O Come, O Come, Emmanuel

Gifts for my sons at 21 de Octubre

A sample of what is in the gift

O come, O come, Emmanuel...

It's the night before Christmas Eve--which is when the grandest celebrations are in Central America--and I can't sleep. It's not because of that childlike wonder that used to flutter like a butterfly through my mind as I was snug in my bed in my parents' house awaiting whatever crazy treasure hunt my father was inventing in the early morning hours in the next room. It's not because I'm awaiting some massive gift. It's because my heart is worn, my vision blurred, and my world much smaller than it needs to be. I miss my family. I miss the security of knowing that my life is going in some pointed direction--even if that direction is actually an illusion. I drag myself out of bed in the morning with swollen eyes, longing desperately to conjure up the excitement that I want to feel because today I get to see my sons. Today is Christmas Eve. Today, I get to see the look on their faces when I show up (which they don't believe I'll do) and when I give them gifts they aren't expecting to receive. But, I feel like a threadbare dish towel that's been wrung out one too many times. I call my mom just needing to release the exhaustion in hot tears and strings of words, and at the end of our conversation, she prays for me. The part of her prayer that sticks out for me the most is, "God, You know Sarah's heart. Please let today be special for her. Please send people and surprises to make this day special for her and to bless her heart." I don't know that I still have the faith that God cares enough to make today special, but I cling to that last little bit of hope. Oh, Jesus, how I need You to come and intervene in my life and my heart.



And ransom captive Israel...That mourns in lonely exile here...Until the Son of God appear...

I swallow the hurt, put on my glasses to ease my tired eyes, and take a deep breath as I carry bags of gifts and nacatamales. I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear that there are 40 boys in total--I have exactly 40 gifts (even with buying extras). God always knows my needs. I wish I could see the look on Raúl's face who is standing behind me as the swarm of my sons approaches with hugs and eager smiles. This is his first time in 21 de Octubre, and after hearing so many of the stories of my sons, this is his first time meeting them. "What did you bring us?" "I didn't think you'd come, but you're here!" "It's my Mami! Feliz Navidad, Mami!" Even with how shabby it has felt, my heart swells to internal combustion point because nothing brings me greater joy than loving on my sons. I finally get them to settle down enough to sit down, greet them all, introduce Raúl, and ask for lines to hand out their gifts. It's certainly nothing too exciting--just a new shirt, a pair of socks, some fruit drink mix (one of their odd favorites), a sticker, and a note saying, "Merry Christmas, Son! I hope you feel Jesus' love. I love you very much." They all scurry to put on their new shirts and socks (some of them didn't have any before), and the special needs children beam when I tell them how handsome they look. Some of the boys make some thank you speeches, and I am surprised when one of the workers decides to say something as well. The administration and workers aren't always known for wanting to cooperate with Orphan Helpers or us volunteers, but my heart just radiates with joy when I hear in various words what this man has noticed most in the ten months I've been coming to 21--love, just a consistent, extravagant love. And, internally, I thank Jesus that He has been able to use this very broken vessel to communicate the essence of His being to not only my sons but their caretakers as well. I take a moment to share with them why I am who I am, that it is only because Jesus came to reside in my heart, and I receive more hugs--even from the new boys who don't yet know me--than I ever expected.

Next, the visitors start to arrive. Henry runs into the room and grabs me in a hug as he says, "My mom is here! She came to visit me!" I was so blessed to see their embrace when she entered. Raúl and I head to the laundry room, an incredibly bare and small room with a wet floor and four pilas in the corner and a drainage hole in the middle of the floor (where the boys urinate when the caretakers refuse to unlock the bathroom for them), to spend some time with the 11 special needs boys who won't be receiving any visitors today. Soon, though, the other boys who won't be receiving visitors begin to trickle in--Joshua who helps me put together a small soccer goal to play with them; Jorge, a true orphan who has spent his whole life before 21 in an orphanage; and Jesús, who is 16 and doesn't know how to write his own name and who couldn't walk when he first came to 21 because he'd been shot ten times and had several stab wounds. They all, to my surprise, want to color. I discreetly try to communicate to Raúl that we have to keep constant track of how many colored pencils there are and need to hold onto the pencil sharpener because if we don't, the boys will snatch them up to use as weapons or for self-mutilation later. And the boys color. Some of these children are 15 or 16-years-old and have never colored before, so their pencil swipes of red, green, pink, and brown stray outside of the lines. I try to make a point to go around and tell each one of them he's doing a good job--even the boys who aren't special needs children (more just keep trickling in and wanting to color). They are so proud when they finish coloring the entire sheet--some of them have never been to school. Some of them have had very few instances in their lives of feeling a sense of accomplishment. I am so proud of them. The special needs children shower Raúl with hugs, and we are tranquil until all of the boys who don't have visitors--the majority, really, with around 30 or so boys--get locked in with us in that small, wet room. Someone in the office didn't want the visitors to be interrupted.

From there, it is mass chaos. Raúl just watches--wide-eyed but calm--and I can't help but wonder what he's thinking about my little world of broken sons. Thirty plus angry boys who are hurt because their families haven't come. Thirty plus boys who usually turn to drugs not to feel this pain, craving marijuana or glue or paint thinner. Thirty plus boys pushing each other around, yelling, and wearing their hurt on their sleeves in such a way that my heart breaks. Jonathan*, the boy who recently became a Christian, was so happy when I first came, but as visitors trickle in, and his brother doesn't appear, he gets angrier and angrier. He smacks the younger boys on the head, steals pencils from the deaf boy and special needs children, and yells about his need for weed. I just come close to him, laying a hand on his arm or his shoulder and say his name gently. He is still angry but he calms enough for me to calm the special needs children. He storms out of the room, and soon, all of the boys leave for some speech to be given by some IHNFA (Child Services) professionals. I only hear part of the speech, but it's something to the extent of, "Even if no one in your family is visiting you today, you should be thankful. You're not like the special needs kids. You have all of your limbs. You can see. You can hear." Later, he returns, and his anger has just turned to pain. He huddles in a corner of the room and hides his head. I walk over and ask if I can sit with him. He says yes, so I sit and wrap him up in a big hug, just holding my hurting son. I talk to him a little bit about my own difficulty in missing my family and assure him that God hasn't forgotten him and that I know his brother hasn't forgotten him either. He begins to cry. I hug him tighter and ask if I can pray for him, and he nods his head. I begin to pray for us both--that God would help us to feel His love, to believe in His kindness, and to know in the depths of our hearts and hurts that He is real and has a purpose for our lives. I hug him for a bit longer and then let him have his space. When I see him later in the day, he is much calmer and seems to have some peace.

Carlos "Mexicano" is also like Jonathan*. He wasn't expecting any visitors, but in many ways, that fact alone hurts worse. He's angry and sitting by himself, so I wrap him up in a hug and say, "What's going on, son?" He just shakes his head and stiffens up, so I give him his space. I try again a bit later, but he runs away from me. Eventually, though, he peeps into the room and wants to color and smiles when I tell him what a good job he's doing. So, I find a chance a bit later to wrap him up in a hug and say, "Hey, I love you, son. Do you know that I love you?" He smiles that perfect smile that stole my heart and nods. "Are you sure?" He laughs and nods. "Because I do." I squeeze him tighter and say, "I am so happy to be here with you today." He gets shy when I love on him, but I love that child so much sometimes that I feel as if I'll explode inside.

"Are those two brothers?" Raúl asks me as he looks at Jorge (the true orphan) and Ramón, my special needs son. "No, why do you ask?" I answer. "Just because Jorge is taking such good care of him." He is right. Jorge, though only 12 or so, readily takes responsibility for Ramón. He changes his diapers, helps to dress him, and leads him around sometimes. When I first met Jorge, he was hitting Ramón on the head and trying to make him frustrated. For whatever reason, it amuses the boys when Ramón gets angry and bites his own arm or hits himself in the head. I embraced Jorge, talking closely in his ear, and explained that just as I would never want anyone to hurt him because he is my son, and I love him, I don't want him to hurt Ramón either because Ramón is also my son, and I love him. Jorge still isn't perfect or anything. He still occasionally makes fun of Ramón's habits, but since that conversation and since observing how much I love Ramón, his heart has softened little by little. And now, I can depend on Jorge to be the one to take care of Ramón when I'm not there.

The other day, Hermano Charlie had asked me if I thought Ramón knew who I was. "Yes, I think so." And, today is no exception because as soon as he sees me, he grabs my hand, lets me hug him, gets close to me like he wants to give me kisses on the cheek, and plops himself right into my lap. I am especially blessed when I grab his hand, and he lifts his leg up, indicating that he wants me to carry him like a baby. This is my son, and I believe some part of him, even though he can't talk, knows that he's my son.

Alexis, who has just landed back at 21for his fourth time, catches me up in a big hug and gives me a sly smile. He looks like a street kid as his hair is long and unruly and his clothes are dirty. I met him in February when I first started coming. This is his third time since I've been there. He's addicted to drugs which is why he keeps ending up back on the streets. Today, he looks at me with questioning eyes and says, "Sarah, please take me home with you. Please adopt me." "Oh honey, you know I don't have anywhere to take you right now. You know that if I could, I would. But right now, I don't have anywhere, and I can't." This isn't the first time we've had this conversation, but saying no hurts just as much the second time as the first.

Raúl and I stay long enough to pass out the boys' Christmas lunch of rice, chicken, and nacatamales--a typical Christmas food here. We go through a whole bottle of chile (hot sauce), as that's a luxury for these boys, who like many Hondurans, would put chile on everything if they could. And we say our goodbyes. The question out of the mouth of every boy who catches me as I go is, "When are you coming back, Sarah?" They know that the Orphan Helpers are on vacation for the next two weeks, and they know I usually don't come when the Orphan Helpers don't come (because in the past, the office wouldn't let me enter). So, I say, "I don't know," and my mind flashes to the calendar. Two weeks away from my sons seems like too long, and I'll be at a camp for the week after, so really, it's three weeks. And the mother in me knows that's going to be too long.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...

