Not So Starry Night

You can learn a lot of things while standing in a church parking lot for half an hour. For example, I learned that the coffee here has so much sugar in it that I actually like it. I learned that, even in Argentina, winter means cold which means wear a coat. And I learned that gypsies are still around, and they look just like regular people (except at their church where they wear long skirts and weird hair ribbons, but that’s another story).

This weekend, as I stood in line to go into the giant church I’ve been attending, I saw something I’d yet to see in Buenos Aires: stars. Now I’m sure when you hear the word “stars,” you think of a beautiful night sky speckled with millions of tiny golden lights. I absolutely love nights like that (you can ask my friend, Nathaniel…star gazing is one of my top ten favorite things), but that’s not what I saw when I looked up past the tall, crumbling buildings with peeling paint and broken windows. The sky was instead a hazy dark blue, and just a handful of stars were visible. Five to be exact.

As I thought about it, I realized that those five lonely stars were something special. While they might not seem as magnificent as a night in Ojojona, Honduras or even Lexington, Virginia, these five were the only stars shining brightly enough to be seen through all the smog and lights of the city.

Think about it. How hard is it for a star to shine in the middle of nowhere where there are no buildings, no cars, no factories, no lights, no pollution, no nothing? There are no hindrances to their light, and if for some reason they get shy or nervous (which I don't imagine they do, but you never know...), there are a million other stars nearby demonstrating how easy it is to shine.

The five stars twinkling over Buenos Aires were different, though. While so many things could hinder them, their light was bright in the darkness. They shone when the others around them grew dim, even invisible. These five stars were faithful to shine no matter what. And that’s how I want to be.

“…become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life.” Phil 2:15b-16a



You Don't Even Know My Name

 *Note: This blog may come across sounding very negative. Although it does reflect true feelings, it does not reflect ALL my feelings. I only included certain stories of certain people (all of which happen to be negative), but hopefully, when you get to the end you will see why.

Dear Dani,

Just for the record, one of the kids took this picture! 

You are really adorable, but I’m not gonna lie, you’re pretty high maintenance. In fact, you act more like a teenage girl than a two year old boy. One minute you just want me to hold you and the next you’re throwing a chair, glaring at me, and calling me “loca” (which is apparently something that kids you’re age are not supposed to say). You’re in your terrible twos, though, so I guess I can let it slide.

But there is one thing I just don’t get. I play with you all day. I bring crafts and games for you every week. I even nearly burnt down my host mom’s house to make you playdough since you loved it so much when Claudia brought it. I feed you. I pick you up when you fall. I love you despite your temper tantrums. And you don’t even know my name. Now I realize that you can hardly talk, but you know the names of all the other cuidadores: Mari and Ariana and Noe and the rest. You know the names of all the weekly volunteers: Ana, Claudia, Walter, and some others that I don’t even know. But you don’t know mine. I wish you did.

It’s Josy.



This is the face she made right before
she slapped me the other day


Dear Silvita,

I’m sorry I called you “Devil Child” in one of my earlier posts. You’re actually pretty sweet when you’re not pulling my hair or screaming at me. And when you sing Happy Birthday, it’s one of the cuter things I’ve seen.

Even though those moments of sweetness are few and far between, I still love you. Even when you stomp on my toes. Even when you smack me with a giant stick (I still don’t know where you found that!) Even when you pull my hair so hard I think you’re going to rip off my ponytail. And I even love you when you throw pieces of broken pottery at me  (Why there is broken pottery in the backyard of an orphanage, I have no idea. It’s a pretty terrible hazard).

I just don't understand how, despite all the love I give you, you still hate me. And you don’t even know my name!

It’s Josy.

  

Mia, the biter

Dear Kati,

I have been working here five hours a day for the last month. I watch the little ones all morning so you can have a break. I play with Mia to get her out of your hair, even though we both know that she bites. I go outside with the kids in the freezing cold so you don’t have to. I tell Carina “good job” every two minutes no matter what she’s doing so she stops screaming for you to come give her approval. And yesterday, I even took the box of matches away from Rodrigo fully knowing that he was going to punch and kick me for the next 20 minutes because of it.

I’m okay with the fact that you don’t really acknowledge me, that you don’t make the effort to speak clearly so I can understand you, and that
you never say thanks. I really am. But seriously! I have been here for a MONTH! And you don’t even know my name!

It’s Josy.



Dear Josy,

I created every single person on this planet. I planned their lives out before they were born. I gave them every single thing that they have.

