When Good Things End

First Day of School Last Year

Summer break begins! The last day of school brings the yearbook of memories, and a sense of joy and a tinge of sadness. As I hugged each of my children's teachers, I was overwhelmed with gratitude for this year and for who they have been to my children.  For my eldest, he needed the joy of learning reignited in him, and there's a full flame!  For my little bud, she needed to gain the confidence of a flower on a bright summer's day, and she's blooming!   

I'm aware that much of life is what you make of it, but it seems this year we were handed a present at the beginning, and with each passing day we were able to peel away the wrapping to find the innumerable gifts inside. 
And for the next school year...we'll see what life brings, but we live in the present, so I will take today and open the gifts that reside in my four walls, and I will pause frequently, all the time, to look out the windows to see the blessings all around.  And I'll be grateful for those outside my four walls who care enough to come alongside my children and influence them in positive, life-changing ways.  They are too numerous to count, and I am overwhelmed.

Haiti In My Heart: One Year Later

"We are a little pencil in the hand of a loving God writing a love letter to the world."--Mother Teresa

One year ago I was sitting by the window on an American Airlines flight looking down into the crystal clear Caribbean waters and upon a horse-shoe shaped country called Haiti.  The 4x6 glossy prints of this nation I once held between my fingers would be brought to life in my arms and heart.  Seven days is all it took. In seven days, my world was shaken and my heart was touched.  I close my eyes and I’m taken back to the day at Mother Teresa Orphanage.  The juxtaposition of beauty and pain encompassed the four walls of this home.  

On that day I wrote:
"'We are a little pencil in the hand of a loving God writing a love letter to the world,' said Mother Teresa. Those words caught my eye on one of the doors at the Mother Teresa Orphanage in Port-au-Prince.  We walked in through the gate, down the 12 steps into the building where hundreds of children called this their home.  When we entered, there were 25 beds in front of us with very sick babies and about ten more beds in the corner with more sick babies.  Some had IVs, others had bandages, and only a few had enough strength to muster a courageous cry.  I stood for a moment, soaking in this scene.  Beauty.  Pain.  Love.  Hurt.  Anger.  Compassion.

I saw the sisters never stopping...moving from one baby to the next, taking care of each baby's moment-by-moment needs.  I moved around the metal cribs in this humidity-filled room, and my eye fell on a little one I couldn't pick up because of an IV and oxygen tank she was depending on; her skin looked like leather on her sweet legs.  Crack. My heart broke.  I picked up her limp hand and she clasped her five precious fingers around mine.  

My ear heard the tenderness of a wailing cry, and I followed the sound to her crib where she reached up to me without hesitation.  Crack.  Another break in my heart.  She quickly stopped crying and within minutes her head was on my shoulder.  I held her for awhile, praying over her and singing her a little lullaby that was close to my memory from when my kids were babies.  I carried her outside and the nurse that was out there asked me to place her on the table; it was her turn for a check-up.

My feet took me up the stairs to a room full of toddlers.  My mind was still wrapping itself around the rooms full of children.  My heart was embracing each second I had at this sacred place.  Thirty metal cribs with low bars lined the room and each crib was filled with an eight month-old to two year-old. Our team was there to help the sisters in their mighty task of taking care of the least of these. Diapers changed.  Sheets changed.  Feedings.  Laundry.  We found crackers and make sure each child has one.  I hear part of our team outside laughing with the older children.  And I look at the faces before me, and I wanted time to stand still.

I met a little girl who had just arrived a few weeks' prior.  She was smiling, trying to talk, and adorable.  I lifted her in the air and said, "weeee," forgetting that meant "yes" in French!  She kept nodding her head and giggling, and I kept lifting her and joining her in the joy of this moment.  I put her down and walked around to a little one that had a tired look in her eyes but her two frail arms lifted in the air.

I picked her up and she wouldn't let me go.  We were told that in the orphanage, the ones that have an identity tag of identity on their right ankle are not necessarily orphans; they are children who have been taken in by the sisters because their parents know they can't provide for them in tent city or the slums, and they are better off in the orphanage where they get food and water and their diapers changed.  In this room of 30 babies, the little one in my arms was the only one without a tag.  She was an orphan.  The others in the room may (or may not) go home one day, but this one won't, unless she is adopted.  She had colorful hair ties like my daughter's in her hair, and she clung to me like a koala, just like my little one used to when she was scared or insecure.  I pressed her head against my chest and began rocking her.  As her eyes closed, I felt her body go limp in mine.  I was overcome by this sense of immense need yet a trust in God's goodness and a peace in who He is even when life doesn't make sense.  Injustice surrounded me: hundreds of orphans in distress in a place of poverty that has experienced a natural disaster that devastated much of the country.  Beauty surrounded me: willing servants, like the sisters, being Jesus to these little ones, and the value of each of these in the eyes of the One who created them. 
         

I held her for awhile longer, and as I held her I saw a few other children reaching for me to hold them.  I tried to lay the one in my arms down in her crib, but she sensed it, woke up and started crying, clinging onto me as if her life depended on it.  I grabbed her back in my arms and found a chair where she curled up and fell into a deep sleep.  I didn't want to put her down.  Ever.  Crack.  Another piece of my heart.  I eventually set her gently in her crib, and moved to the next crib where Emilie's arms were waiting for mine.  

