Te Alabaré

En todo tiempo te alabaré... En todo tiempo te adoraré.

I felt a rush surge through me. It hadn't been that long since I heard Spanish worship music. Though I generally pray in English, read my Bible in English and even sing worship songs in English, something about being in corporate worship and singing in Spanish always captivates me. My heart and mind zero in on my precious Father in a different way.

But this time was different. We got to the chorus and it felt like a flood of tears was locked behind my eyes.

I'm the God you trusted in Colombia-- the same one you follow here. I never change.

Chills shot down my spine and my hair stood on end. This wasn't a new concept... this idea of Christianity being monotheistic. Of course the God I loved and trusted and followed in Colombia was the same one that I follow when I'm in the USA. Of course he is.

The song ended and I just stood there, knowing that I had just had a profound moment with God. As the next song began, I let my spirit be stilled by his and focused on the words.

All I know is I'm not home yet

This is not where I belong

Take this world and give me Jesus

This is not where I belong

They hadn't finished singing the first line before I felt the floodgates unlocking. The tears just flowed. I  just stood there until my lips were salty. Take this world and give me Jesus. Sometimes the groaning in me for home is so strong that I can't breathe right. Sometimes the mention of home brings tears to my eyes. Sometimes I just want to pack up and go home. But as we sang this song, I remembered that this was only sometimes.

Yes, sometimes I wanted to be home.

But I want my heart to always be caught up in the beauty and the hope of my heavenly home. I want to always remember that this is not where I belong. Oh, takes this world and give me Jesus.

Give me Jesus.

Never Forget

Sometimes I'm just disgusted by this world.

Today is one of those days.

It's so easy for me to look around and hear their cries, see their misery, feel their brokenness and I just want to scream. I study history and my stomach feels sick; my thoughts swirl thinking of the atrocities that have been committed. Why did the world stand still and watch it happen? My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. How did they ever hate this much? My heart squeezes shut and I don't know what to feel... or maybe I forgot how to feel.

And then I'm disgusted by this world.

I'm taking a class called "International Humanitarian Intervention." I guess I should have known what I was getting myself into. We weren't going to talk about fluffy stuff and pat ourselves on the shoulder because the United States sends the most money (not percentage) of foreign aid abroad. I knew the class wouldn't be like that. I knew that we'd look at genocides and natural disasters. I knew that we'd analyze the effects of the international community intervening... or not.

And I knew I'd get disgusted by this world.

I felt nauseous as our professor told us that when the Hutu Power government in Rwanda imported 500,000 machetes, the world simply watched. Oh wait, they didn't. They sold them the machetes. They sold them enough machetes so that 1 in 5 working-aged men could own one. Machetes-- the historical weapon of choice in this nation.The historical background was stacked against peace in this small nation. The red flags were pretty apparent. And yet that wasn't enough to stop the mindless massacre of hundreds of thousands of Tutsis and Tutsi sympathizers.

 In 1994 Rwanda had a population of about 7.5 million people. In 100 long days, a minimum of 800,000 people were slaughtered. In 2001, New York City had roughly 8 million people. On the tragic day of 9/11, about 3,000 people died. To put it in perspective... Two and a half 9/11s happened for 100 straight days in Rwanda. How is it that the United States lost their mind after 9/11 (yes, admittedly, an awful event in American history. I am in no way minimizing it's horror) yet stood still, even opposed (for some time) peace keeping operations in Rwanda?

Almost 20 years have passed since the Rwandan genocide. Twenty years. We hear talk about genocides and then the phrases like, "Never forget" and "Remember" are thrown about. What exactly are we remembering? Are we choosing to never forget enough to prevent future genocides? Do the nations of the world have enough political will to step in and prevent these kinds of massacres? Will they own up to their Responsibility to Protect?

But it's so easy to point fingers. And blame? Oh, there's plenty to go around. But if I really stop and ask myself what makes me different from them, I have to hesitate. What assures me that I'd never be capable of committing such horrible crimes? What makes me so sure that I would stand up and speak for those who can't?

I'm human just like them. Without the redeeming work of the Spirit in me, I'd be done for. I could fall into that kind of depravity... without Jesus, I am that depraved. I wasn't just a "generally good person" and then Jesus came along and made me into a "better" person.

No. I was a dead person. Jesus came, stepped into this world of suffering, poured out his blood and grace and extended a new life to me. He made me into a new person.

And because of that... because of this new creature dealeo, I can't be disgusted by this world. Because Jesus loved this world enough to suffer for it... I must love it enough to hurt for it. I need to let my heart hurt because of the suffering. I need to ache because of the depravity. I need to cringe at sin. I need to cry out on their behalf.