I showed them miracles. I taught them the way to true life. And they spit on me. Mocked me. Beat me. I loved them every minute of every day, and they nailed me to a cross.

I meet their needs. I heal their diseases. I hear their voices though they rarely listen to mine. And they ignore me. Reject me. Hate me.

I bled and died for every single one of them. And they don’t even know my name.

It’s Jesus.





the man of the house (Jesus-16 years old) with Camila



Mattias an Nicolas playing everyone's favorite sport: FUTBOL!



Tiago and Eric hanging out in the toy basket



Typcial boy pose by Martin and Eric...not sure who took this picture- wasn't me!



Daddy!

Working with kids definitely affects the way I look at God. Though they don’t do it intentionally, children teach us about God as a Father, about discipline, and about love. They exemplify the purest form of faith and trust. They reveal our sin nature and our helplessness. Although this isn’t a direct account of something from my time at Fundacion Cor, it is inspired by my recent work with children. Not to mention the fact that today is Father’s Day.

“Daddy?” Elliot whimpers as he searches for his father amongst the crowd. Where is he? I need him! Panic rises in his chest with every moment of separation. Glossy pools gather in his caramelly, brown eyes. He knows his father is near. He can even hear his deep voice among the countless others in the crowd. But he cannot see him. He cannot feel him.


“Dad?!?” I want you. I need you. I miss you. Please come back! Where did you go? Elliot looks around. Glancing past numerous black slacks, flowery dresses, jeans, and shiny heels, he spies gray pants that look familiar; his hopeless wandering becomes an all-out sprint. As he wraps his arms around the tall legs, he looks up. The unfamiliar face studying him curiously causes an instant cascade of tears. You’re not my daddy!! He turns to run. There was no satisfaction in that embrace. He needs his father, and he needs him now.


Elliot’s whimpering turns to choked sobs as he becomes more and more disoriented. Where is my dad? Doesn’t he know that I need him right now? Doesn’t he love me? With the tears now rolling, he cries out again, “Daddy?!” His eyes are now so full of tears that his vision is blurry; he cannot even see to search anymore. He sits on the floor and cries.


Suddenly, strong hands lift him up into his father’s warm embrace. Elliot wraps his arms around the familiar neck and weeps.  Finally.  I found you!

The father looks at his son and sighs.  No, my son.  I found YOU.

Thank you, Abba. For being near, even when I can’t see you. For loving me, even when I cling to lesser pleasures that never satisfy. For picking me up when I am too weak to stand. And most of all, for finding me when I wander off. Every. Single. Time.

And of course, thank you Papá for trying your best to love me this way too.  You've done a pretty great job so far.  Happy Father's Day! 

Snapshots of Chaos

Have you ever seen Daddy Day Care? Or Cheaper by the Dozen? Or any movie where you have a whole bunch of kids running around wild, harassing each other incessantly, and destroying everything set in their path? If so, you’ve seen a pretty accurate picture of what I experience every day at Fundacion Cor. Here are some snapshots of the chaos…

Through the Front  Door

Not five seconds after walking in on my first day, there are two kids on my lap and five or six all around me asking about a million questions: What’s your name? Joshy? Yosi? Jorshi? Where are you from? The United States? Wow! Do you know any famous people? Have you met Obama? Did you know Michael Jackson? Were you there when the planes hit New York on September 11th? Did you know anyone that died? Have you ever been to Disney World? Were you squished like a sardine on the airplane? Are you rich? It's impossible to answer their questions because as soon as I begin to reply, someone asks another.

At the same time, three other kids are snooping through my backpack, several are fighting, and two are “petting” my hair. By petting, I mean that they are raking their fingers through it and ripping it out whenever they get to a piece that doesn’t cooperate. Yep, I’ll be wearing my hair up from now on. And hopefully becoming significantly better at multitasking.

Painting? Really?!?

I’m not sure why I thought painting would be a good idea. I haven’t even gotten the paint out, and paint brushes are flying across the room. But it’s too late to turn back now. Daniel is too excited. So I hand each of the four kids a cup of paint and prepare for a long morning. Within seconds, Mia’s paper is on the floor, her hands are covered in red paint, and she’s screaming. Furious for no apparent reason, she rubs her hands all over her face, and one of the caretakers drags her out of the room. The other three seem fairly content for the moment. Then I notice that Alexis is not painting his piece of paper. He’s painting the table. I scold him and hand his paper back. It seems to work. For about five seconds. Then Soana imitates his behavior and it goes downhill from there. After about 30 minutes, there is more paint on the table, chairs, windows, walls, clothes, and faces of the kids then there is on the paper. They’ve dumped out the cups of paint, thrown their papers face down on the floor, and ignored every single thing I have told them to do. But Alexis is laughing and Daniel can’t stop grinning. So I hand them each a different color of paint and just hope that the women don’t get too mad over the mess we’ve made.

