Things That Are Not My Favorite

When I was in China back in March, we spent one particular day traveling from Hengyang to Beijing, to take some time off and do touristy things for a change. We were operating on a very tight budget, so we had to settle for a 22-hour train ride sitting on hard seats and sharing a very tiny table. On public transportation in China, practically anything goes. You can smoke, drink, let your baby cry for hours, however the wind takes you, you are allowed.

My team and I were sitting right by the door, so all throughout the night people were getting on and off the train, leaving the door wide open for the brisk, winter air to come in and wrap us up in an icy fleece. We were already sitting up, with all the lights on, trying to burrow into our neighbor so we wouldn’t freeze to death. Needless to say, we were all a little on edge. One of my teammates (we’ll call him Chandler) made a comment about a snack food that one of my other teammates (we’ll call him Ross) had picked out. He simply stated that he hated that particular snack food, and that he wouldn’t be eating it. Ross immediately got his panties all in a wad and said that it hurt his feelings when people commented negatively on things that he had picked out or happened to like. Rolling his eyes and not wanting to address the situation, Chandler said, “Fine. It’s not my favorite.”

Since then, Chandler and I have adopted that phrase, and have started using it in place of things we hate or dislike strongly. Trying not to border on the edge of whiny, I’d like to list some things to you that aren’t my favorite.

1)   It’s not my favorite when my hard drive crashed in Haiti. NOTE: there are NO Mac stores in Titanyen village.

2)   It’s not my favorite when 8 people have to share one space heater to stop from freezing to death. Spooning is an option and can be used wisely.

3)   It’s not my favorite when I say “Donkey” and people don’t understand that I am saying ‘thank you’ in Afrikaans. Some think I am calling them a jackass. That’s fun.

4)   It’s not my favorite when I play ultimate Frisbee. People get far too competitive and I’d much rather sit on a blanket and watch the game while enjoying a nice breeze.

5)   It’s not my favorite when Starbucks refuses to take Malaysian ringgit. All of this change I have is useless!

6)   It’s not my favorite when God has me in a transition stage in life.

I used to love travel days on the race. Especially the ones in Europe, because that meant that would get to ride on a train. (Am I five years old?) I would stretch out, read my book, journal, have much needed conversations with people, and just enjoy the fact that I had time. But there was one aspect that was not my favorite about travel days. It was the transition stage. It was at the moment that the train stopped, the plane landed, or the ferry reached the pier that I dreaded. It was at that very moment I would again have to pile all of my belongings on my back, walk/taxi/or subway to our next ministry site, and look ahead to my next month. I would be looking into the future, while still holding onto the things of my past.

I am standing at that very bus stop in my life at this very moment. I am looking ahead into the next frame of my life, but I am still carrying all of my baggage from the adventure I just left. And I don’t know what to do with it. I still have the names and faces of every child I held, the burdens of each ministry I worked with, and the souvenirs I picked up along the way, and I don’t know where to put them all.

I extend my hand to meet new people, hoping they won’t notice the fried banana stains on my fingers, or the fact that I do not, in fact, know the name of that new song Pharrell Williams just released. I’ve forgotten how to have ‘American’ conversations, and only know how to talk about the Kaamulan Festival in the Philippines or the fact that Chinese people have no sense of personal space. And that is not my favorite.

I know it’s only been a month, and I don’t mean to sound whiny, but I’m tired of being in the chasm. I’m tired of looking at people’s lives and wanting to be where they are so badly but at the same time looking back and treasuring what I had while I was on the race. It’s a sticky spot to be in. I’ve become the fat kid in dodge ball, the new girl at school, and the awkward mom at parties trying to fit in.

There is no solution to this ‘problem,’ accept to look at God and say, ”I trust you, even though I don’t like where you have me at the moment. It’s just not my favorite.” So here I stand, waiting (not so patiently) for God to move. And He will. I just needed to put these thoughts into somewhat of a cohesive blog, and now I feel better. Burden released. For the moment…

He is Someone's Dad

I've ended my "chronicles" of old World Race blog posts and I am finally back to current day Jessica. Here's what I've got: 

Today I sat at a booth and I stared over my chocolate chip waffle at my father. It was Father’s Day, and our relationship has been strained over the past couple of years, and I am attempting to reassemble it since I’ve come back from the race. This isn’t a fun blog to write to write because it is deeply personal to me, but someone I respect once told me to write from the heart, so I am tapping on my emotions to share what I believe is a very important message.

I sat on an uncomfortable plastic bench at the local Waffle House and anxiously scooted my eggs around my plate as I listened to my dad tell me about his new job. He was telling me tid bits of information about all of the people he worked with, their styles, college backgrounds, physical looks, and all around persona. I sipped my hot chocolate and imagined the robust African woman he told me about sitting in the office next to him prattling on over the phone about the benefits of an SUV over a station wagon and so forth and so on. She would be holding a pencil in her right hand and tapping it impatiently on her desk she proudly bought at Staples. At least that’s how I imagined her from what he described.

He continued to describe all of the other personalities in his office, and how they meshed or collided, but one in particular caught my attention. He told me about a Pastor that had worked at this specific dealership for several years. He said he lead a tiny little church in the area, and had taken up this job to make some extra cash when the economy started to slip. All he said about his personality was that he seemed to be a nice guy.

Hearing him say that stopped my heart. I put my coffee cup down and thought for a minute. We as Christians are supposed to be different. We are supposed to radiate the love of Christ. The love of Christ. I don’t know if you’ve read much about him, but from what I know just a mere glimpse into his deep brown eyes would flood your heart with warmth and belonging.  Do we carry that same depth of love when someone looks into our eyes or sees a glimpse of our spirit? Let me rephrase that; do I not only carry but also show that depth of love in every aspect of life? In my family, job, weekly trips to Starbucks, or vacation times? Sometimes I wonder if people think that I am just a ‘nice girl’ and anything beyond that is far reaching.