I must never forget that I was once dead. I must remember that I am new. I must love.

No, I can't be disgusted.

Nomads

“Man, Vivi. You just got here… and now you’re leaving again,” my dear friend Karissa said as she squeezed me tightly, wrapping me into a friendly hug. I did the math. I flew in from Colombia on Saturday and I was packing up for Canada on Wednesday. Yes, I was already leaving… again. I chuckled. Isn’t that the truth? How do I ever explain this nomadic life to those who have never lived it? Why is packing up, picking up and going so normal… even second-nature to me?

Though I absolutely love traveling to new places and experiencing new cultures and meeting new people, airports don’t carry a sense of excitement for me. Seeing terminal signs and arrival and departure tv screens don’t send thrills through me. Airports are sterile. Airports, rather than embodying new adventures and fun new places to discover, hold too many cold goodbyes and quick embraces. I was recently in California with a friend from high school. As she dropped me off at the airport she said, “Airports always make me feel sad. Yes, I like travelling, but airports always make me sad.” Ah, a true third-culture kid.

My heart goes out to nomads in the world.

Last week when I was in Colombia I had a gut-wrenching, tear-filled conversation with a wonderful friend. We talked about home. We talked about wandering the Earth… choosing—or choosing to obey—the call to a life of pilgrimage. Why are there so many of us who live lives far from the place we call home? We struggled to understand how God, in his sovereignty had placed me in her homeland and her in mine. There wasn’t a lack per se of people willing to live in Colombia or Champaign; we would have switched places if we weren’t so sure of God’s specific call on our lives to be in the places that we were.

What was God up to? Why was he in the business of uprooting people and replanting them in new communities elsewhere? It isn’t a new phenomenon—as much as we’d like to attribute it to this term we’ve coined: “globalization.” No, the Bible is scattered with those who we, looking back, would label as “third-culture kid (adults).” We find Daniel and his three friends captured and taken to Babylon where they were forced to learn the new language and culture of another people group—a people group oppressing their families. We see Moses, an Israelite by birth, adopted by Pharaoh’s daughter, raised in wealth and luxuries different from that of his native people. And then, called back to lead and minister. I’m sure he didn’t feel fully “Israelite” all the time. We see Joseph, sold into captivity and after many trials, establish an entire, separate life as an adult in Egypt, far from his relatives in Canaan. Abraham leaves his family and follows God to this land that is promised to him, choosing to become a foreigner. The list is extensive… it could go on.

And I'll use my friend's words from her own blog because they were phrased so perfectly:

"Yes, even my savior himself was ripped from his heavenly home in order to walk this desolate Earth among us for 33 years-- in order to save us. . . 'Home' is not here. It's not in Colombia and it's not in America. It's not on the gorgeous beaches or in the humble farmlands. You can sweep the entire planet and not find a place that is really, truly 'home' because we weren't created for this planet in the first place."

And when I get a glimpse of the place-- oh, that glorious place-- that we were created to for, I am overcome with emotion. I can't stop the tears the fill my eyes and I can't swallow the lump that sits in my throat. I just can't.

It's just too beautiful of a picture. Oh, the day when my heavenly Father opens up his arms and whispers, "Welcome home." Oh the day when I hear those blessed words and don't question or ask myself where home is... because I just know... that finally, finally... it is here. And those glimpses are so glorious that they are enough to convince me that this is a passing world and it is temporary and one day, it will be worth it.

The Little Things in Life

It's the little things in life we forget to be thankful for, isn't it?

Being home this last week was incredible. I loved being in Colombia with my parents doing need-based ministry. Every morning, however, I slightly dreaded climbing into the shower. Now, I don't know what the problem is with my parents' shower, but I can't remember EVER taking a shower that I didn't have to fight for comfortable warmth and pressure. This week was no different. I climbed in each morning, not sure if the water would be scalding hot or freezing cold. Maybe it'd be lukewarm and I'd have to huddle next to the wall because the pressure was so low. Some mornings I took rapid showers because I could feel my body temperature steadily dropping as cold water ran down my body. Other mornings my showers were a bit longer because I somehow managed warm water until it suddenly became freezing and I began rinsing shampoo out of my hair at impressive speeds.

When I got back to U of I took a shower and I almost breathed a sigh of relief when I remembered that I could count on comfortably hot water 95% of the time with excellent water pressure. It was a marvelous shower. After traveling for over 16 hours, it felt nice to simply let hot water run over me. I felt clean.