I return home and spend the rest of the day with various forms of adopted family--I go to Tatumbla with Raúl and enjoy watching the dynamic of his mom and his brother and sister, who have so become like home for me. I return to the house where Papi Alvin and Mami Nelly, my spiritual parents, are having a dinner. And I listen to Papi Alvin giving a message reminding us of the power of the story of Mary. Her words when the angel told her how God intended to work through her were, "I am here, a servant of the Lord. Let it be according to His will." She agreed to the possibility of being falsely accused and surrounded by shame. She agreed at the risk of knowing that she could lose the man she loved, Joseph. She agreed because His will was more important to her than her own. I always want this to be my heart's cry, but I won't lie-- at times, I get swamped with doubt sometimes because of the opinions of others, sometimes because I see no results, or sometimes because of my own internal battles with my own desires. Sometimes, I worry that God is going to leave me in a puddle of shame and am terrified that even in the midst of seeking Him, I have somehow failed Him. But, being reminded of the story and honor of Mary and of God's faithfulness to work things out--with Joseph, with her pregnancy, and with her son, Jesus--renewed my peace that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, that He is pleased with me, and that I haven't failed Him. Her obedience and yieldedness to the Holy Spirit gave her one of the greatest roles in the most divine, beautiful story of the crossing of the paths of humanity and righteousness that could have ever been invented. I spend the night listening to fireworks, basking in the glow of Christmas lights on the porch, and talking to my big brother, Hermano Nati. And after midnight, I get an unexpected phone call from an unknown number that is perhaps the most special detail that God could have provided in my entire day.

Psalm 126
When the Lord brought back the captives to Zion, we were like men who dreamed. Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy. Then it was said among the nations, "The Lord has done great things for them." The Lord has done great things for us, and we are filled with joy. Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like streams in the Negev. Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy. He who goes out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves with him.

This is the verse echoing over the speakers at Teen Challenge during the church service, and something from this verse seeps into my soul and settles. It is Sunday, and I am at this rehabilitation center with Benjamin to visit my son--John--who I met in February at 21 de Octubre. I had told him that if he stayed for the mandatory month when visitors are prohibited that I would find a way to visit him afterward. Thankfully, Benjamin agreed to drive and accompany me on the hour long motor bike drive out of the city. We, being foreigners who aren't on Honduran time, get there early. One of the older leaders of the center offers to get John for us, and he grins as he sees us. As usual, he's looking sharp, and I am overjoyed to see my bald-headed son. (All of the guys at Teen Challenge are required to keep shaved heads.) He wraps me up in a big hug, saying in English, "Sarah Beth! My mother!" We talk a bit, and he gives me a sly look of amazement. "I wasn't expecting you to visit today." "Why? I told you I would." "Yeah, but I thought if you were going to visit, it'd be after the holidays." We talk a little bit about various boys from 21, and when I mention Jonathan* who has known John for a long time, he says, "I knew he'd come to Jesus. I've been praying for him. Me too. I've surrendered my life to Jesus. I want him to do whatever He wants with my life." I pocket the emotions that I know are coming from that revelation until a time when I can process them fully. We talk a bit more about how initially, he wanted to escape but didn't because he's made a promise to God to stay there for a year. And he's afraid to disobey Him. Words cannot express how proud I am of my son that he has stayed.

He calls over another boy who had been at 21 that I don't remember well (perhaps, I never actually met him), Marvin. Marvin has been there for four months. After a small talk, we all head to the outdoor church structure. The boys sit on one side, and we sit on the other. They start the service with that verse, and I just feel God's warmth all over me. The Lord has done great things for me. Since I met John in February and heard his story of hurt from an alcoholic, abusive mother and a drug trafficking father who has all the money in the world to give him but little time and attention, I have prayed fervently for him. I can't count how many tears have been spent on that now-common, desperate prayer of, "God, please rescue my son." John has sold drugs before, has been involved in gang activity, has done marijuana and cocaine often, has shared with me some of his stories of violence and prejudice, and has earned the nickname "The Devil" on the streets. And, I see my son who was so full of anger and hatred and resistance to God, lifting his hands and closing his eyes in sincere worship and prayer. I see him dance before God in worship, and I know that the tears I've sown in prayer for his life have not been in vain. I know that there is always the chance that he won't stay at the center, that, like Orlin, he'll run away and start doing drugs again. But, I also know that there's also a chance that he'll stay, his entire life will turn around, and he will be the man God's always called him to be. And I have to believe that regardless of disappointments of the past that God's grace is sufficient, His love is powerful, and His sacrifice was not in vain.

Throughout the service, John keeps looking back, hoping to see his family. He's had visitation rights for a week now, this being his second. But, they haven't come. And this week, he's expecting to see his family. My heart breaks every time I see him look back and return his gaze forward because the look on his face says it all--they're not here. At the end of the service, it's normal for the pastor to have a time of ministry for the boys and for their families. Having been to Teen Challenge twice before, I know how difficult and devastating it can be for boys whose families don't come because they stand in the front alone while their friends are surrounded by mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, wives, and children. So, I can't help but go stand behind my son while he's being ministered to--just so he can feel my hands firmly on his shoulders and know that he's not standing alone. I may not be his real mother, but I am standing behind him--in this moment physically and all the time spiritually, protecting my son with my prayers. And, I'm surprised to find the tears streaming down my own face. The Lord has done great things for me. He is rescuing my son. He is bringing fruit from my seeds of tears, and I am so grateful.

After the service, we find Marvin, whose family never visits him and find a table to eat lunch. I had bought a whole roasted chicken, some tortillas, and some Sprite. When the lady at the chicken place asked me if I wanted the chicken cut in pieces, I agreed, not really knowing how many pieces that would mean. We didn't know we'd be feeding Marvin too, but when we open the bag, the chicken is already cut in four fairly equal pieces. God always knows what I need. We spend the whole afternoon talking to the boys, talking about how things are at 21, and listening to them share what God is teaching them. Marvin is quite the little preacher. They tell us about what their Christmas is going to be like, and I have peace seeing how peaceful they are about where they are, how their lives are improving, and what God is going to do with their futures. I don't want to stop praying for them because I know it's always going to be a process of temptation with drugs, but for this moment, I am blessed and encouraged beyond belief. I've been obedient to love, and He hasn't called me to love and hurt and suffer for my boys in vain.

When it is time for us to go, I give John a tight hug, and he hugs me tightly back. "I love you so so so much, son." "Me too, Mom. I love you too. Thank you so much for coming." Marvin tries to give me a handshake, and I say, "I don't think so, mister. I want a hug from my son." He smiles and gives me a hug. "I wasn't expecting to get a visit today. Thank you both so much for coming." I give them both my phone number and tell them to call me for whatever they need--even if they're just feeling alone and need a visit. I can't make promises, but I'll always do whatever is within my power and whatever God allows me to do to be there for them. On the ride home, I can't help but feel like God has been winning me back, romancing me again. He's given me lots of drinks of suffering. He's humbled me. He has developed, through great pain, much patience and endurance until I've reached the point where I have felt like I have absolutely nothing left. And in this place of rock bottom, He's lifting me up again, reminding me of His goodness, and silencing the voices that would tell me that He's displeased with me.

"Hello?" "Hey! How are you?" "Good, how are you? Sorry, but who is this?" "What? you don't know your own son's voice?" "John! Merry Christmas, son! How are you? I am SO HAPPY to hear from you!"

That phone call around midnight last night was from my boys at Teen Challenge. I thought I'd burst with joy. I got to talk to both John and Marvin, and they didn't need anything. John's family had come to spend Christmas with him. But even with them there, he and Marvin remembered me, their adopted mom, and asked for a phone call just to check on me and tell me "Merry Christmas." They called to show me love. They called to tell me about how they were spending Christmas and to reassure me they were okay. And when Marvin got off of the phone and told me, "Merry Christmas, Mom! We'll call you again some time," my heart melted. I have known Marvin for such a short time. Really, the only real conversation we have had was on that Sunday, but he called me, "Mom" with such sincerity.

In the two years that I've written on this blog, I know that I've mentioned various times that God has promised me many children. And, over the time that I've lived here, it's been very difficult to feel that my children were so far away--even though I'd never met them. Some months, I've felt like my life was in no way headed in a direction that would lead to the multitude of children God had promised me. I can recall, not so many months ago, having conversations with Hermano Nati or writing in letters to Raúl that my heart aches for adoption. Sometimes, my empty arms ached to hold my children, and my life felt so empty without them. But in just the past month, God has turned my world upside down and flooded me with a love like I've never known--and all it took was asking me to open my heart wider and to not hold back. In these days of buying 40 shirts and 40 pairs of socks and getting request upon request from barefoot boys for a pair of shoes, I feel like God whispers in my ear with a smile, "You ain't seen nothing yet." Sometimes, I feel Him elbowing me in the ribs and reminding me, "Hey, do you remember that one time when you were so overwhelmed that you hid from the four little neighbor boys?" (http://confessionsofaragamuffin.blogspot.com/2012/02/levantate.html) And I just have to laugh because more and more I'm beginning to believe what it says in Isaiah 54:
"Sing, O barren woman, you who never bore a child; burst into song, shout for joy, you who were never in labor; because more are the children of the desolate woman than of her who has a husband," says the Lord. "Enlarge the place of your tent, stretch your tent curtains wide, do not hold back; lengthen your cords, strengthen your stakes. For you will spread out to the right and to the left; your descendants will dispossess nations and settle in their desolate cities. "Do not be afraid; you will not suffer shame. Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated. You will forget the shame of your youth and remember not the reproach of your widowhood. For your Maker is your husband...
And in Isaiah 49:
The children born during your bereavement will yet say in your hearing, 'This place is too small for us; give us more space to live in.' Then you will say in your heart, 'Who bore me these? I was bereaved and barren; I was exiled and rejected. Who brought these up? I was left all alone, but these--where have they come from?'