That conversation reminded me of another time in life when a stranger became more than just a face in the crowd. When I was in Malaysia on the World Race, the team leaders had gone out for dinner. After dinner, we headed to grab some coffee, to be promptly kicked out at 11 pm, forcing us to retire to a paved park area outside of a shopping mall. We were sitting in a circle, some leaning back on their hands, some sitting Indian style, but all encouraging each other. We were sharing how we’ve noticed growth in each other, what we have overcome and so forth and so on. It was a pretty special moment, but it was quickly ruined when a shirtless, small-framed older man drunkenly stumbled over to us. He kept trying to show us something on a newspaper he had crumbled up in his hand, and between slurred speech all we could make out was that he was lost.

As we exchanged looks of “what to do now?”s and “how are we going to get rid of this guy?” one of the other team leaders stood up. She marched right over to him, took his right hand, and said, “Do you need a hug?” Now, I know this story is starting to sound a little hippie, but please stick with it. The man’s delicate face turned up from the newspaper and tears welled in his eyes. ‘Yes,’ was all he could manage to whisper out, and my friend encircled his frail body in hers and gave him a much needed hug. With her chin resting on his small shoulder, she looked at me and said, “He’s someone’s dad.”

That simple statement is ringing loudly in my ears as I hear my dad talk about the people he marches through life with everyday. Is someone reaching out to him when he is in need? Is someone showing him the same love and belonging we are called to show? I don’t know; is the answer to that question. But it did make me think of all the people I see on a daily basis and reevaluate how I treat them. He is someone’s dad who needs a touch. She is someone’s mom who needs a word of encouragement. They are someone’s in-laws who are in desperate need of someone to pay their grocery bill. THEY ARE EVERYWHERE. And we could be the person to make their day, week, month, or even lifetime. I am someone in need of people to stand beside me in the fight for Kingdom on this earth. Everyone is worth something to someone, and if that other someone is not present to be the hands and feet of Christ it’s up to us. And that’s an exciting position to be in. And while it is warming your next stranger’s heart, it will be re-filling yours up for the next “someone.” 

Chronicle 13: The Emo Blog

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. May.

So here I sit. On a wooden chair at an African restaurant. I stare across the table at my beautiful friend Sami, and she looks back at me with the same, blank look of confusion on her face. 

Surely this journey can't be over, I think to myself as Sami takes my hand and holds it so sweetly. How is it that I am sitting at a table surrounded with the same people I started this journey with 11 months ago, wondering how we got to this point? My body feels achy and my chest is heavy. I'm not hungry and nothing on the menu looks appetizing, but I force myself to order something. A mango chicken sandwich. I love mangoes. I love chicken. This will appease my stomach, even though it is being difficult at the moment.

So I place the order, and try to make chummy conversations with my precious friends around meas I anxiously await what is to come: the breakdown. I've been excited about going home all race; excited to see my family and friends, to celebrate birthdays, Christmas, and the 4^th of July. It did not occur to me that leaving this lifestyle and family would be hard, I just thought the joys of going home would cover up all of those emotions. And they have for the most part, but now that it's here, those sorrows and reminders of closing this chapter of my life are starting to creep to the surface. 

I've felt waves of it all day. The welling of emotions, and then a quick suppression of the tears by remembering a funny antidote or looking at a flashy billboard on the busy streets to distract myself. But I know it's coming and quite frankly I don't know when it will hit.

I thought it would hit when the bank teller told me I had to wait in line to withdraw cash, but instead I just slammed the ticket on the counter and mumbled, "I'm not doing this," and walked out. I thought it would come when my team took our last group photo on the beach, but I was too distracted by the fact that my cute little blue dress was almost suffocating me. I thought it would come when my teammate Kyle kissed me on the forehead and told me I was one of the best leaders he ever had. But no, it came at a much more unexpected time.

Bringing us back to the restaurant on the last night of my race, I had just placed an order for a mango-chicken sandwich and fresh cous cous on the side. About thirty minutes later my food came out. My friend Lia took a jab at my cous cous and immediately made a face. "It's really spicy," she managed to squeak out, and I immediately got a sad look on my face. I had been at the beach all week and my lips were burnt. And I DON'T do spicy foods, at all, much less when my lips are already on fire. So I decided to try the sandwich first. At this point I must remind you that I love mangoes. I took a generous bite of the sandwich and started rolling the flavors around in my mouth. The alarms started to go off as the spices began to harshly stomp on my taste buds. I winced and hollered and swallowed it quickly to remove the fire from my mouth. But it did not work. It actually did much worse; it triggered the breakdown.

The tears started welling, and then they started to flow. All of a sudden 8 faces were watching me weep as I gently pushed my food away and tried to conceal the flow of sappy emotion. The waiter gazed at me quizzically as he tried to mumble something about how the sauces here are sometimes too hot for westerners and that this particular sauce is the mildest one they had. I tried to wave him off gracefully and signal to my friends to please jump in for back up, but it was no use. The race was ending, and I hadn't expressed any sorrow about that fact until a simple taste displeased my mouth. And there I sat, crying uncontrollably at the fact that this season is finally over. I was too busy rejoicing about what is to come that I forgot to mourn over what was lost.

I tell this to you to give you a warning. I do not know what I will be like when I get home or what will remind me of the village people in Africa. I do not know what will make me weep, dance for joy, or roll with laughter, so I apologize in advance for any embarrassment that I may cause you in public places. Whether it is the price of shampoo, spicy foods, or a simple tall, white-chocolate mocha, something may cause a drastic change of my emotions, and for that I am sorry. I'm just not as ready as I once thought I was to leave this race, and I don't know how this transition is going to look, but I am prepared to see what God does with it. Even if it takes sitting on a couch at 1 AM trying to compose my thoughts into somewhat of a blog for several nights, I am prepared to do that. One step at a time...