I had forgotten how marvelous a hot shower felt. Yes, I understand that my privilege is what allows me to complain a bit when I don't enjoy a warm shower. I understand that this is a first world problem... not having warm water. I get that. But in my world surrounded by privilege I'll take every reminder to remember how blessed I am and to thank God for the little things.

He Places the Lonely in Families

I'd always heard of it. I knew friends who had gone there. I had heard stories. No, one did not need to go to the Bronx ghetto in Bogota to know of it.

On Wednesday morning we hopped into the Bartel's big blue bus and he began giving us a tour of the neighborhoods where most of their ministry to street kids happens. Steve Bartel wanted to start off in the worst neighborhoods and gradually improve, showing us the transitions and the various stages the kids go through as they go through the ministry.

We stopped infront of a cemetery and he asked us to notice that it was an open-access cemetery. He said that the ministry staff had often gone on prayer walks through the cemetery and found animal remains, hinting toward sacrifices and other Satanist rituals. The cemetery was just three or four blocks away from "The Jungle" where, twice a month, about 150 kids from the neighborhood come play. He said they've definitely seen how the spiritual darkness has affected so many of the children.

We continued on our "tour" and Steve drove us right through the Zona de Tolerancia. You see, prostitution is officially illegal in Colombia... that is, illegal everywhere but in this area covering 25 square blocks. Here, open prostitution is tolerated, thus becoming known the "Zone of Tolerance." Both sides of the street we drove by were lined with sex workers, blatantly standing in the doorways, beckoning clients to come in. They were scantily clad and urged men to stop at their doorway. We asked about the children... where were their children while the mothers worked? Steve's answer made me feel nauseous.

"Sometimes under the bed. Sometimes in the bed. They can get paid more if a child is involved." Though it was illegal for children to live in these brothels, he explained that he had often sat on the streets for hours and watched children run in and out of the doors.

He continued to drive through the Santa Fe barrio... the "Holy Faith" neighborhood. How ironic. We soon approached the aread near the Bronx ghetto. My pulse accelerated, as I had never been in or near the Bronx. Steve explained that in about four streets, about two thousand people lived and breathed... and died. They had no real way of knowing, but he thought that there were about 150 children living in this ghetto. He wanted to jump out and lock our door before driving through, but decided to not risk stopping. On our right we saw men sniffing glue, mountains of garbage piled up. Human misery was evident. The garbage stench slowly began to seep through our closed windows.

From there he took us to the Jungle. There, kids go to them.  In the ghettos, the staff members go to the kids, but at the Jungle, the kids come to the staff. Here, they find a safe haven where they can run around and play. The Jungle walls are brighly painted and fun playground-type activties were scattered inside. Most of the activities required the assistance or supervision of an adult. Steve explained that this was purposefully set up in this way to help build trust between the kids and the adults. This way, kids could receive positive physical touch from an adult on the Saturdays they came to the Jungle.

After our time at the Jungle we went over to the Luz y Vida School. I love that name... Light and Life. It truly is what the ministry is trying to impart. At this school, the number one priority was spiritual formation and discipleship. The teachers and all of the staff are volunteers. Classrooms have seven or less students and the goal is to teach students who can't succeed in traditional schools. They hope to "level" their schooling so that one day they can attend normal schools and eventually graduate from high school.

One of the final stages in this ministry to street children is "re-parenting." Here, kids go to live with a couple or two single women. They live in a home and experience a familial environment. Kids share a room with one other kid. The houses are spacious and very un-institutional looking. The couples commit to these children for 20 years. They will be their parents unless they can be adopted or permanently placed into another family. If that doesn't happen, then they will be family to those children.

Everything about the Bartel ministry inspires me. I love the way they view the kids. I love the way they have officially adopted three kids and unofficially been parents to dozens of others. They have raised 25 children and on Mother's or Father's day, receive dozens upon dozens upon dozens of cards from kids around Colombia who know them as "Mamita Evie" and "Papito Esteban."

ECA: The Ever-Changing Place

Being back at El Camino Academy (ECA) is always a little bit weird for me... or at least it has been the last couple of times I've been back. I've learned that what made ECA that amazing place I struggled to leave were the people. The people were the ones who crawled into my heart and dug an ECA-shaped hole. And it's the people that continually change at ECA... it's the people who come and it's the people who go. So in a practical sense, ECA is never really the ECA it was the year before.

However, I love walking into the building and being overwhelmed by a rush of familiarity. I love closing my eyes and remembering the countless hours spent in the halls. I like walking into the classrooms and remembering my different teachers each year. I love smiling and saying hello to familiar office staff and Colombian teachers. And then of course, there are a couple familiar American faces.