I have spent most of today alone but content, pondering independence and refinding my security in Him. I was so happy to Skype with all of my family this morning and so blessed to talk to them about my sons and feel their support and approval. (My parents just don't even know how many grandkids they're going to end up having someday!) And once again, a year later, I find that a spirit of adoption has brought me to laugh-cry with so much joy. My life is so beautiful and so full of love. I feel like God has spiritually and emotionally brought me to the edge of a cliff where I have thought, "This is it. It's all over. I'm going over the edge. I can't handle any more. I'm so empty I have nothing left. I'm just going to fall right over this cliff and die of exhaustion. There is no end in sight to the waiting on God to move." And I am finding that even though there are still situations that hurt, still hopes for others that haven't been fulfilled, that He is taking my hand and saying, "Now that you know that you can't do it, watch what I can do and am already doing." And we've not only stepped off of the side of the cliff together, but now, we're walking in clouds.

I am so ready for a new year. This has been one of the most difficult and painful years of my life, but I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world because it's all been a preparation. Today, I watched Cloud Atlas, which has its share of violence and nudity and elements that children shouldn't be watching, but with that said, some of its themes are so beautiful because they remind me of the intricacies of the Father. Two lines from characters in the movie stuck with me--
Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others. Past and present. And by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.

What is an ocean but a multitude of drops?
I may be one, insignificant young woman in a half-forgotten boys' center in a country buried in the heart of Central America, but today, now more than ever, I believe and feel in my very core that this Christian life is the greatest adventure ever possible to live. It hurts. It's difficult. Being bound to others means feeling their pain and carrying their burdens. But, this life of radical obedience to God is the ONLY way to live. It's the only life that is worth it because I am being amazed every day at what God can do with one life, one little drop of the ocean. And with each new son I adopt, He gives birth to my future.

When I was sick, one of the verses God gave me was this:
Daniel 10:12
Then he continued, "Do not be afraid, Daniel. Since the first day that you set your mind to gain understanding and to humble yourself before your God, your words were heard, and I have come in response to them.
Emmanuel has indeed come, and He is making Himself more real to me everyday.

Merry Christmas!

All of my love,
Sarah
 

A Divine Appointment

Hello All,
*Name changed for security reasons.
I wanted to share a special story with you that occurred yesterday. I usually don't go to 21 de Octubre, the boys' center on Tuesdays. I usually go Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. However, Benjamin, our Danish volunteer, asked me to go yesterday to translate as he was going to give the devotional for his first time. However, when we got there, there had been a major uproar the day before, and the director spent all morning scolding the boys. Thus, I was in the Orphan Helpers office when I was approached by 16-year-old Jonathan*. I first met him back in February or March of this year when I first started going to 21. He is a character with a great sense of humor and a knack for being a drama queen. He escaped, though, so I hadn't seen him in a while. About two months ago, Jonathan* was really on my mind. As is usually the case when one of my boys is on my mind and in my prayers, he appeared out of nowhere--while I was on a public bus, I saw him walking with a friend in a neighborhood just down the road from mine. I couldn't stop to talk to him, but it was a small comfort to see him. About a month ago, he ended up back at 21. For whatever reason, from the first time I saw him again, I knew he was one of my sons. I love all of the boys at 21 like my sons, but there are just some of them that feel more like mine than others, and even though I rarely know it beforehand, they tend to be the ones who have no family, have been abused by their family, or their families want nothing to do with them. That was the case for Jonathan.

His mother died when he was three, and he never met his father. He was initially raised by his grandmother, but as I'm not surprised, he was quite a handful growing up, and she now wants nothing to do with him. His older sisters have never taken an interest in helping or supporting him, and the only person he feels like he has in this world is his older brother--a young gang member who controls an entire neighborhood not far from mine. His brother, who is six years older than he is, has had him in an orphanage for two years, in a rehabilitation center, in a private high school, and in a public high school in an effort to give him a better life. But all that Jonathan wanted was to be with his big brother and like his big brother, who cried when Jonathan told him that he wanted to join the gang too. He didn't want that kind of life for his little brother. He didn't want his little brother to see an early death and live in constant fear. Jonathan and his brother both agree that the day that someone murders one of them, the other will have to kill himself because they have no one else in the world to love them or look after them than each other. Now, they both want out of the gang, but leaving a gang is no easy task. Realistically, one can only do so in this country by becoming a Christian.

Thus, Jonathan has been on my heart since he came back to 21. I pray for him all the time, and every time I'm in worship, I can't help but cry out for all of my sons, including him. One Sunday before I got sick, I was at church just bawling and begging God to rescue my sons and specifically Jonathan when God told me that I should rejoice because He had already done the work and that the blood of His Son was enough. So, I began to rejoice, and in the midst of rejoicing, God showed me an image of Jonathan joking around with Jesus. Jesus was laughing so hard and caught him up in a huge hug, saying, "That's my son!" That image made me cry and gave me such a special peace.

When I returned to 21, I shared with my boys how God had healed me and how I was grateful for how God had allowed me to have the experience of being sick and alone and feeling invisible because it gave me a small glimpse into what many of them feel. It helped me understand why they turn to life on the streets. And I shared with them how the love of God runs after us into the darkness to rescue us and that they are constantly in my prayers because I love them all like my sons. I then told Jonathan in front of everyone what God had shown me, and I looked up at this boy who is normally the center of attention and a forceful leader in the center (since he's now been there five or six times), and he had tears in his eyes.

As Jonathan and I were talking yesterday, Hermano Mauricio, another worker with Orphan Helpers came in. Somehow or another, he'd been advised that one of Jonathan's friends had been killed, so he told him seriously, "I don't see any way that the road that you're on will lead to anything but an early death." Jonathan agreed and said that although he had wanted to escape from 21 for Christmas, his own brother told him that he needed to stay there for protection because there are people plotting his murder. Thus, we spent the next hour or so--the time when we would have been giving devotions if we would've been allowed--just talking to Jonathan and fervently encouraging him to accept Christ. Hermano Mauricio has a lot to offer boys like him because his testimony is that he was a street kid, a drug addict and salesman, a thief, and someone who God rescued. We listened to Jonathan's stories of the gang, of his brother, of his own son, and of the various seeds God had already planted through a neighborhood pastor and friends who had become Christians, and we continued to encourage him to accept Jesus and leave the life of the gang.

During the entire conversation, I was praying in my mind. When I was road tripping across the US, I met a pastor who didn't know me who prophesied that my prayers would save young people from the gates of hell. Every time I pray for my boys, I remind God of that word, and this case was no exception. I listened to Jonathan with tears rolling down my cheeks, desperately telling God, "You told me that my prayers were going to rescue young people from the gates of hell. Please rescue my son." And He did because Jonathan agreed to pray to accept Jesus. Hermano Mauricio prayed with him, and then we spent the next hour or so praying for him and ministering to him--asking God to heal his past emotional wounds, to flood him with His love and Holy Spirit, to protect him, and to give him the strength to leave the gang and to bring the hope of Jesus to his brother as well. And this young man, who is normally such a clown and a tough guy, cried and cried and let us love on him.

As I hugged my son and cried with him, I thanked God for giving me the privilege of being a part of that moment on a day when I wasn't even supposed to be there in hours that we normally would've filled with other activities if circumstances hadn't taken a turn. Hermano Mauricio told me later that he felt like as Jonathan was being reborn into the family of God that he, too, was being reborn. It is so easy to get worn out when you're constantly planting seeds, seeing no fruit, and opening the newspapers to find stories of the murders of the very young people you've sown into. It is easy to just go through the motions and lose faith that God is, indeed, good and working even when we don't see it. It is easy to lose the passion for those souls lingering in the darkness, desperately in need of Light. While Jonathan is just beginning his journey and needs prayer and encouragement, there is hope even in the midst of where Jesus has found him--as a gang member, as an orphan, and in the middle of the boredom of 21. Being a part of this moment, especially in light of what God showed me weeks ago, restored much of my faith in the power of my own prayers. He IS working on hearts even when on the outside it seems as if there is no change.

Please pray for Jonathan and his brother. Becoming a Christian as a gang member is no casual thing. It's a decision that potentially can lead to death or to life finally free.

All my love,
Sarah

Never Recover from Weakness--It Is Actually a Strong Point.

Hello All,
Believe it or not, I have been sick since the last time I updated. Thankfully, today is the first day where I can confidently say that I rounded a significant corner, and I can say whole-heartedly that God healed me. Although it was never quite determined securely what I had, it was something respiratory--either bronchitis or pneumonia--and it had me the weakest I can remember being since being sick in high school. That college bout of the flu didn't even compared to this weakness. I was recuperating and improving until all of the sudden, I woke up on Monday feeling like I was going to die.

To be honest with you, as mentioned in the last post, I had reached a point of missionary exhaustion. I know that I mention this perhaps frequently (and I'm sure much more frequently than the seasoned missionary would ever need to mention), but for this newbie missionary, a year and three months into my experience, I'm still learning the rhythms of grace. I can be such a slave driver on myself, and I also have the kind of personality that just absorbs the pain, problems, stress, and tension of other people which sooner or later (if I don't learn how to continuously bring these burdens to God in my intimate relationship with Him), just wipes me out completely.