Chronicle 12: Be Kind to Your Neighbor

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. May.

Be kind to your neighbor. We hear this time and time again. From first grade Sunday School to buying a house with your spouse, we have always been taught to honor the people we walk beside in our lives. God has once again brought to life a saying that I have always read, but rarely put into practice. He has placed a certain someone in my life who has exemplified this golden truth as I live out my last month as a World Race missionary, here in our eleventh country of Malaysia.

I type this to you as my laptop sits on a small table with a checkered tablecloth and Maroon Five plays over the loud speakers. I look around and see neatly framed posters of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe, and Elvis Presley, accompanied with blue walls and red ceilings. The white stars lining the ceiling seals the essence of Americana that the restaurant called Kennedy's is trying to portray. On our eleventh month on the race, the Lord brings us to America, in Malaysia, in the form of a restaurant. We are working at a restaurant called Kennedy's, pioneered by past racers, and promoting it throughout the community. My team is spread out all over this town, everywhere from teaching at the Burmese refugee school, to hanging out with students at the local campus, to waitressing at this innovative restaurant smack dab in the Westernized city of Kuala Lumpur.

But what I want to chat with you about has nothing to do with our ministry. Right next door to our little restaurant is a teashop. The very first day we came to the Kennedy's, I noticed the soothing water fountains and cool green colors of the interior of our neighbor's building. Stepping a little closer, a short, caramel-colored Pakistani man with a big, bright smile waved and motioned for me and my teammate Emily to come over.  We shrugged our 'Why Nots?' and meandered over to his restaurant. From that day forward, we spent most mornings trying all types of teas and different types of honey. We winced at the bitter teas, nodded politely at the warm, unsweetened "woman's teas," and cocked our head blankly at the ten-year old honey spoonfuls. Everyday we would waltz over and be greeted by our new friend, Shah, and surprised by the different types of warmed beverages he would bring out for us to try.

After about a week, we started bringing food from our American restaurant for him to try, and he started making us delicious Pakistani treats. We tasted a gamut of foods, from caramelized, sugared raisins, to baked eggplant with steamed veggies, and the most interesting rice I've ever put in my mouth. It tasted like he put cinnamon or a sweet ginger spice in it. One day he made us thick, round portions of whole-wheat naan bread, and we ate it with a thin, round, pepper and onion-filled omelet. My mouth literally started to water thinking back to how savory this combination tasted.

The most heart-warming part of this story is that we have not seen one customer enter his restaurant this entire month. Every day he sits on one of the beautiful, hand-made wooden swivel chairs and looks out of his glass door for us to walk by. He gives the first of his fruits freely to his neighbors, even when he is not seeing a steady flow of customers. He's looking from someone not only to fill up his chairs, but someone to share in life with. We couldn't be any more different; he is Muslim, we are Christians. He is from Pakistan; we are from America. He works at a tea and honey shop; we are traveling missionaries, but we live together. We walk through life together and share in our meals, our traditions, and passions as three very different and separated people.

The mornings we walk next door and share in life with Shah are some of the most heart felt and touching moments I've had on this race. We've shared our hearts, experiences, and God's love with him and all it took was one day saying 'yes' to a house visit. This wasn't part of our plan or scheduled in our ministry, but we made time for it. We made time for a person, and it's made our time here more precious than any scheduled work would. That's how God works. He doesn't run off of a schedule, or a plan, He runs off of how the Spirit leads. So I encourage you, follow that leading. It might lead you to thick, ten-year old honey, a good conversation or the most delicious meal you have ever had. But I do promise you; the fruits of your time invested will be worth it. J

Chronicle 11: One AM Wake-Up Call

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. May

Did you ever watch the second Indiana Jones movie? The one with the Temple of Doom? I wasn't allowed to watch it as a child. Due to my frequent nights of sleeping on my parent's bedroom floor, my mom knew that the scene when the priest or rabbi or whoever he is pulls the heart out of his prisoner would be too scary for me. But nine-year-old me knew that I could handle it. You should've known me then. I was the wisest, most intelligent, know-what's-best-for-me kid on my block. I did smart things as a young, Power Ranger loving, elementary school blondie. I did things like jump out of my mom's jeep while she was driving, and refused to pee for three days just to prove that I could do it. (Too much info? Maybe.)

But oh, was I wrong about watching this movie. My best friend and neighbor, Jesse, invited me over to spend the night one Friday and we had planned to watch the Temple of Doom. I was ready; I told myself. After all, I was a big girl. I was older than my two brothers and I got to stay up until nine p.m. The movie started and the beginning was good; a little scary at parts, but I was managing to keep my cool. And then that particular scene came. The 'rabbi' reached his hand through the prison bars and started to stick his ever so strong fingers through the prisoner's gooey, and almost playdoh-like skin. But Jesse and I didn't make it through the heart extraction. We automatically started screaming and ran into her closet, pulling the door closed. We curiously peered through the wooden slats of the sliding door at different moments trying to see if it was over, but we couldn't block out the prisoner's blood-curdling screams. It wasn't until Jesse's brother heard the ruckus, came in her room, and turned off the TV that we stopped screaming.

I tried everything I could to block out that scene from my vision and hearing, but the TV still blared on. No matter how much I screamed or covered my eyes, the movie was still on, playing as if its audience actually wanted to watch it.