   

Let Me OUT!

I wonder for the hundredth time why no one thought it would be a good idea to replace the knob on the bathroom door. I mean, it seems like a pretty easy fix, and it would be quite worth it to avoid situations like this one. I’m locked in the bathroom and have been here for about 10 minutes. Plus, it’s not just any bathroom. It’s pretty much the grossest bathroom EVER! It’s used by 20 kids, only half of which are potty trained, there is a kiddy potty in here that never gets emptied, and sometimes the youngest kids come in and play with whatever they find inside. It’s disgusting. So tell me please why they haven’t fixed the doorknob! It would be great if we could actually close the door to keep the kids out and then open it again when we need to use it. But nope, they haven’t fixed the door and probably never will, so here I am, trapped hopelessly inside. Yes, I’ve knocked and banged on the door and yelled for help, but the only ones close enough to hear me are the kids, and they probably think it’s funny. I’ve called the office on my cell phone and screamed through the keyhole, but it seems that I will be here for quite a while. Finally, just before I pass out from trying to hold my breath (you’ve probably guessed that it smells TERRIBLE), the door opens. Thank you JESUS.

To Have a Family

Warning: Taking a turn for the serious. I promise for another lighthearted one next, though.

Not all the kids that live here are orphans. They're here for various reasons. Lots are sick. Some have AIDS, two have leg braces, and a few have been abandoned or abused. I don’t know their individual situations. It’s confidential. Maybe that’s a good thing. I can be one of the few people that treats them like normal kids.

Sometimes a parent or relative will come to visit a child.  As I look out the window, Daniel is out on the porch with his parents and grandmother. It is really sweet to see them interact..sad, but nice that they get to share at least some time together. Dani looks so happy in his mother’s arms. I can’t help but wonder what happened to this family that they can’t all live together.

But at least Daniel has a family to visit him. Much worse is watching Alexis and Camila. They both lean against the window, faces pressed to the glass, watching Daniel and surely wondering what it must be like to have a family.


Devil Child
I’ve never met a kid that I didn't like. Until Silvia. Obviously some kids are nicer or cuter or more fun than others, but Silvia gives the term “devil child” a whole new meaning. Bad kids don’t phase me. When I was in Peru, it was the trouble maker of the group that cried the most when I left. But Silvia is a piece of work. My last interaction with her was when she tried to go upstairs. The younger kids aren’t allowed, so I picked her up to carry her back down. She grabbed a chunk of my hair and didn’t let go. When she started screaming, I began to lose my cool. As I tried to pry her fingers off my ponytail, I scolded her in Spanish. Finally setting her down, she kicked me and then tried to throw a chair at me (still screaming). I guess this is a good opportunity to practice loving those who hate you. I think I’m gonna need some divine help with this one…


JAILBREAK!

Tamara is the sweetest baby EVER. She’s cute as a button (actually much cuter than a button, I’ve never thought buttons were particularly cute), and she NEVER cries. Not when the other kids push her stroller around or when they get way up in her face or when they take things from out of her hands. It’s pretty much a miracle, too, because with everything else going on, I think a crying baby would take this chaos to the breaking point.

I am reflecting on all of these things when I notice the silence. Soana is playing quietly in the corner while Daniel, Mia, Carina, and Alexis are in the kitchen. But why are they being so quiet? I put Tamara in the stroller and go to check the kitchen. It is empty. I let out a squeal of panic as I spot them out in the yard. How did they escape? I dash outside, grab Alexis, and drag him back in. But of course, as I bring him in, Soana runs out. Oh dear. I feel like a dog catcher as I attempt to round up the kids. Finally, I drag in two at once and Carina comes in on her own. Yes! I go out to grab the last two. But this time, the door is shut. And locked. Thank you, Carina (in case you can't hear it, my tone is sarcastic at this point). Self locking doors seem to really be an issue here. Tamara, of course, chooses this moment to cry for the first time ever, but I have to ignore her as I dig through the box of keys. It’s a big container with about 50 keys of different shapes and sizes, none of which seem to work on the back door. I scream at Mia and Alexis to come over towards the kitchen, but they ignore me. Finally, Mari comes to the rescue. I’m not sure where she was before, but I’m glad she’s here now. Whew. Crisis averted.