I've been working on my little apartment--little jobs like refinishing a china cabinet I was given, refinishing a dining room table set that I bought used, and painting. After a year of living here, I finally felt like I wanted to make my little dwelling a home. So, I started around October doing all of the work by myself. It's not like I don't have people around me who would help me. I do. However, I'm so independent that I typically don't want other people to do my projects for me. I like to learn by doing, and I like to stick to a job until at the end I can say that I did something (new) all by myself. It's a pride thing--there's no way around it. And, with how much I have missed having a car and having my own independence, I was enjoying (although wearing myself ragged) completing each new task without previously having had any experience in these kinds of projects (except painting walls). I was basically working every spare minute I could when I wasn't going to 21, Yuscaran, or training for a camp I'm going to be a counselor for in January. To be honest, in the past two or three months, I haven't given myself too many days off to just rest. This shouldn't be that big of a deal except that I also wasn't giving myself the chance to rest spiritually. I was reading my Bible and talking to God like always, but when you're surrounded by such spiritual darkness as one experiences in 21 and in this country in general, it's really not an option to avoid some serious time to get away with God. You simply won't last as I have clearly learned from this experience. I knew that I needed to take some time to really dedicate to being restored by God, but I have such a one-track mind sometimes and get so focused on completing tasks that I was pushing that need to the back of my mind, thinking, "I'm so close to being finished. If I can just finish my house projects, I'll have tons of time to be still with God." I just wanted to finish by Christmas. Wrong mentality.

So, with the holidays approaching, I was getting rather homesick, with the 21 boys--while I adore them all--I was getting worn out emotionally, and with how busy everyone in the ministry is around this time of the year, I was feeling very invisible. It's easy to get lost in the cracks here especially for someone who tends to be introverted and withdrawn anyway. There is no doubt in my mind that we need fellowship with other believers, but the kind of genuine relationships and fellowship I think we need isn't often something that gets fulfilled during church services where you sit beside the same people and utter a "God bless you" and give a handshake. Thankfully, God provided me with great people here like Hermano Nati and Hermana Martha and Raúl and his family who provide me with that fellowship I so need. I think it's easy sometimes for people to assume that when you become a missionary that you stop being a human being. This is never the case. We missionaries struggle to remember that we're loved and to keep the face of Jesus ever before us just like any other Christian. We're not superheroes. But, people can't read our minds either, so we can't always expect that people know our needs when we're not transparently saying them.

It has always been difficult for me to ask for help, but God has no doubt been breaking me of that little by little in the year plus that I've lived here. Without having a car, with being in a new culture, etc., it's impossible for me to even pretend to be self-sufficient. Thus, I've had to start learning how to depend on others and ask for help. It is still not easy for me.

This week that I've been sick, I've never been so thankful for Raúl before. He was the one who took me to the doctor (the first time). He was the person who took me to my nebulizer treatments. He was the person who took me to the pharmacy for medicine. After spending days and days alone in my apartment, he was the one who took me home with him and Estiven and Giselle and Bladimir just because he knew I was lonely. When I woke up Monday, I was so weak that I thought I was terribly dehydrated. Walking across the room to get a drink of water left my heart pounding, my hands shaking, breathing heavily, hot, and and with a massive headache like I was going to pass out. I was so hungry, but I was so nauseous that I'd start to eat a couple of bites and then feel sick. So, I just wasn't eating. That had been the case to a point for a lot of my illness up until Monday. I felt too weak to make myself any food, and because I live alone and Raúl works during the day, I didn't have anyone to take care of me. I, of course, wasn't asking anyone else to take care of me either, so I can't blame anyone for a situation where I didn't open my mouth.

On Monday morning, I laid on my couch just weak and exhausted and terrified that I was going to have to go to the hospital to be hooked up to IVs if someone didn't help me. So, I called Raúl crying, and he came to my rescue, bringing me juice and saltine crackers and the electrolyte solution they give to people who are severly dehydrated. After all day of doing nothing but drinking, trying to eat, and sleeping, sleeping, sleeping, around 5 PM, I felt better. But, the next morning, I woke up with the same level of weakness and would have to call Raúl to replenish my supply of juice, electrolyte solution, and saltine crackers. And he has taken care of me like that every day this week, bringing me what I needed in the mornings, and bringing people to visit me in the evenings so I wouldn't feel so lonely. Nelly also took me to a clinic (my second doctor visit) and has made me soup the past couple of days, but it was Raúl in those desperate days who answered my tearful prayers to God. I wasn't just physically shot, I was also emotionally hurting and spiritually weary. I felt forgotten although not forgotten by God. Monday morning, I prayed with tears streaming down my face, "God, please send me someone to love me back to life." And He did--in Raúl. He checked on me, responded to my every need, and never complained or made me feel like a burden. And, the nights when he surprised me with visits, I had been crying in bed feeling so lonely and so forgotten before he showed up at my doorstep with a group of people in tow.

I caught him one day as he was headed out my door because I wanted him to know how much I admire him. You see, Raúl's had a rough year--a rough couple of years really. He's been recuperating from a lot of severe hurts and betrayals that occurred right before I moved here (and have continued since I've lived here). And in his recuperation process, he started out running to God through broken and has since struggled not to want to run away from Him. I know that he loves God. It's so obvious in his actions and in his sincere prayers and even in his response to times of worship (when he lets himself be in those situations), but he's struggled to feel like he's enough. He's struggled to come to God as he is because what he sees in himself isn't some spiritual giant with tons of unshakeable faith that God loves him. But in the midst of his difficulties, one thing that has never changed about Raúl in the time that I've known him is that he has never stopped living the gospel. To me, the gospel is very simple. It is found in Matthew 25:31 and on. It is stopping for the one person in front of you. It is, "I was hungry, and you gave me something to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink. I was sick, and you looked after me. I was in prison, and you visited me." And, Raúl embodies this simple gospel, and he does so quietly, never drawing attention to himself, in such a way that if you weren't really observing him, you'd miss it. But when a neighbor doesn't have any milk to give her baby, who is there with milk in hand? Raúl. When Orlin comes by the business and hasn't eaten all day, who gives him his own lunch? Raúl. When Bladimir finds himself homeless after he has stolen and betrayed every neighbor within a who-knows-how-many-miles radius, who gives him a place to stay? Raúl. When I'm sick and am too weak to buy groceries and so lonely I feel like I may never stop crying, who looks after me? Raúl. I learn from his mercy and his kindness every day.

It can be very difficult to be a single missionary. It can be very difficult to be away from your family. It can be very difficult to feel like you have no one looking after you. It can be very difficult to have no one to come home to, to listen to your stories, or to worry about where you are enough to call and check up on you often. It can be very difficult to be so sick and so far from your mother who's a nurse who has spoiled you throughout life with nurturing treatment--if I recall, we kids used to get a bell to ring to summon my mother whenever we needed her when we were sick growing up. But, God has a purpose in all things, and even though it's difficult, it's still always worth it.

In these days, my heart has just exploded with new compassion. In feeling so invisible, I began to realize why my boys act the way that they do. When you feel invisible, if you don't have God, the desire to run into the darkness just to see if someone loves you enough to chase after you to rescue you can sometimes be unbearable. It's no wonder that they spend their days on the streets or turn to gangs or drugs. There is a deficit of love in their homes. There is a deficit of attention in their hearts. They want to be convinced they're loved, and when no one comes to rescue them, they become convinced that they're not worth anything. In being so sick and so alone, my heart just broke for those who have never had someone to love them back to life. There are beloved people--who God made and Jesus died for--who have never had someone to care for them when they're sick. There are children who have never had a parent to care whether they even live or die. There are lots of human beings on this planet who have no one looking after them, keeping them company, or asking them about their stories. And, I happen to live in a country where a lot of them live, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I have had the tiniest taste of what that must feel like. And, it's devastating. And yet, after days of being in bed all alone, I've never felt so inspired to go be Jesus to those who feel that deepest of lonelinesses. I've never felt such a huge wave of love for the sick and the dying. I've never felt to this degree before such an intense longing to love others back to life.

I thought that this was the only lesson God had for me in this illness. Thus, before Monday, I thought I'd learned what I needed to and was ready to be well and get moving again. I missed my boys so much since it had been so long since I'd seen them. (I get to see them tomorrow, though, God-permitting! I am ecstatic!) But, God wasn't done teaching me yet which is why the weakness came on Monday. The truth of the matter is that while I'm not someone who is going to run to the safety of the States and my family every time I get lonely or sick or am struggling, I do tend to be emotionally delicate. I can only handle so many burdens and so many attacks from the enemy telling me that I'm all alone before that emotional strain shows up physically in my body. And that heartbreak usually translates to not being able to eat--trying to eat, being hungry, but three bites in, feeling like I can't keep down food. It's like my insides are tied up in knots just like my emotions. It is rare that I reach this level of pain and struggle, but when I do, it can last and last until God beckons me to Him, steps in, and heals me. During this illness, the scripture that kept popping up was Isaiah 55:
Come, all you who are thirsty, come to the waters; and you who have no money, come, buy and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost. Why spend money on what is not bread, and your labor on what does not satisfy? Listen, listen to me and eat what is good, and your soul will delight in the richest of fare. Give ear and come to me; hear me, that your soul may live. The rest of the chapter is also very good.