Moments like these still happen in our adulthood, when we try to block out God screaming for us by covering our eyes or plugging our ears, but He still gets through. I was reminded of this childhood memory the other night when I was woken up by a car alarm at 1:30 in the morning. It was a scary experience for adult me, but in a different way. I wasn't having bad dreams in my sleep; I was living the bad dream! I was simply trying to get what every grown man or woman desires-precious sleep. But there I was, lying in between my three other female teammates squished onto three mattresses (you do the math), listening to that alarm blare. 

Honk, Honk, Honk! went the alarm for approximately one minute and 26 seconds, followed by a brief, tease of an intermission of four seconds, and then repeated itself, over and over again. I scrambled under my pillow, found my earplugs, and shoved them in my ears. Honk-Honk-Honk went the music to my ear, only now in a muffled tone. 

Letting out a sound 'hoorump,' I rolled over to my teammate Emily and watched her put in her iPod. No way is anyone sleeping through this. I thought to myself as I looked around the room and saw my teammates rustle around their beds and shove things into their ears to try to block out the noise. But nothing worked.So I did something. I let out one frustrated growl, got up, scrambled around the room for some proper clothes and was determined to find someone to turn off that terrible sound.

I managed to find my long, black Columbia skirt, and my teammate's tie-dyed white tee (which I put on backwards), and marched downstairs to find security.

With my hair in a messy bun tied up above my head, my shirt on backwards, and my leftover mascara smeared under my sleepy eyes, I quickly raised my finger and explained to the security guard what was going on.

"You need to find the tenant who owns this car and get him to turn off the alarm." I said in my most frustrated, but commanding voice. I don't know if you know me enough to know that I don't do well when I'm woken up... period. Much less by a car alarm. So the officer did as he was told and the most annoying sound in the world ceased. I got in the elevator with success written all over my face, and rode up to the sixth floor, finally feeling like I could sleep. I laid my head on my pillow and fell into a deep, restful slumber.

The next day I thought about this experience and how it related to our relationship with God. I was actually in the middle of going down a path that God had not chosen for me, and trying to shove as many things in my ears as I could find and wear tinted glasses to avoid the truth. I had accepted a job that was not in God's plan for my life, and was trotting along trying to ignore the 'Wrong Way' signs that he was putting in my path. Don't get me wrong; this job was incredible. It was more than incredible, more than I had wanted and a lot of what I had dreamed for my life. But it was my dream and not God's dream for this next season of my life. It was wonderful and good and pleasing to furthering the Kingdom, but for some reason, God said no to it. He said no to my plans. And I was standing in the closet, screaming, trying to block out his tender nudges in the opposite direction.

So I gave in. I stopped running to the things that I had deemed good for my life and started running towards the mystery of God's design for my life. And that's where I currently find myself. No plan, no job, and no clear direction for the next steps after the race. The only bit of information I have is that God said to trust Him. So I'm actually going to practice what I preach and trust that God will provide. He will provide a way for these next steps I need to take in my life and give me a dream to chase. He's provided in abundance throughout this crazy adventure across the world, so I think He can manage it in America.  As soon as I released this to Him, I was able to sleep peacefully. The anxiety of going into a new chapter of my life without the Spirit going before me was lifted and I was filled with inexpressible peace. I stepped outside of the closet and turned off the TV. I went downstairs and notified security. I rested in God's will. And it felt good!

Chronicle 10: Letting Go of My Dreams

Phang Nga, Thailand. April. 

I have a giant, 3-feet tall, paper mache lantern in my hand. The diameter of the lantern probably stretched out to about a foot and a half. I was lightly gripping the paper-covered metal rims of the bottom ring of the lantern. I watched the wax ring in the center of the lantern slowly catch a flame and push the rest of the lantern straight up in the air.

My butt was sticking out, and my back arched, as I made unnecessary squeals and dog-like pants trying to convey my excitement through some kind of audible expression. But alas, I could not find a sufficient way of describing the true zeal that was bubbling over in the pit of my stomach as we did something people only do in fairy tales-literally. Have you ever seen Tangled? 

The girls were on our own during the month of May; some of us working in prostitute ministry, some doing physical labor, and my team, working at a retreat center for local Asian pastors and ministers. We sent our guys packing out to goat land where they had the distinct honor of shoveling goat poop and harvesting tapioca fields all month.

The retreat center is in Phang Nga, Thailand, surrounded by the most beautiful mountains, waterfalls, and occasional elephants on the side of the road. It is called Eagles Rest Foundation, and they aim to provide rest and refreshment for local Asian nationals working in the ministry who can't afford to take a vacation. Our team of girls was partnered with another team of beautiful ladies, and with our forces combined, we were able to light that tiny town on fire with the love of Christ.

I was able to help with the ministries networking and marketing, while the rest of the girls did workshops for our contact's four children. We did everything from sewing, singing, culture days, art, crafts, cooking, sports, and all imaginable in between. It was a packed month and very much needed for my team coming off of China.

But what I want to chat with you about is the last night we spent with our contacts. It's a husband and wife team (Rommel and Janene Ala) and they have a special tradition that they do with every team, and it was on that very night that we got to participate in it. 

It was a humid night, and we had just finished chowing down some delicious BBQ chicken when our contact Rommel brought out eight life size lanterns. They were huge and paper mache and legitimately just like any bride would dream of for her farewell send-off.