But only a couple.

Yesterday when I was at ECA I was struck by the fact that I was more comfortable with teachers than with the majority of the current students. Sure, I still have some friends who are students there, the vast majority of my "friends" there are now teachers. Strange. So, sure enough... I had a lunch date set up with Lauren... a dear, dear friend from Illinois who now teaches at ECA.

I will still always love coming back to ECA. Always. But in a true sense of the meaning... I'm never going back to the ECA I left. I'll probably always have people to say hi to, given my mom's job at the school and I'll probably always feel pretty comfortable roaming the hallways. But I'll always reminisce and always remember and always miss the ever-changing ECA that I spent so many years at.

Hugging Me

"And please bless the kids who don't have anything to eat," he prayed over lunch. Lunch at Casa Buena Semilla-- maybe his only meal of the day.

The words squeezed my heart and I took in a slow, long breath. The rest of the kids repeated the prayer and finally the prayer was followed by an "amen."

Nope. I'll never get used to it. Never.

I spent the day yesterday in Barrio Egipto with my cousin Megan and my Aunt Karin. To get a more detailed background on the neighborhood, you can read this post. My senses were taking in everything about this rundown neighborhood. The broken tiles, the broken bottles, the broken windows... the broken lives.

We were there to play with the kids, read a Bible story and do a small craft. The kids in the morning came before their classes started at 12:30 pm. They received homework help and Bible lessons and lunch. Then the afternoon kids came after their morning classes, had lunch and basically repeated what the morning kids got. This meal--lunch-- was easily the only meal many of these kids got that day. And yet, when they prayed over it, their friends and neighbors who weren't sitting next to them were never far from heart. They did not fail to pray for "the kids who don't have anything to eat." Nevermind that these kids at the Buena Semilla had almost nothing to eat... at least they had something.

I fell in love with a little boy named Kevin. He was five years old and had the sweetest, biggest, roundest eyes. I picked him up once and after that, he always wandered over to me and crawled into my lap, snuggling into my arms... fitting perfectly. Oh, I could have taken him home. As I looked into his big eyes, I wondered what evil he had seen in his short five years. Had he seen his father hit his mother? Had he seen stealing hands? Had he seen blood trickling down the pavement? Had he seen cold, still eyes? Had he seen death?

I shivered and pulled him closer. How was my world so far from his? We lived and existed on the same planet yet the lives we lived were so opposite I couldn't wrap my mind around the differences. His sweet smile reassured me, comforted me. I squeezed him tighter, trying to shrug off the irony of the situation. His endearing heart was loving me.

And as I hugged him, he gently wrapped his small arms around me and hugged me back. I truly wasn't just there to just love others. He was eager and willing to love me.

Inspired

Being in Colombia always inspires me. But I've realized that it's not the place... though I love Colombia and I would like to say that the country itself inspires me. But I don't think that's necessarily true.

It's the people I meet.

They inspire me. They really do.

Now, this isn't to say that my friends in other places of the world don't inspire me... no, not at all. I am definitely inspired by people around the world. Colombia just happens to have a high concentration of people who inspire me.

They often live quiet lives, fully aware of the needs of others and constantly seeking to serve God. And through their silent devotion, I am inspired.

My former class advisor Mr. T inspires me. His humble heart that continually seeks to please Jesus amazes me. The way he has re-arranged his life in a way that will allow him to better serve individuals and families in the Prado and Santafe neighborhoods in Colombia touches my heart. With a determined consistency, he pursues the lost, pouring out his life and love so that one may find Jesus. The way he walks into squatter communities and run down houses and connects with individuals and families is beauitful. The way children squeal with glee when they see him is precious. The way he and his wife live sacrificially so that others may be blessed inspires me.

The Bartel family is another family that truly just inspires me. I don't know how else to explain it. For over 25 years they have lived in Colombia reaching out to street children. They have roamed the streets of Bogota, seeking those who sleep on the streets and live from hand to mouth. They have searched for these lives lived in quiet desperation and have pursued them. They've adopted three children and are called "Mamita Evie" and "Papito Esteban" by dozens and dozens of children. Their home is filled with the sounds of kids. Nope, they're not always squealing for joy. Sometimes you hear the yelling, the screaming, the crying. Evie explains that they all have such strong temperments because these kids... these ones are the survivors. And it is for these survivors that the Bartels pour out their lives... so that these survivors would live to find Jesus.

And today we're off to Barrio Egipto where I'll be with more people who truly inspire me.

These people who live with the poor, the hurting, the broken, the empty, the sick. These people who reach out to the least of these...

They inspire me.