You see, God sent me Raúl to teach me how to depend on others and to see that there are people who do care about me here. But, He also wanted to teach me that at the end of the day, whether I have someone to love on me or look after me or not, He has to be my ultimate dependency. He is my First Love. When He's asking me to eat and drink, He wants me to eat and drink of Him and not wait for the love of another human being to fill me up--because that, quite simply, isn't going to happen. I can sit around all day feeling lonely and crying and asking God to send me a friend, or I can wake up and recognize that He is my Best Friend. And His love is the richest fare. And only He can make my soul live. So, after days of consulting with my mother and making her worry terribly and worrying myself about why I was still so weak and not getting better, I finally came to my senses yesterday. And, I finally asked God, "Why am I still sick? What is it that I'm still needing to learn? You have my attention. I am listening." And I started listening to a three-hour-long Heidi Baker podcast. She covered so much in that message, but much of what she talked about was from John 15--
I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. . . . Remain in me, and I will remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me. . . . If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing. . . . If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be given you. . . . As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Now remain in my love. . . . I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master's business. Instead, I have called you friends . . . You did not choose me, but I chose you and appointed you to go and bear fruit--fruit that will last. Then the Father will give you whatever you ask in my name. This is my command: Love each other.
I don't always know what it looks like in a practical sense to remain in Him. I don't always recognize the ways that God wants to prune me. I don't always do what is necessary to remain in His love. And a lot of times, I'm afraid to ask for even the desires that God has placed in my heart because there is still a part of me that has a skewed perspective of God. I forget that He is my friend and that He hands me a cup of His suffering AND His joy. So, sometimes, I feel like I'm fighting with Him over the very desires He's placed in my own heart. But listening to that message was exactly what I needed because she addressed all of this. And, at the end of the message where she was speaking to a group of YWAM missionaries, she just had a time of prayer and calling for God to restore these missionaries and help them to taste His sweetness and have the bravery to ask for the nations and the desires and big dreams He's placed in their hearts. In those moments, I felt like God was healing me, pruning away my weariness and my doubt in His goodness and reminding me that He is enough. Christ in me, the hope of glory. Greater is He who is in me than He who is in the world. He died that there would always be enough--even when I feel like I'm not enough. After finishing the message, I pulled out my guitar and just began to worship with shaky hands and raspy voice until Raúl showed up at my door. I had so needed to eat and drink of Him.

And, He healed me. I fully believe that in those moments, He healed me. This morning, I woke up so hungry and still rather weak but with more strength than I'd had all this week. But, the nausea was gone. The eating a few bites and feeling too weak to continue was over. I was free, and as soon as I was able to eat and get some sugar in my bloodstream, I was perfectly fine. No medicine cured me. No doctor told me what was ailing me. I was just a branch that had forgotten the need to be in the vine. I was in need of a drink of His joy, and I was in need of a reminder that apart from Him, I can do nothing. I was in need of a date with my Best Friend.

I can't help but be thankful for every time He lets me get sick because it always ends up being an invitation to greater compassion and spiritual restoration. I so appreciate the prayers of all who have been lifting me up, and I am so grateful for all of the people here who showed me Jesus' love through their actions.

This year is coming to a close, but I am excited because it's not over yet. God is capable of doing so much in such little time--if I have learned nothing else in living here it is definitely that. I am on His perfect time table, and I'm blessed beyond words that in sickness and in health, in discouragement and in passion, in loneliness and company, it is never too late to enter His presence to be restored. His grace is sufficient. His power works best in our weaknesses.

All my love,
Sarah

All for Jesus

"Higher than the mountains that I face...stronger than the power of the grave...constant through the trial and the change...One thing, remains...One thing, remains...Your love never fails and never gives up and never runs out on me...Because on and on and on and on it goes...Before it overwhelms and satisfies my soul...And I never ever have to be afraid...One thing, remains...One thing, remains...Your love never fails and never gives up and never runs out on me...In death, in life, I'm caught up in and covered by the power of Your great love...My debt is paid...There's nothing that can separate my heart from Your great love"
-- "One Thing Remains" by Jesus Culture 

 

Hello All,

Sick Day
Well, today is a Monday which means that I should be at 21 de Octubre with my sons. However, I am home sick—not necessarily too sick to go places, but too contagious to be with my boys who get too physically close to me to not catch what I’ve got. Given that they all live in close quarters, I imagine that if I were to give it to one, it would spread to them all, and the boys are often already lonely, and to me, there is nothing worse than being lonely when you’re sick. So, I kept myself home.

This sickness that starts as a cold usually occurs nearly like clockwork around this time of year. It’s getting colder here, and given that I don’t have windows that shut to seal off some warmth in my house, I breathe cold air at nights. Lots of people are running around with the same sickness—including Raúl and Estiven. I was doing pretty well a few days ago when Raúl and Estiven would show up at my house every night, so I could make them chamomile tea with lemon. But, now, the medicine that I bought for Raúl (who, silly boy that he is, never took more than a couple pills) is being passed on to me.

I hate being sick, but honestly, I’m not surprised to find myself sick right now. It reflects my spiritual needs as much as my physical needs for rest and refocus. This particular time reminds me of when I was sick during student teaching (http://confessionsofaragamuffin.blogspot.com/2011/02/just-when-you-think-youre-self.html). It seems around here that there is no happy medium for my activity levels. I’m either so lacking things to do that I’m nearly bored to tears, or I am so swamped with busyness that I get overwhelmed and don’t know how to pace myself. It’s been a busy season recently with going to 21, working on house projects, and doing training for being a camp counselor in January. Plus, getting more involved in the boys’ lives and needs and given my transportation situation, things that normally take someone very little time takes me much much longer because I have to think and plan my time around buses and carrying whatever I need to buy in my backpack on the bus or around when I can catch a ride with someone else. I hate asking for help because I hate bothering people. And I also hate vulnerability. My tendency to want to be self-sufficient never seems to go away even when God has to humble me repeatedly through things like letting me get sick. I don’t know why I tend to insist on learning the hard way. There is something about sickness that makes me thankful—it’s the one way to make my life come to a standstill, and while it drives me crazy, sometimes it is exactly what I need. It drives me crazy that I can’t be “productive” while at home—that I can’t paint (because of fumes) or sand (because of dust) and that I really have no energy to go anywhere to run the errands I need to do (like buy shoes for a couple of the boys).

Lately, I have struggled with desperation and with a feeling of inadequacy. Honestly, it sometimes feels like the darkness of this world is closing in on me and is no match for my one little light. I listen to the boys’ stories and leave with such an ache in my heart. I’ve gotten into the habit of going to Raúl’s business after I get back from 21 because he makes me laugh. He is funny in general, and he likes to make me laugh, but I also just like the details of who he is in such a way that even without trying, he makes me laugh. He is such a child and carries such an innocence that being around him gives me permission to be childlike as well. For this girl who, for whatever reason—being the oldest of my siblings, having a perfectionist personality, or whatever—tends to be Queen Responsible and sometimes too serious, it’s a good rest that I need at times. The burden that I carry when I leave 21 is one I feel physically that has to be released as an offering to God through either laughter or tears, and when possible, my preference is laughter. Thus, I embrace the moments at Raúl’s when he’s making sounds like a cat, dancing at any random moment, walking around with his fly unzipped 90% of the time completely oblivious, and just being a child that makes me collapse in giggles while he’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.



My 24-year-old child, Raúl, and I

Breast Milk and Ear Infections
The most recent comic relief from him and Estiven came yesterday. They were at the house whenever I got back from church. Raúl was resting on one couch, and I was on the other in Alvin and Nelly’s living room. I look over at this 24-year-old child, and he is air-driving a motor bike and making driving, motor noises with his mouth like a 5-year-old. Then, he started dancing which was just wiggling his butt on the couch while he was lying down. He likely was doing this to make me laugh because he’s well aware of his talent in doing so, and he knew I was sick and miserable, but he had a completely straight face the entire time like he was in his own little world. When I did start laughing, he looked over at me very seriously and said, “What are you laughing at?” And I just shook my head at this crazy child. Estiven came over, and they were asking me how I felt. I told them that my ears were stopped up, and they immediately had the remedy—“Sarah, you need some milk.” My mom is a nurse, so I’ve heard my whole life that you need clear liquids, need to avoid dairy, etc., so I looked at them and shook my head. (Hondurans don’t often have money to go to the doctor, so they’re very accustomed to using what they have to cure themselves. Chamomile tea, limes, garlic, and aloe, among other things, are quick solutions from things they often have in their homes.)

Estiven: “Seriously, Sarah, you need to put some milk in your ears but not just any milk.”
Raúl: “Does that young baby who’s staying in the house belong to that lady who was holding her?”
I had no idea where he was going with this…”yes.”
Raúl: “Well, there you go! Just get her to give you a little squeeze in your ears.”
“What?!”
Raúl: “Yeah, breast milk works wonders for stuffed up ears.” At this point, he is totally serious, and I am laughing hysterically because I had NEVER heard of that before.
Then he and Estiven proceed to tell me about all of the times they’ve had ear infections and have gotten random, breastfeeding women to “give them a squeeze” into their ears, which were very quickly cured. This really shouldn’t be surprising within a culture that is much more familial and open and warm than the one in which I grew up, but it was. The thought of going up to some random stranger in the US and asking her to give me a squeeze in the ear was mortifying and conjured up imagined repercussions of lawsuits, slaps to the face, etc. But here, perfectly normal. The image of Estiven having some random woman in the market or Raúl having a neighbor woman give them “a squeeze” in the ear was really just too much, and I couldn’t stop laughing much to their dismay because they were truly serious. So, Estiven finally said, “Sarah, we’re Indians you know, so we don’t have a lot of your fancy medicine. So we use what works for us.” I, in no way, wanted to be disrespectful, so I just explained that I had never heard that before. And, when Estiven said he was going to bring me some milk from his wife who is breastfeeding their daughter, I just smiled.

Later, I googled it out of curiosity, and I laughed hysterically to find that their cure is completely scientific and has been used by lots of people for years. Breast milk has a lot of white blood cells and antibody properties, so it makes perfect sense that it would work even better than antibiotics. It’s just getting oneself over the initial embarrassment of asking someone to give you a squeeze—a feat that obviously is no obstacle for these crazy boys. I so love Hondurans. I love the ways they teach me and the ways they humble me on a regular basis. And I love the way Raúl makes me laugh when I need it most. As the Bible says in Proverbs 17:22, “A cheerful heart is good medicine…” and with having Raúl around, I should be cured in no time.

Updates on the Boys and New Stories
Anyway, as mentioned, it’s been a stretching time. I want to give you an update on the boys I’ve already mentioned from 21 and also give you a few more stories.