As we each held onto our own personal lanterns, Rommel explained to us the meaning of this ceremony is surrendering everything to God. Every hope, desire, burden, and dream into the hands of the all-knowing Father. So there I was, with my legs spread and body arched, watching the wax ring on the bottom ring smoke up to the top ring and eventually gaining enough force to lift the lantern way up into the dark, starry night. As I silently prayed and got a neck cramp from looking up at my lantern, I let go of my dreams. I let got of my desires to one day get married, to one day adopt, to one day financially support a missionary, to one day travel to Italy, to one day change the world. I surrendered my desires and gave them to Him. I've gripped onto them for a long time, and my knuckles have grown white from trying to orchestrate my own life and plans. And it was tough. Parts of me still try to take back what I willfully gave to God, (like it wasn't already his in the first place) but I am walking in the confidence that it is surrendered to Him, and I am excitedly awaiting the day when he gives it back to me, in abundance. That's what I've learned on this race. That his abundance is better that mine. His homemade chocolate fudge cake is better that my burnt chocolate-chip cookies. And that's what I let go. I like cake much better than cookies anyways.

Chronicle 9: Where It's Not Safe

Hengyang, China. March.

"Then he isn't safe?" said Lucy.

"Safe?" said Mr. Beaver; "don't you hear about what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? 'Course he isn't safe. But he's good. He's the King, I tell you."

I've started to re-read the Chronicles of Narnia. I don't care how old you are, those books are the perfect combination of divine humility and sheer brilliance in the midst of a children's book.  You simply can't find this type of ingenious harmony in books written today. Every time I crack open that thick, weighty book, I am captured by the thrill, adventure, and mystery that Lewis penned to a manuscript in the 1950's, beer stein in hand.

Yesterday as I was reading along, I scanned across the quote above. There is something so magnificent about this explanation of Aslan. As any innocent and curious child would, one Lucy Pevensie tries to find out about the inexplicable and perplexing Aslan from her new friend, Mr. Beaver. Trying to mask his shock that this little one has never heard the name Aslan, Mr. Beaver tells her the honest truth about his character.

I love how Lewis uses the magnificent character of a lion to represent Jesus Christ (if you've never got around to reading the books and are confused by this reference, I highly recommend you read them. Preferably curled up in the corner of a mysterious room). In so many ways, the quote at the top of the page not only describes our Lord; it describes our life when you choose to follow him. It's not always safe, harmonious, or comfortable; but it is always good, and there will always be good fruit produced.

That's how this past month was for me. We were in a China, where we couldn't pray in public, evangelize, or speak the name of Jesus. We lived in the dark city of Hengyang, where each street corner was covered in grime and soot. The sky was blanketed with a heavy cloud of fog that refused to lift, which brought with it a dismal and gloomy atmosphere.

As we ventured out to our ministry site every morning, we were met with the cold chill of winter, and the solemn faces of every Chinese person we crossed on the road. Motorbikes and impatient taxi drivers hastily drove their way down the busy highways, as we tried to dodge the traffic and make our way across the bustling street. We splashed through mud puddles and hopped over rocky terrain on our way to ministry, where the only color throughout the entire journey was the bright yellow canola fields.

As much as I loved that 45-minute walk to ministry every day, my heart was always somber as I thought and prayed about what I was about to see. It's such a battle telling people about what we did that month, because I want so badly for people to know what I saw, but it brings up so many feelings of sorrow and ache to relive that experience. But it's a story that needs to be told. 

We worked with an organization called International China Concern, who took in and cared for special needs children. In a Communist society, every life is valued at how it can contribute; what kind of money, resources, and fame it can generate for the country. Since special needs children generally can't perform as a 'normal,' high-functioning child, they are tossed to the side and forgotten.

That's where we worked--in the housing for what they dubbed as the trash of society. Most of my team worked directly with the ministry, but I worked with two of my other teammates in the governmental owned and operated welfare center for special needs children. If a family has a special needs child and they decide they don't want it, they can give it up to the welfare center, or drop him or her off somewhere until the police find them. The police will then take him to the welfare center.

Let me take you through a typical day at the welfare center. As we entered the gates of the center, we were met with a towering, gray building, sturdy, but unwelcoming. As we walked up to the second floor, the stairway was wide, but it gave a sense that it wanted people to leave instead of come in. As soon as your foot hit the last step, the smell hit you. The smell of urine, feces, and the disregarded smacks you like a bus. It takes about 30 minutes before you are able to stop scrunching your nose at the unbearable smell, and then you have to register what you are seeing.

There were 14 children in the room I was working in, each one of them desperate for attention. This isn't a normal group of children. They aren't running around, or playing, or screaming at the top of their lungs. They are sitting or lying down; moaning or crying, searching and hoping for something more than this welfare center.

The ailments of the room include cerebral palsy, autism, trauma, and Down's syndrome. There is no light in the room, no pictures or sweet melodies to lift their spirits, just a dark and damp excuse for an existence. The caregivers work 24/7, live there with the children, and only get three days off a month. Needless to say, they suffer from compassion fatigue, or to put simply, they are burnt out. The month before we arrived, eight children died from that very room. A baby died while we were there. We named him Jude because it means praise in Hebrew, and we are determined to remember him, even though his family won't even know he died.

The children were starving, literally and emotionally. Twelve of the children shared four bowls of food twice a day, and the other two got bottles. The Welfare Center is vastly over crowded, and they do not have the sufficient funds to provide decent food or comfortable bedding.

I realized that I've spent the better half of my blog telling you about the terrible things I witnessed in the welfare center, but I want to take a minute and tell you about the incredible redemption I saw that month. Every morning I would walk in the sour-smelling room, I would walk straight over to my favorite little girl. We'll call her Harmony, because I love that name and I can't give her real name online. Harmony was about ten years old, and had cerebral palsy throughout her entire body. This disease affects each person differently, and with her, she had very little control of her limbs. She could stand up on her own, but needed assistance while her wobbly legs maneuvered their way throughout the room. Her arms were like tree limbs, stiff and inflexible. Her fingers were shaped like a witch's and bent awkwardly as she pointed to you as you entered the room 

Every morning as I walked briskly over to Harmony's corner, she would give me a sweet, slobbery kiss and wrap her awkwardly formed arms around my neck for a hug. I would crouch down to her level and she would whisper in my ear 'baby,' as she pointed to the next room. Now, this is where I get a little teary eyed when I tell this story. You see Harmony lived in the same conditions that I described above. She was cold, hungry and lonely each day, but she decided to live out her days in a different manner than most of the children do.