And then it was time to go.  I have pieces of my heart left at this beautiful, difficult place."  

Gratitude infuses my membranes when I think about this day that will always grab my heart.  Perspective.  Haiti is a beautiful country of resilience and hope; they have endured (and are continuing to endure) so much, and the cracks in my heart have allowed room for moments of growth and humility and shown me grace and love.    

The words of Audio Adrenaline's song echo in my ears and it becomes my anthem:

"Little hands, shoeless feet, lonely eyes looking back at me
Will we leave behind the innocent to grieve?
On their own, on the run when their lives have only begun
These could be our daughters and our sons
And just like a drum I can hear their hearts beating
I know my God won’t let them be defeated
Every child has a dream to belong and be loved

Boys become kings, girls will be queens
Wrapped in Your majesty 
When we love, when we love the least of these
Then they will be brave and free
Shout your name in victory
When we love when we love the least of these
When we love the least of these

Break our hearts once again
Help us to remember when
We were only children hoping for a friend
Won’t you look around these are the lives that the world has forgotten
Waiting for doors of our hearts and our homes to open

If not us who will be like Jesus
To the least of these..."

In those seven days, I was given a glimpse at His majesty by holding and being with those closest to His caring hands.  My prayer becomes...please keep cracking, breaking and chiseling my heart for the things that touch the heart of God.  

*I wish I could share pictures, but cameras were not allowed into the orphanage.

Goodies for the school & orphanage

Rainbow of hope

A Haitian climbed this tree to get me a coconut when I was sick, so I could drink the milk.  Amazing!

When We Get Handed The Ball: Another Lesson On The Mound

There is no wonder that many of my life lessons come in the form of a 4'3" boy in front of me.  He lives life fully, uninhibited.

Tonight was one of those nights...
It's the fourth inning out of six, and the starting pitcher has reached his maximum pitches after throwing a marvelous game thus far.  There are runners at 1st and 2nd base.  The manager walks to the mound, talks to the pitcher, and looks up at my boy.  My boy walks to the mound and is given the ball.  At this level due to the number of stolen bases, the pitching position and the catching position are essential.  I know one wild pitch and those runners are coming home.
My mother's heart becomes nervous, the popcorn is quickly gone, and I sit there tapping my foot, cheering for him on every pitch.  "Come on, Buddy!" is on repeat in my mind and out my mouth.  
He pitches a great inning, and then another great inning, and then it's the bottom of the 6th.  This is it.

I rewind to two days ago when the scene was painted so drastically different.  He was so discouraged.  The "dis" had taken over his confidence and belief, and covered the "courage" part with lies and ugliness.  His heart was heavy, and when he shared with me that day my heart became heavy.  We prayed that night that the Lord would give him courage and strength to not be afraid and to not be down on himself.  

So, here I sit.  The score is 4-3.  This is the home team's last chance. With the game literally in his hands, the ball is given to my son to close out the game.  I know what he's capable of.  I know I believe in him.  I know he can do this.  And I wonder if he believes the same.  The fence separates me from him, and I can only cheer and pray.  The first batter comes up.  Strike out.  The second batter approaches the plate.  Strike out.  The third batter confidently taps his bat on the plate and winds up for a swing.  One.  Two. The third pitch is released from his right hand, the batter taps the ball with his bat and it dribbles fair, the catcher grabs it, and throws it to first with the final out.  1-2-3. Game Over! 

Elation ensues. The eyes of my child are vibrant, and alive, and the team jumps up and down in excitement.  The "dis" is long gone now, and all he had is courage to take the ball and finish the game.

It would have been easier and safer for him to tell his coach, "No, I think you better have someone else pitch."  Instead, he said, "I can do this."  And he did.  Sometimes in life we get handed the ball, and what happens with the seams in our hand is determined by the level of courage we're willing to muster and the risk we're willing to take.  

Losing The Safety Net

The tightrope walker steps from the plank of security onto the tiny rope that holds the weight of the artist as she moves one foot at a time with balance, focus, and grace.  She didn't arrive on this rope by chance; it was a progression of overcoming fears, starting low, and learning as she went.  Now she is high above the place where she started, her view is grander, more spectacular, but her heart races faster.   The maxim, "Don't look down!" does not apply to her as she must see where the rope is, looking ever so slightly ahead of her toes as not to lose sight of where she is going, but never looking back.  She is in the present...in the now...in the moment.
One more thing is removed: her safety net.  The stretchy, joined together ropes that are her constant safeguard are gone.  She knows it is time.  She must remove the item that she has depended on and risk it all.  This is what defines this moment.  It may seem nonsensical to some who veer away from risk and adventure, have not encountered her progression or have never stepped onto the rope in their own lives, but it's what draws in the audience to watch, to wait, and to see what will happen.
My tightrope walk starts.  The safety net that has been there a long time is removed, and I'm walking on this wobbly rope one foot in front of the other, not looking back, but not looking too far ahead.  My heart is beating hard, my head is wondering too many things, but it's been a journey to this point, and I can't go back.  With the safety net, no faith is required.  Remove the safety net and all I can lean on is my trust in a good God that loves deeply, cares sincerely, and gives generously.  He has proved that over and over and over again.
Why wouldn't I trust that now?  And if I were to fall, He will swoop me up and put me back on the rope to try again.  So, I step and wait in expectation.