John—He left just this past Friday to go to Teen Challenge. We—Hermano Charlie, Hermano Walter, Benjamin, and I—prayed for him before he left, and I think I was just as surprised as he was that I was tearing up saying goodbye to my son. He was so happy and excited to leave, and the good news is that his going to Teen Challenge has also influenced another boy in 21, Juliano, to do the same. Juliano has also grown up in an environment of drugs, gangs, and drug selling. He is set to leave at the earliest this Friday. I am so happy that they both are making this good decision, and I so hope that they stay. Please keep them in your prayers—that they wouldn’t be influenced by a spirit of desperation to escape, that they’d be strengthened by the Word, and that they would encounter people to show them the genuine love of Jesus.

Elvin—He left to go to a center called El Buen Pastor. He told the other boys to send me his love and greetings and left sadly. I have yet to find a contact number for the center to find out if it’d be possible to visit him. The center is on the same road that passes by Tatumbla (where Raúl is from) and goes to Yuscarán. There is a bus that passes by here to go there, so if it’s not possible to go with Raúl, I may just hop on the bus and see where it takes me because I want to see my son again.

Eduard—He is still in 21, and there is currently no word as to where he’s going or when he’ll leave.

Gerson Isaías—He was devastated when the lawyer who was supposed to take him home didn’t show up on the day he’d originally set. Gerson told Benjamin that he thought it had been a lie, and when I saw him next at 21, I could see that he’d been crying and upset. My heart ached, but he was not discouraged. “I’m going tomorrow, Sarah. And if I don’t go tomorrow, it’ll be the next day.” And, he was right. To my knowledge, he is back in La Ceiba in the center he has grown up in called Hogar de Amor. He left me a phone number of one of the ladies who works there, so I have to call to check up on him, make sure he made it there safely, etc.

Ramón—He is so precious and is in 21 as always as he likely will be until I can adopt him or until he turns 18. The other day, I was at 21 sitting in view of the window during devotions. He saw me, and I smiled at him. He sent me his awkward smile back and stuck his hand through the bars over the window. I couldn’t go to him because I didn’t want to interrupt the devotion, but I knew he was sticking his hand out for me. The workers thought he wanted water, so they brought him water which he didn’t drink. They were puzzled as he knocked on the door wanting in and returning to the window to put his arm out. They didn’t know what he wanted, but I knew—he wanted me. Later in the day, I came to the window and was watching him. When he looked up, he saw me and ran across the soccer field to the window, sticking out his hand, so I could hold it. Every so often, he knocked on the door wanting in, but I don’t have the key, so he just returned to stand with me with bars separating us at the window.

Carlos—He left with his mom to go home nearly right after I wrote the last post. I miss him so much. He told me that he’d show up at the church, so I’d see him again. I don’t know that that is true. He wasn’t there yesterday, but I still hope.

Cristian—He is still at 21, but he’s set to go to another center, Casa Alianza, on Tuesday with two other boys from 21. Transportation is always an issue, but I’m hoping that I can visit him there. His mom lives far away, so he may not have visitors as he hasn’t had any at 21.

On Friday, things were changed around. Apparently, the director has to give some sort of report on what the boys are doing. That’s interesting since all they really do is watch trashy television and occasionally play soccer (other than the ones who do work with Hermano Charlie in computer classes). We have wanted to give classes in the past, but because of the strike, a lack of space and structure and support from the administration, it’s been difficult. But, the director has now changed the schedule. The boys are now supposedly only going to have an hour of television during the week and must choose between their options of computer classes (with Hermano Charlie), math classes (with Benjamin), Bible classes (with Hermano Walter), English classes (with me), or reinforcement classes of basic education (with one of the 21 workers). So, on Friday, I gave impromptu English classes to Cristian, Jorge, and Carlos “Mexicano.” I don’t know how long this new schedule will last, but I’m grateful for it for the time being.

Fredy
Fredy is nearly 18, and he checked himself into 21. He and his girlfriend, who is pregnant, both have drug problems. His girlfriend didn’t have drug problems before she met Fredy, but his influence led to her own addiction. They both decided together especially after she got pregnant that they didn’t want to continue on the path to self-destruction. So, they checked themselves into centers for rehabilitation together. I love Fredy’s heart. He is so humble. I love to watch him worship because he’s so reverent, and you can see that he genuinely wants to live a life of hope and purpose. He wants to leave the drugs behind, but he’s so afraid he’ll fail. He wants to be a good father and a good husband, but he needs his addiction and need for Jesus to crash over and destroy his addiction and need for drugs. He needs God’s furious love to rage over him as never before.

Jorge
Jorge, who is 13, grew up in El Buen Pastor, the same center where Elvin now is. He was behaving badly, so they threatened to send him here. He has no parents or family other than his siblings, some of which are at other centers. He is wildly intelligent and quick to tell all of the answers in English class. Not wanting to go to 21, he ran away, then returned, was given a second chance, and finally misbehaved again, resulting in being in 21. He really wants to go back to El Buen Pastor. It’s the only place he’s known for basically his whole life. I hear a lot of people talk about how they do not understand why so many of these children waste their opportunities. “They have a roof over their heads, education, and food—what more could they want?” I couldn’t possibly disagree more. While I am honestly not familiar with every center, in the majority of centers, given how many children there are, these children don’t have a sense of family. Or, even if they do, many of them (especially around adolescence) have to grapple with how they were abandoned or rejected by their biological families. With many unanswered questions and open wounds, this isn’t a hurt that can be healed by three square meals a day, shelter from the elements, or classes. It’s as Mother Teresa said, “Being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, I think that is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat.”

Whether they have biological family or not, they carry an orphan spirit that eats a hole of desperation into their hearts, causing them to escape from every center, disregard every opportunity, and run into the darkness because they ultimately want to know if they’re worth it enough for someone to run after them to rescue them. In many cases, there is no one, no shepherd to go after the one lost lamb because while they are precious children and no doubt cared for by the people in the centers, they are no one’s children. Who runs after a child who doesn’t belong to them? It is this ache, this anger, this wonder, this nagging question of worth and belonging and family that causes children like Gerson and Jorge to misbehave in centers where they’re receiving every opportunity. It is this pain, this hatred, this fear that causes children like John and Eduard and Juliano to turn to drugs and gang life—to not feel anything and to be “adopted” into a gang “family” which after the fact, turns into a nearly inescapable nightmare. It is for these “bad” children who “wreck” their lives and “stupidly” abandon their chances for a better future that have captured my heart.

Sometimes, I get so sad over the fact that I may never see some of these boys again and so desperate to help them that I feel like I’m drowning. Before I was afraid to get too close and to love them too much because I didn’t think I could withstand the pain of losing them. But, I have to remember how it must be from their perspective and why some of them are so distant with me even when I’m trying my hardest to let them know I love them. How many times have they been let down by someone who “loved” them? Do they even know what real love is? This is why I typically refrain from telling the boys I love them and prefer to just find ways to show them. Actions are much more believable than words. If they do get close to me, do they know that they’ll ever see me again? No. If they accept that I love them and believe I adopt them, which also will inevitably mean that they’ll have to lose me at some point just as they’ve lost so much in the past. Are they any more prepared for that loss than I am? No.

Carlos “Mexicano”
I have met Carlos whose nickname is “Mexicano” twice now. He is 14. He was in 21 when I first started going, and now, he’s back again. I adore this child even as he breaks my heart every day. I’ve directly asked Carlos to tell me his story before, but he usually just gives me a big smile and says, “I don’t like to talk about it. It’s sad.” So, I let it go and don’t push it. But, one day, I asked him why his nickname is “Mexican,” and he told me his story. His mom treated him badly, so, at the age of 10, he left by himself on a bus to head to the US illegally. When I asked him who he went with, he said happily, “Oh no, I went alone.” “Well, do you have family in Mexico?” “No, I just wanted to get to the US.” “Do you have family in the US?” “No, I wanted to go to one of those centers.” “What centers?” “You know—the ones for women who can’t have babies of their own. I don’t remember what they’re called. I wanted to go there so someone would adopt me.” Oh, there are no words to express how hearing that crushed and captured my heart in one blow. I love this normally joyful little boy so much. He was deported from Mexico before reaching the States, and he has been in various centers in Honduras. He started doing drugs, however, only about eight months ago after being in 21 for the first time. Thus, he escaped the centers because he couldn’t do drugs like glue, paint thinner, and marijuana there.

One day, I was leaving for the day, and short little Carlos caught me up in a hug and walked with me on my way out. He said, “Are you leaving already?” (It’s always a huge ordeal to leave with boys hanging all over me, shaking my hands, and wanting to know when I’ll be back.) “Well, let’s go, Sarah! Take me with you and adopt me!” “Oh honey, if I could, I would. But, I have nowhere to take you right now.” “Just take me home with you, and I’ll make bracelets, and I’ll sell them on the streets, and I’ll give you the money, so we can have food to eat.” In English class on Friday, he asked me how to say, “I love you, Mommy.”

Situations and conversations like these make me feel so heartbroken and so inadequate. I want to adopt Carlos so badly, and if I knew that now was the time, I would do so even knowing that he would likely run away, that we’d have to struggle through his drug addictions, and that having him with me would hurt even more than having him away from me. I would do that because Carlos is a lost little lamb worth rescuing. But, now is not the time. I have no place to take them. I have no one to father them. And, more than anything, I don’t have the peace from God that tells me that He is ordaining this as His will and path for my life at this present moment. So, I’m stuck, and the heartbreak increases.