Before my knees had the chance to hurt from squatting down to her level, she would push herself up and start walking wobbly across the room to the door. Knowing what she wanted, I would take her arms and assist her like a marionette as we walked to the baby room. Once we reached the nursery, she would hurry over to the first crib and peer through the wood bars and look lovingly at the baby. She would stretch out her hand and gently stroke the baby's face, and if it was crying she would softly whisper 'baby' as she held his hand. I've never seen Jesus played out in such a pure and vivid form, and it was through a ten-year-old orphan with cerebral palsy. She was living in this prison of an existence and still choosing to love others before herself.

That little girl changed my life, and changed my heart in spite of the terrible things I witnessed that month. She reminded me that these children are still God's own flesh and blood, and there still is hope. During our month, we found out that space opened up at ICC, and that she would be transferred over to the girl's dorms. She would receive healthcare, schooling, and a house full of girls who could support and love her. She is the individual that we are fighting for, and the reason organizations like ICC exist. She is my reason for continuing to fight against the injustices of today.

***If you would like to financially support Harmony or receive more information about ICC, e-mail me at jessmit86@gmail.com***

Chronicle 8: Naked

THIS IS A BLOG I STARTED IN THE PHILLIPPINES (FEBRUARY) THAT I NEVER GOT AROUND TO POSTING. It is also not appropriate for a young audience J

I've always wanted to skinny dip. My best friend growing up Katie and I tried one time at the beach, but it was an epic fail. We swam out into the waves and tried to unhook our bathing suit tops while treading water. We ended up chickening out and swimming back to the shoreline, giggling all the way. There it is mom, my one obvious acts of rebellion during my teenage years. I didn't drink, curse, or smoke; I simply tried to flash the fish of the deep blue sea. No purple beads were won that night, only the bragging rights of attempted skinny-dipping. Hey, that was pretty hardcore for a straight-laced, collared-shirt wearing fourteen-year-old Georgia peach.

Before I describe to you my experience with skinny-dipping, first I need to give you a little insight of where I'm coming from. I'm generally they type of woman who doesn't worry too much about body image, which I know is very unusual in this day in time. I don't go to bed counting the calories of what I ate that day, or stress about that last piece of cake I devoured. I inherited my sweet tooth from my mother, who forced me to eat her delicious death by chocolate cakes, oatmeal-raisin cookies, and milky key lime pies (Mom, I'm going to need one of those when I get home!). Luckily, I also inherited her metabolism and have a few good years left of eating how I please until it all catches up with me (I also do really enjoy working out, which helps with the sweet tooth!).

My father also played a huge role in establishing confidence within myself. From a very young age, he spoke into me that I was a strong, smart, and beautiful young woman. The older I get, the more I realize how valuable those precious words were as I see women struggle day to day with their identities and fight to be noticed or valued. Over the course of the race, I've been learning my true identity in Christ, and what that looks like in terms of beauty, confidence, and acceptance of myself as God made me.

It says in Genesis 1:27 that "God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him, male and female he created them." Notice that He said He created them "in His own image" twice. If we are created in the image of our Almighty Father, which means we reflect His beauty, meaning we look like Him. We reflect the glory and radiance of Christ through our actions, words, and yes, even our appearance. We are "fearfully and wonderfully made" in our best dress, oldest rags, and purest form, our naked body. 

Remembering that truth, I'd like to share with you one of the most freeing and purest moments I've ever experienced in my life. We currently have no bathing water at the ministry location where we are living. The water truck responsible for toting water to our camp every week was in an accident, and is not able to transport water. So we've had to rely on the good 'ole fashion way of bathing: putting buckets out and collecting rainwater.

To jazz up our bathing experience, our contact suggested that we go to a fresh water spring, bring our shampoo, and bathe in the water. About half or our group decided to go. So we loaded up the van with our shampoo, towels, and bathing suits on. As we pulled up to the spring, I had a distinct feeling that I was walking onto the set of the Swiss Family Robinsons. Remember that movie? They had everything from zebras for transportation and a bamboo pipeline for water. This 'lagoon' had a creaky wood high dive and gooey seaweed-like substance floating in the water. But, not having much a choice, we got in and started lathering up. The girls had their time first, as the guys waited up by the car, a good distance away. As I started to lather up, I remembered those failed attempts at skinny-dipping and secret desires I'd always had to try it.

This would be a great time to do it. I thought to myself.

"Hey," I said to the other women with me, "let's take off our suits and swim out to the dock."

A chorus of 'no's,' and 'I'd be too nervous,' and hemming and hawing continued as I made up my mind to do it.

"Well, I'm going to do it." I said as I pulled my top over my head and threw my bottoms on the dock near by. Gasps and breaths and shrieks escaped the mouths of my friends that day as my porcelain white body freestyle swam it out to the floating dock, completely buck-naked (keep in mind we were the only ones in the lagoon).

I pressed my palms on the wet, squishy wood and hoisted myself up on the floating dock. One knee at a time, I stood up firmly on the dock, and outstretched my arms to balance on the wobbly surface. As soon as I got my footing, I looked up into the trees as the sunlight cast shadows all over my naked body. I never felt more beautiful. I felt whole, new, and completely alabaster before my God. I reached my hands out to the Heavens and screamed at the top of my lungs, "I look like God!" And I truly felt it. I felt like I looked like the Savior of the universe; made in His image, without make-up, a fancy dress, or my hair curled. Just me and God, in my purest form.

