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!**

The Potter at Work

At the end of February, I went to the Dominican Republic with a group of W&L students. Although this post doesn’t say much about the trip, my latest experience abroad finally motivated me to post a blog I’ve been meaning to write since December. I regret that I have not kept up with this blog since starting school, but I definitely plan to write regularly again this summer when I spend 8 weeks in Argentina and 2 in Peru.

Sitting by the dusty road, I take in the scene around me. To the left stands a tiny shack looking about as sturdy as the cardboard sign in the window offering fresh chicken to souls much braver than I. To the right, a rusty pickup truck appears to be about as old as the street it's parked on. All along the street, tiny houses painted like Easter eggs are nestled amongst the trees, with shabby clothing hanging from their barbed wire fences and colorful flowers framing the yards. Children of all ages fill the streets, walking home from school in their sky blue polos and khaki pants. And as I stand there, gazing at a world so different from my own, I wonder why it feels like home.

Ready to return to the hotel, the motion of standing carries me swiftly to another place, to Passion 2012, where it is not Dominican children who surround me, but thousands of Christian college students gathered to worship God. The memory is crystal clear…

The roar of the crowd crescendos, growing until it’s the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. I want to cover my ears, but it's too beautiful. The cheers honor of hundreds, if not thousands, of students who are standing to accept God’s call to missions overseas. With a grin nearly cracking my cheeks, I imagine that the parties in heaven are kind of like this. I look down at my friends...I look down and realize that I am up. I am standing.

In that moment, I am suddenly certain of that which was always so unclear. Doubts and questions fade away, and I realize that my life is no longer a shapeless lump of clay. God has begun to reveal its form. Although the piece of clay cast on the wheel in 1991 is still a work in progress, the end result is no longer a complete mystery. Whether I like it or not, I can now say for certain, that God is shaping me into a missionary. But it's only the beginning.

I’m no longer in Atlanta at Passion, nor am I in the sunny Dominican. Here at W&L, though, I've realized something crazy. I've learned that for some reason, by God’s design, Country Roads will never really take me home. While Morgantown will always have a piece of my heart, my future home is elsewhere, somewhere near that dusty road in the Dominican Republic or the Mountain School in Peru or the Ranch in Honduras where I first saw what it means to be a missionary.

So basically, I know that I'm being sent somewwhere, I just don't know where yet. I'm just waiting for the next call. It's funny to say that I suddenly know I’m going to be a missionary. But I do. Why did standing up make such a difference? I don't know. But it did. It opened my eyes, and I can now see that, while sitting down is nice and comfortable and easy, the longer you sit, the more reluctant you are to stand. It's worth it, though. I had to obey when God took my hand and said, “Arise,” and now that I’m up, I’m up for good. So “Here I am, send me!”*

*Isaiah 6:8