Kevin's Kidnapping
Kevin in a picture taken a few years ago
Recently, Kevin, a boy who is one of Alvin and Nelly’s adopted sons, was kidnapped by one of the prominent gangs here. He lives in one of the worst areas of the city with his mom, and some guys entered his house and kidnapped him. A lot of this situation has to do with drugs and territory. In the ordeal, two other young boys were shot and killed, and another boy was kidnapped. His body has since been found in the river. We have no news on Kevin. With the way that this particular gang runs its operations, he’ll either be let go, or after being interrogated, he’ll be eliminated. He hasn’t been found dead or alive. All of this happened four days ago, and every day, Nelly gets up with tears in her eyes and asks Alvin if there is any news. There isn’t. Alvin and Nelly had Kevin in their home from the time he was 14 months old. It’s only been in the last few years that he went back to live with his mom. I have known Kevin since the first time I came to Honduras in 2007, and he’s been my little brother since then. He’s a pretty tranquil kid, but he dropped into some rebellion with a marijuana habit a couple years ago. Honestly, we’re all praying for him and dreaming about him and thinking about him, but there is also a general numbness over us all. Perhaps, I can’t really speak for everyone in the family, but that’s just what I sense from my own observations. Something is hanging in the balance spiritually. Nelly doesn’t sense that Kevin has died, and truly, if he had, I believe that her mother’s heart would know. Alvin knows that wherever he is that all of the seeds of God’s Word that have been planted in him are rushing back to his mind, and Nelly knows he’s thinking of the most loving family he’s ever known—them. But we have no answers. It doesn’t do us any good to worry because we have no control. Only God is in control. Nelly has been over every detail of the situation and has asked all of the questions to which there are no answers—most prominently why? And where?—but He is the only Answer we have. Please join us in prayer for Kevin.

All for Jesus
I won’t lie—while I know that the purpose of God asking me to allow my heart to be broken is so that I’ll draw nearer to Him and offer the heartbreak to Him, I sometimes fall into a rut where I don’t because my own orphan spirit rears its ugly head. Sometimes, my faith falters, and I have trouble believing that someday, there will be fruit and that my heartbreak will pay off. Sometimes, while drowning in the heartache and tears, I forget that God is ultimately good, so I avoid Him. In these days, I’ve teetered on this condition and have been clinging to 1 John 4:4 like the last thread from a long-decaying security blanket. You, dear children, are from God and have overcome them, because the one who is in you is greater than the one who is in the world. Sometimes, it feels like we’re fighting a losing battle and that the darkness will swallow us whole. Knowing that God has me here long-term, sometimes I wonder if I’ll actually last.

Yesterday, I was supposed to go to Yuscarán, but after waking up and feeling terrible, I decided that being in the chilly air late at night (they weren’t going to get back until very late)wasn’t a good idea and that it’d be better if I stayed home and rested. I wasn’t planning on going to church either, so I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Bible when Nelly came up to me and told me that she felt very strongly that I needed to go to church. We didn’t have water, so showering wasn’t an option, and I’d bathed the afternoon before. But Alvin had just left. So I called Raúl, who honestly told me he was being lazy and wasn’t going to go. Nelly said, “Well, you better start walking then because you’re supposed to go.” As I walked outside, planning to change to take a rapidito (smaller, quicker bus), I noticed that Benjamin hadn’t left. So, it seemed like a God appointment. More than anything, I was just so exhausted spiritually and physically and emotionally, and I just wanted to be in God’s presence. Worship started, and I just ran to the altar. Worship is so close to my heart. It’s how I connect with Him.

In the past four months or so, I haven’t been to church a whole lot for various reasons. For those who know me, you’re well-aware that I’m not in any way worried about filling a church attendance quota. I know that if my relationship with God is on track and that I’m sharing with other believers in fellowship—be it Raúl through letters, Nelly through sharing what God is showing us, Nati and Martha through shared prayer requests, etc.—that being within four cement walls that is called a church building isn’t a huge demand I place on myself even if others are. Thus, it’s quite possible that everyone at church thinks I’m the biggest sinner because every time I go to church, or really any time I get in a situation of worship, I just sob. Offering up my heartbreak is my way of worshipping. Singing through tears to a God who is always worthy even when I don’t understand is how I lift myself out of despair. Telling God how much I love Him and how holy He is even when life seems so dark is how I fight the principalities of evil. So, I was immersed in this and just honestly telling God how desperate I am for Him and how exhausted I’ve once again become. Most often, my biggest struggle is feeling like I’m not enough for myself and wondering if I am enough or if I’m giving enough to God and doing enough for God.

And He gave me the most beautiful lesson that had me crying for the entire rest of the service. I was crying out for my 21 de Octubre sons and for Kevin and for Raúl and just released all of the inadequacy I felt through tears when God began to replay memories of the little things I do for the boys. It can be bringing Raúl food at the business when he’s hungry. It can be holding Ramón’s hand, hugging Carlos when he’s crying because everyone else is leaving but him, listening to Fredy’s story, catching Hector up in a hug when he’s running away from me, smiling at Pablo, or patting Jorge’s head. Then, He began to replay each of those memories in my mind a second time, but this time, He revealed the face of Jesus in the face of every single one of the boys’. Suddenly, while I was holding Ramón’s hand, his face became the face of Jesus as did Carlos’, Fredy’s, Hector’s, Jorge’s, etc. And He whispered into my spirit with such a loving sternness, “You think that what you do is so small or that it doesn’t matter? Don’t you know? Don’t you recognize what you’ve done? You’ve touched the face of Jesus. You’ve hugged Jesus. You’ve held the hand of Jesus. You’ve taken food to Jesus. You’ve wiped away the tears of Jesus.” And He reminded me of Matthew 25:40: The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’

You see, sometimes, for this perfectionist, “all-or-nothing” kind of girl, it is such a struggle to remember a truth expressed in something else Mother Teresa said, “The success of love is in the loving—it is not in the result of loving. Of course it is natural in love to want the best for the other person, but whether it turns out that way or not, does not determine the value of what we have done.” I may never see some of these boys again. I may never know whether they defeated their drug addictions and came to Jesus or not. I may never see them live up to their potential. And I may experience tremendous loss. I may feel like my heart will never mend if someday I see their bodies on the front pages of the newspaper caught up in gang violence. I don’t say that to be morbid but simply because it is our reality here. But, at the end of the day, in the throes of adoption and furious love, it’s all for Jesus.

As previously mentioned, I have been very encouraged by the book, Kisses from Katie, because she lives so much of what I live (and in greater measure). Her words in the chapter I was most recently reading echo my heart:
Yesterday I was tired; not sleepy, just plain worn out. I knew Happy for about seventy-two hours. Sure, for those seventy-two hours I was able to help her, to comfort her mom, to rock her to sleep. I feel in love with this baby girl who barely had the strength to breathe but clutched my finger with all her might. But why? Why am I constantly falling in love with people I cannot help, people who are taken out of my life so quickly? As I read my Bible last night . . . the Lord continued to take me to the miracles of Jesus. And something I have never noticed before really stood out. The Bible tells us of Jesus magnificently raising Lazarus from the dead, healing numerous deathly ill people, and feeding thousands. What the Bible does not mention, but what must be true is that, years later, Lazarus still died. The people Jesus healed were inevitably sick again at some point in their lives. The people Jesus fed miraculously were hungry again a few days later. More important than the very obvious might and power shown by Jesus’ miracles is His love. He loved these people enough to do everything in His power to “make it better.” He entered into their suffering and loved them right there. We aren’t really called to save the world, not even to save one person; Jesus does that. We are just called to love with abandon. We are called to enter into our neighbors’ sufferings and love them right there. (213-214).

Help me to hurt, not just a little, but the way you hurt, when your children are overlooked and perishing. Help me to never be too busy or too comfortable to remember the people who suffer. Help me to never stop desiring to do something about it. (224).

I am constantly learning in this country. People like Hermano Charlie (who has been working for Orphan Helpers for 10 years) and Hermano Walter have been placing themselves, purposefully, in situations to see the needs and struggles of others. People like Alvin have loved relentlessly even those who have caused them the greatest pain and disappointment. People like Nelly have been pushed to states of heartbreak where they feel like they may never be restored. People like Raúl astound me when after they’ve been so betrayed and crushed, they still show unfathomable mercy. Those kinds of people have a lot to teach people like me, who have so little experience with the needs and suffering of others invading day-to-day life. I always want to be eager to learn.

Please keep us all—Charlie, Walter, Alvin, Nelly, Raúl, Kevin, me and my 21 boys—in your prayers. We need them.

All my love,
Sarah

PS For any of you wondering how I spent my Thanksgiving…while I wasn’t really planning on doing anything special (because there are so few of us gringos here and because Hondurans don’t celebrate Thanksgiving—because they celebrate everything and everyone else), I ended up going out to eat with Raúl. We had typical Honduran food and spent the evening just being us. It was fitting for me to spend my Thanksgiving with someone I don’t believe I could possibly be more thankful for. I’m thankful for who he is, how at ease I am when I’m with him, how he’s invited me to be a part of his family, his potential that shines through his brokenness, the sincerity of his prayer over our meal, and the fact that at the end of our evening, he asked if he could give our leftovers to some street boys in the shadows (who I hadn’t even seen). Of course, he didn’t even need to ask me. And I’m thankful that this is us.

Meet My Sons

Hello All,

I can't take pictures in the boys' center, 21 de Octubre, but I wanted you to meet some of my sons by sharing their stories. Today was one of those days that made my heart really heavy, so by sharing these with you, I'm also offering each one of my boys to God. As their stories leave the storm that's in my head, I want these words to be an offering to their (and my) Heavenly Father who knows and wants the best for each one.

John
I have mentioned this 18-year-old child before. He's the one who yells at me, "Sarah! My mother!" He has been in and out of 21 around ten times now. He comes from a background of drug-addicted and drug-selling parents. Because he has grown up around drugs, he has also been a consumer and seller of drugs as well. I first met John in February when I first started going to 21, and we have had numerous conversations about his home life and the things he's been through. He carries a lot of hurt from past abuse, a lot of anger and violence, and a lot of unforgiveness. Because of how many times and how long he's been in 21, he tends to be a favorite of the staff and is a leader among the boys who occasionally reigns with an iron fist. His gift for leadership astounds me, and the hurt that he carries in his heart and occasionally wears on his face, fills me with an ache and a desperation that I can't explain. I am so desperate for this child to be healed and restored. I am so desperate to see how the unconditional love of Jesus could transform his life.