Chronicle 7: When a Box Becomes a Blessing

Cape Town, South Africa 

While I cannot take credit for this Samaritan's act that I am about to describe to you, I can stand back and try my best to describe to you the actions of my teammates. Last weekend, our contact took us out to the waterfront of Cape Town to show us some of the beauty of this area. Blue, red, and white sailboats were docked on the pier, with their white masts glowing like lampposts in the sunset's light. It was dusk at the waterfront, and the crystal blue waters were slapping up against the dock as the last few stragglers were sailing in from sea.

The streets were full of people. Some were having dinner by the sea, some were swaying their heads to the tune of the Reggae band playing on the open-air stage, while some enjoying the luxury of a creamy ice cream cone. It seemed like it would be a calm, relaxing evening for the team.

After the sunset and we finished scoping out the shops, we made our way back to meet our contacts. They were sitting on a picnic table sipping some coffee as we approached, but we noticed a man sitting next to them, speaking to them as if he was in a hurry. We walked up to the table, and my eyes fell on this jittery man. He had salt and pepper hair, disheveled and unkempt, with a scraggly beard to match. His clothes were ratty and hung over thin framed, wiry body.

As soon as we sat down, he began to mumble on about how he had been praying to God that He would take his life for the past few days. He had come to the waterfront that night to kill himself. His shaky and nervous voice cracked as he spilled out about his past life and what had brought him to this low point. He told us about how he was homosexual, and had been in an abusive relationship with a man named Grant. He said he was horribly raped and emotionally abused by him again and again, until he gave his life over to God and walked out on this relationship. Because they broke up, he had nowhere to go and was forced out on the streets.

His name was Lennon, and since he became homeless, he had contracted body lice, making him unable to work a decent job or even stay at a hospital. By the grace of God, he had found a job cleaning carpets, but he couldn't start until he cleaned himself up, and got rid of the body lice. All he had were the clothes on his back, lice infested, and a dismal attitude of hopeless. Someone had placed us in the right spot to help Lennon that night.

As the men on my team sat down with Lennon and dealt with the heart of the matter, my logistical mind began to work as to how we could tangibly help this man. All he needed was a shower, shave, a fresh change of clothes, and medicated shampoo. It was these things alone that had become the last straw to letting Satan whisper the lie of worthlessness in his ears, thus pushing him to suicide.

After we talked with him for a while, we came up with a plan of action. Our contact specifically asked us not to give him money directly, because drugs are a huge problem in that area, and a lot of people come to beg for drug money. But we knew God had placed us there to help Lennon, and the men on my team felt a special tug to bless him that night. So we prayed. We prayed for wisdom and discernment, and that the Lord with give us the best way to help him.

Since all of the stores around us were closed, we vowed to meet him the following morning, at the same location, with clothes, medicated shampoo, and a way to get him to a hostel to shower and prepare himself for his first day of work.

After church the next day, we piled into the back of our contact's pick up and headed to the waterfront to meet Lennon. Our guys met him first, and took him out to KFC for some lunch. Lennon began telling them about the cold night out on the streets, but how the Lord had provided for him with a cardboard box to sleep in. He said that he was nervously walking around looking for a place to lay his head, and he came across a long, cardboard box, that kind of had a coffin shape. The statement that finding a cardboard box to sleep in was a blessing truly humbled all of us listening to the story.

Humbled was the word for that night. Realizing the need to truly be thankful for the small things, because no matter how we look at our circumstances, God has abundantly blessed us with a house over our heads and food in our bellies. A little dose of perception changed my view of things that night, by shifting my thoughts from entitlement to knowing that all things are incredible blessings from the Lord.

Chronicle 6: A Faceless Child

Johannesburg, South Africa. December

Her name is Janette Nangu. The girls at the club have given her the stage name Scarlett because of her ruby red lips and her ability to seduce any gentleman caller with her sultry curves. She grew up in a small village tucked away in the Malawian mountains, where her only hope of survival was learning how to farm or to marry a hard worker. She decided that her life would be different. In attempts to make something more of her life, she scraped together her meager savings from selling mangos at the local market and hoped on an old charter bus to the bustling city of Johannesburg, South Africa. Hopeful that this change will bring her a greater life, she heads south.

After spending several nights in the dangerous alleys of the city, the pains from lack of food and sleepless, worry-filled nights finally catch up with her. As the cold, gray glow of early morning sun creep into the shadows of her temporary home, she stretches her arm out and pushes herself off of the cardboard box she has made her bed.

"Today is going to be different," she thinks to herself. "No more scraping the trash bins for food, and sleeping with one eye open to guard my meager belongings. I am going to find a job today, no matter what the cost."

Strapping her multi-colored, hand-made bag across her shoulder, she sets off with her head held a little higher, and a pinch of excitement surging through her stomach as she wonders what the day will bring.

Walking along the busy side streets, people left and right nudge and bump her as they make their way to wherever pressing event is demanding their time. She passes an attractive, middle-aged African woman. She is wearing dark wash trendy jeans, with tall black leather boots and a long red pea coat. The woman in red gives her the lookover; the gaze that every woman dreads coming from another woman. With her manicured eyebrow curved up, she quickly but meticulously looks over Janette's tattered brown skirt and worn t-shirt; starting at her toes and gliding all the way up to her hairline. It was a split second that the woman in red had to look her over, but that's all it took for Janette to surmise what she was thinking. There was no compassion in her stare, just cold-hearted disdain for this vagabond. This causes Janette's shoulders to slump a little lower, and the peep in her step to slow a bit.

