searching for what my God wants to accomplish through me. 

So...as hard as it is to grasp, the answer is still yes, He is faithful. It doesn't seem fair that their lives are at the mercy of sponsors and donations, but the reality is that God's love is still unfailing. It doesn't seem fair that hundreds of thousands of people are relying on God to stir up compassion in the heart of His people in order to recieve a meal. But guess what? He does. It's hard to comprehend a world where we can't take our sick babies to the doctor or go to the store for shoes. But I've never seen God's love at the pediatrician, or a servant's heart at Rack Room. So who then, is better off? Because I know those children with dirt covering their battered up feet saw Jesus in the hearts of those girls who washed away the mud, and put new shoes on them. I know the mothers of the sick babies saw Jesus in the faces of the people who held their dying children and carried them to the other side of the river, where there was a Hope of Life! 

So please, be patient with me. If you see me crying at the playground, or quietly trying to hold it together in a restaurant, it's because my heart is in Guatemala. And only my 30 cousins can truly understand. 

If you'd like to find out more, visit: 

http://worldhelp.net/sponsor-a-child/ or, 

http://hopeoflifeintl.org/

11 months too late.

It's the 4th. I hate this day. I know how I should feel, but I just don't. It's his birth date, and I should reflect on this day with joy, thinking of the happiness that was whisked into my life at 7:54 a.m.
But for me, and probably for many more people who have outlived their children, their birth date breeds anger.

 On April 4th, I was peering into a hospital bassinet, touching his fuzzy hair and kissing his soft cheeks, repeating "Hi Mama's Mans. I'm your Mama. Hi Isaiah. I've been waiting so long to meet you!"
 Only to be peering into a casket for the first time, on May 4th, where I held his hand so tightly that when I let go, I noticed I accidentally made it turn purple. 
Where I couldn't even look at his hair because they made me cover it with a hat so I didn't see the autopsy incisions. 
Where I almost threw up when I kissed his cheeks because he was cold and hard. 
Where my quiet whispers to him quickly turned into loud groans and screams, begging him to wake up. "Just wake up. Please wake up, Mama's Mans. This doesn't look like him. What did they do to him? Why doesn't he have a diaper on? He needs a diaper."
 The "mom" in me couldn't let go, even when my mind rationalized that he really didn't need a diaper...but what was worse is that it meant that he didn't need me. 

I have one month to prepare for his 1st birthday. There will be no decorations, no party, no smash cake, no pictures. Just the hazy memory of an infant's face, and a release of some sort, in his honor. There will be a month long struggle taking place in my mind, half of it thinking of what I should be doing, and the other half repeating that this IS what I'm supposed to be doing. This is my plan, my life, my story...I just wish I had known before that I'm not the Author, but only the supporting role.