Well, those are the highlights of my first two week’s adventures at Fundacion Cor. I’m sure there will be many more. I’ll keep you posted.

Oh, and one last thing. The kids call me “Ma.” I wish they wouldn’t. It’s going to make things harder later. But like I said before, it’s too early to talk about leaving. Right now, I’ve just gotta love’em like the mothers they don’t have. Cause it’s worth it (“And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones because he is my disciple, I tell you the truth, he will certainly not lose his reward.” Mat 10:42).

Back to the Beginning

I’ve started this blog several times. You know in the movies where people start a letter or note, crumple it up, toss it in the trash, and repeat about a hundred times? That’s what I’ve been doing for the last several days. I suppose it’s been slightly less dramatic since I’m using a computer, but the idea is the same. I just can’t quite express what I want to say.

I think the problem is trying to pick up where I left off in the last post. Last time I wrote was after my trip to the Dominican Republic and before that was at the end of my gap year. But I’m not the same person I was last summer or even in February. It goes back to the clay idea (if you’re new to this blog, see the previous post, or the first one, or Isaiah 64:8). If a piece of clay looks the same as it did a whole year before, then the potter working on it is clearly not doing a very good job. In the past year, God has done SO MUCH work in my heart. So much that I don’t even know where to start. But since I can’t seem to write that particular story at the moment, I’m going to move on. I promise, though, that I will come back to it. You will certainly hear about my freshman year at Washington and Lee, and I hope that when you do, you will see how much the Potter has done in me. For now, though, we’ll skip to May 25th.

May 25th:

I’ve done this several times now: Pack way too much stuff. Watch Dad haul it out to the car. Drive to the Pittsburgh airport. Smile for a whole bunch of pictures. Hope Mom doesn’t cry. Trudge through security. Walk to my gate with my carry-on bag (shouldn’t have made it so heavy…). Fly to another airport for a longer than desirable layover. Eat some overpriced food that is never very good. Continue dragging around my too heavy carry-on…you get the idea.

Sometimes I want to skip over this part of the journey. I get tired, I get a headache, and I’d just really rather not deal with it. It doesn’t work that way, though. The beginning of every journey is crucial. It’s the part that takes ordinary life and boosts it up to adventure status. Here’s how: First, it’s on the plane that I always realize how little I know about what I’m getting into. I may have heard things, but I have not experienced them, so my brain really can’t wrap itself around the whole idea. Or maybe I haven’t even been told what to expect at all. The unknown looms before me. It can be scary. Or exciting. Or both.

Next comes the hardest stage. This is the part where I learn what I’ve signed up for, and I realize that I am totally unprepared and underqualified for whatever it is. In each of my previous adventures, this moment stands out clearly. Here are a couple of flashbacks:

Huancayo, Peru: (translated) “Okay, Josy. Welcome to the Mountain School. Here is your class. Teach them English. I’ll be back in an hour. Bye.” As 10 pairs of brown eyes looked at me expectantly, I turned to ask Mari what to do. But she was already gone.

Ojojona, Honduras: I jumped up and down and was probably red in the face as I tried to answer Elam’s question in Spanish. I changed up some of my wording and attempted a fifth explanation of why going to church does not earn your salvation. Then I took a deep breath and hoped that they finally got it. (translated) “Okay, so let’s try this again. If you go to church, does that mean you will go to heaven?” I sighed along with the disappointing chorus of “Si!”

It gets easier after that…until the end of the adventure at least. But it’s much too early to talk about that. This adventure is just beginning.


May 29th:

It started off rough. At this time yesterday, I was desperately trying to figure out why I’d decided to do this type of thing for the rest of my life. The multi-hour safety lectures alone were enough to make me long for the West Virginia hills.

It hasn’t been all bad, of course. There are some highlights. The city tour on Sunday was pretty cool. The church I went to was amazing. There’s nothing like 6,000 people worshipping in Spanish, 5000 miles from home to make you realize how BIG our God is and how far His hand reaches. And chocolate orange gelato was pretty delicious.

The rest, though, has been different than expected. Lonely. Intimidating. Flat out Scary.

But today was different. In the split second between opening the door of Fundación Cor and seeing the kids run up to greet me, I remembered. This is why I’m here.





**Pictures coming soon!**