While the well-dressed women clipping their heels along the street continue to look at Janette with disgust, the men walking along the street give her a bit different look. Through her grime-covered cheeks and hand-me-down clothes, Janette is still quite a beauty. Her wide set, light brown eyes are framed with two evenly shaped dark eyebrows. Her nose is dainty and perfect, but it is her lips and her glossy smile that have the ability to make any gentleman weak at the knees.

As men bump shoulders with her on either side, their eyes are not studying her clothes, but are caressing from the top of her smooth starry-black hair, to her heart-shaped face, down to her hour glass shaped body. They make it very apparent with their smirks and bold remarks that they are enjoying watching her nervously hurry down the street.

Trying to ignore the penetrating stares of men, she travels deeper into the city desperately looking for a sign that says "For Hire". As she walks, she notices the plethora of sings advertising for Adult Entertainment. 

"I hope it never comes to that," Janette prayed silently.

The more the sun edged over the top of the sky and descended down to sunset, the more desperate Janette became. She had noticed the looks and heard the remarks of the men passing her in the streets. She had always been labeled as the prized treasure of her village, and had had many offers to serve certain men in ways she never wanted to explore. There was always a constant whisper in the back of her mind to explore this business, but her morals and dignity held her back.

As her legs grew weary and her shoulder ached from carrying her bag, the voice in the back of her head grew louder and louder.

Come on Janette; it's easy. You have the looks, you have the talent, and you have the desperation. All it takes is the courage to admit it that this is your destiny. It's all you have. And it will make your life easy and your cares light.

Just as the thought died with the sunset, she noticed one more dark building at the end of the street, with a flashing advertisement stating: "Pretty Girls Wanted. Pay is Negotiable." She walked closer to the dark and mysterious building and tried to look into the tinted windows as she pushed open the glittering door and walked inside.  A cloud of smoke hit her immediately. She rubbed her eyes, refocused, and took in her surroundings.  She was standing in a black room, black walls, black ceiling, and a black floor. About ten feet ahead of her was a purple velvet curtain hanging over a doorframe. Hot pinks, vivid blues, and green apple greens bounced back and forth through the tinny slit of an opening in the middle of the curtain.

Circling the room, her eyes fell on a chubby, balding man, who looked like he was in his mid forties. He was hunched over his desk, tucked away in the right-hand corner of the front room, busily looking through pictures of young women.

Janette cleared her throat and walked meekly over to his deck. He lifted his head up slowly, gave her a once over, and handed her an application. She took the piece of paper, sat down along the wall, and silently wiped away tears as she filled out the form.

A year and 10 months later, Janette is standing in the living room of her apartment looking down at her 9-month pregnant belly, just as desperate as she was standing in that dark building. After months of prostituting herself and loosing tiny pieces of her heart, she found herself once again alone and frantic for a way out. After she got pregnant, she vowed that she was going to have an abortion, and dispose of it as quickly as she could. Her doctor prescribed her a pill that would kill every brain cell in this tiny life form upon birth, and she didn't have any money to pay for hospital bills.

When she first took the pill, she reasoned that there was no way she could take care of this baby even if it was born alive, and she couldn't bear the thought of it being raised by someone else. Since she did have to deliver the baby, she would do it alone, and she wouldn't look at it, or touch it once it was born. It wouldn't be her burden to bear anymore. 

Alone in her apartment she painfully delivered the baby. Tears streaming down her face, she stared at the lifeless child laying face down on her bloodied carpet. She didn't even look to see if it was a boy or a girl. The more she let her gaze hang on her child, the more she noticed something different. It's little back was rising slowly up and down, as if it was breathing. A wave of panic washed over her as she realized that it was alive. 

"The pill didn't kill it? It didn't work? Not what do I do?? Now what??" Janette screamed in her mind.

Every action at this very moment remained a blur to her. She rushed into her bedroom, pulled out the nearest shoebox, and grabbed a towel. Erasing every emotion and feeling she had, she went into a cold and mechanical mode to complete the task at hand. She threw the towel over the baby, picked it up hastily, and tossed into the shoebox, placing the lid firmly on.

Running out her apartment door and down the concrete stairs, she slid in her car and put the box on her passenger's side seat. She shakily started the egnition, slammed her foot on the gas, and sped off to the nearest garbage dump. Seeing a large garbage container a few miles away from her complex, she swerved her car to the right and parked alongside the bin.

Turning off the engine and grabbing the small package, she threw open her door and lurched out of the car. With her tiny fingers securely wrapped around each end of the box, she dropped it in the bin.

Her stomach sank. She walked back to her car with shoulders slumped and eyes watery. As she got into the driver's side and shut the door, she gripped the top of the steering wheel and placed her forehead on the center as soft sobs escaped her lips. She didn't even look at its face.

***As most of your know, I am working at an orphanage for abandoned babies this month called Door of Hope. While this story is not true, there are many instances where mothers who find themselves in this exact situation leaving their babies to die. Door of Hope has found many babies in this situation, in garbage bins, on the side of the road or at their doorstep barely breathing. When I first started working with this ministry, my soul was constantly grieved for these children and their 'heartless' mothers. I could not fathom how any woman in her right mind could carelessly throw away her child. The more I learned about the culture and the struggles these women face, the more God softened my heart for them. It hasn't justified anything in my heart for their actions, but God has given me grace for them. These women are still His children too, and Hehas grace for them. Ouch. Tough lesson. I wanted to write this story to you from my heart: the story that shows the mother's side of this sad truth. I wanted to imagine their side of the story; what it looked like for them to throw away a part of themselves. I apologize if this blog is too graphic for your taste, but it's simply truth. There is a generation of women in South Africa who are desperate for the love of our Father. Desperate enough to give up their child in attempts to find hope. As you read this blog and pray for my team's ministry this month, please remember to lift up the women; the hated and despised women who are in dying for someone to show them grace. They need our Savior just as much as these babies do.