Recently, John decided to go to a Teen Challenge rehab center for a year. This choice to walk away from everything he's ever known in his family's lives and in his own life was huge, and I was so proud of him and anxious for my adopted son. I have been to the center to visit other friends before, so I had a general idea of how it would be, and I had already desperately been pleading for God to move in his life while he was there. Today was the day he was supposed to leave, and Raúl (who's never met him before) and I both agreed that if he stayed for the designated first month that he can't have visitors that we would visit him afterwards. When I arrived at 21 this morning, he was excited to be going, but as time passed, it was evident on his face that something was wrong. I was afraid that he was scared or was going to change his mind, but as it turns out, he never got to go although he wanted to. He thought that it was because his mother never came to remove him from 21 to be transported to the rehab center. But, Hermano Charlie, one of the Orphan Helpers, mentioned that it was because of a lack of a form from the office that he wasn't able to leave and that his mom had, in fact, come. He was devastated and desperate, wanting to escape over the roof of the building like so many times before. As I sat with him at a total loss, my mind was ablaze with how I could help. But, when it came down to it, I couldn't. If I could've taken him out of the center and to Teen Challenge myself, I would have. But, I'm not his real mother, so I couldn't. In the end, I told him what I believe to be true--God has a purpose for his still being there. God is in control. There is a reason that he wasn't able to go to Teen Challenge today even if I don't know what it was. But, I won't lie--even as I said that, inside, I felt the desperation as well. It's not too late for John to go to Teen Challenge, but I know that he doesn't want to lose that glimmer of light and the hope that his life could be different--different from his mother's, different from his father's, and different from what the darkness tells him he is.

Elvin
To my knowledge, Elvin is 14, and he's never been to school. He doesn't know how to write or spell his name although he obviously is so sharp. I adore this little boy, and if I was in a position to take him home to adopt him, I would. Elvin's dad is an invalid, and his mom has mental health issues. He was living with them and his older sister. But, while Elvin doesn't talk much about his home life, I wonder if he's suffered abuse or just malnourishment due to poverty simply because his sister's daughter (who is still a baby) was recently placed in a government-run orphanage. Elvin has been in 21 around three or four months now. He's one of my little challenges every time that I go because he's not one to come to me. He's not shy at all and loves to play games with the other boys, but if I go to him, talk to him, and love on him, he's not always quick to respond although he never pushes me away. When the other young boys ask him if I'm his mother, he always looks at me with a sly, shy smile. The office is always talking about sending him to another, permanent center, but he doesn't want to go. He wants to go back home. Knowing what a precious heart my little boy has, I imagine that he struggles with not being able to help at home as he used to sell food in the streets to help support his parents.

Eduard
Eduard hasn't been in 21 for very long, but before coming to 21, he was in El Carmen, a center in San Pedro Sula, for three months. He is 16 or 17, and his parents both legally live in the US and have for 10 years. Since they left, he has lived with his grandparents and younger siblings. He's the oldest which doesn't surprise me at all as he's quick to take on leadership roles. I was actually quite surprised by how quickly he adopted me. From day one, he talked to me and came close to me just like boys that I've known for 10 months. I love to watch Eduard worship. He closes his eyes, and the sincerity of his heart floods his face. Today, Eduard was upset. Honestly, today was one of those days when spiritually, I could just sense the desperation and hopelessness in all of the boys. I went to talk to Eduard, and he didn't want to talk, so I left him alone for a while. After a while, I just stood not too far away and tried again, "What's going on?" It turned out that he had gotten in a fight with John (he reigns with an iron fist as I said, and he's not one to let someone else be the alpha male). But, I knew that wasn't all, so we started talking. He said, "Sarah, I want to leave here already, but I don't want to run away because I know I'm just going to ruin myself." He told me with tears in his eyes that despite his grandfather's advice, he had smoked marijuana and crack, had done cocaine, and he knew he was killing himself with his own hands. At such a young age, he has destroyed his body to the point that he can't run longer than 20 minutes without getting fatigued because he has done so much damage to his lungs. He desperately wants to leave the center because the boredom is crushing, and none of the boys want to spend Christmas there. But, he is afraid that no matter where he goes or what he does, he's going to ruin himself by falling back into drugs. Truly, this fear is echoed in many of the boys. They are desperate in all forms, but their greatest fears have boiled down to themselves and their own addictions. He said, "Sarah, when I'm on the streets, I tend to be a fighter. I don't even like fighting, but it just happens with that life. If I start fighting, I'm going to start killing people, and I don't want that. If I go back to my old life, someone is going to kill me."

In the midst of this conversation, some other boys came and joined us. Eduard changed the subject and started talking about me. All of the boys give me handshakes, and I also let them hug me. I pat their heads and put my arm around them. I recognize that I'm a young gringa in the midst of lots of adolescent boys, so if at any point in time, I feel like they're crossing the line or are being inappropriate, I let them know and put a stop to it. And I always want to be careful that my behavior isn't received as something that it's not. But, I also recognize that many of them come from families where no one ever told them "I love you" or gave them hugs, so I can't keep from expressing the motherly love I feel for them. My behavior in this way was further supported today when Eduard told me, "The director and a lot of the other female workers don't like us to touch them. They don't want us to even touch their arms to get their attention or shake our hands. But you don't yell at us when we get close to you. You shake our hands and let us give you hugs. Why is that? These are women who are Hondurans just like us, but they don't want to touch us like we're going to contaminate them." Another little boy, Edgardo, sitting next to me said something that struck me and broke my heart, "Y usted es de raza!" or "And you're of race or breed!" I didn't understand what he meant at first, so I asked him to explain. He said, "You're from the United States. You're white and have blue eyes and blond hair and come from a rich country. We Hondurans live off of what people like you send us. So, you're important. You're high class. So, you're de raza, but you still let us get close to you without yelling at us." I tried to explain that I'm just like any other person, that everyone is equal, but I was interrupted by Eduard as he said, "And that's why I love you, Sarah, but it's not in a bad way. I love you with respect like I would my mom or my sister. I hope someday that God lets me marry someone like you because whoever you marry is going to have it made."


Gerson Isaías
 His story reminds me of the story of Joseph. Six years ago, the government mistakenly took him from his home where he lived with his father and brothers. At the time, he was very sad when he was placed in a Christian center, but now, after being raised in the center, given an education, and being sponsored by people in the U.S., he is grateful for that “error” and carries the Holy Spirit in his humble demeanor. He was sent to 21 after passing through a time of bad behavior and just being mad at everyone. I rather wonder if his heart wasn’t angry over how his mother abandoned him, his father, and his siblings. Since then, his heart has changed, and he told me, “I know that God sent me here, so that I could preach the word to the boys. When I go back, I want to ask forgiveness from the people I disrespected and behave better. I want to study and help other children in need. I want to have my own center for children someday.” During his time here, he led one of his roommates to Jesus. He is set to leave on Tuesday to go back to the Christian center. I believe God has huge plans for his life.

I met Gerson over two months ago, and he’s one of the boys I’ve always like to joke with, but in the past, when I’ve tried to talk to him, he’s tended to keep his distance. From the very first day I met Gerson, it was evident to me that he was different from the other boys. He carried a reverence for God and an innocent spirit that is uncommon in that place. But, it wasn’t until a few days ago (after numerous attempts on my part) that he finally opened up and shared his story with me. After he got started though, he just kept telling me all of the details—about the people from the US who sponsor him, about his friends in the center, about how he wants to witness to his aging father, and how he has big dreams for the future (even though it’s evident that he’s afraid to say them out loud). Now, Gerson comes to me, prays for me, wraps me up in big hugs, tells me that he’s going to miss me, and grins when I ask him to give me the phone numbers of the center where he’s returning so that I can call to wish my son a happy 17th birthday next month. I’m going to miss him very much, but I want to believe that I will see him again someday.

Ramón
I met Ramón in 2007, the second time I ever went to Honduras. I was in Casitas Kennedy, the government-run orphanage. I first noticed Ramón, who is a special needs child who doesn’t talk and walks in his own unique way, because my mom was playing with him. She held him in her arms and made the same clicking noises to him that he was making to her. My brother and I followed her example and started playing with him as well. It broke my heart when he grabbed my hand because he wanted to lead me somewhere—to the wall where he frantically pointed because he wanted to leave. That night, after meeting Ramón, our short-term team gathered and talked about the day, and I will never forget my brother’s response. My little man of a brother who at the time was 15 began to cry. He said, “I’m glad we got to play with the kids. I’m glad we got to meet Ramón and play with him. But, I can’t help but think, when we aren’t here, who’s going to play with him? Who’s going to love Ramón after we’re gone?” Although my brother didn’t know Ramón’s story, he was right to think this way because Ramón has no known family. The length of time that any child is supposed to be in Casitas is usually no more than six months. He was there for at least five years because there are so few permanent orphanages that are equipped to take special needs children. The psychologist who used to work at 21 told me that she is aware of only one center specifically for special needs kids, and it costs 10,000 lempiras or $500 a month.

Now, five years later, I feel unspeakably blessed that God has given me the privilege to be one of the people who loves Ramón. Because of his age, he was sent to 21 although it’s not really a place fit for special needs children. I adore Ramón, and everyone at 21 knows it. The boys know not to mistreat him when I’m there because we’ll clash. The workers know that that little boy is like my son and tend to point him in my direction. Every time I arrive, he grabs my hand and leads me around. This lanky child sits in my lap with arms and legs spilling over and stares at me with a wide, drooling smile and sweet eyes. The boys and the workers don’t understand why Ramón is the way he is, and most don’t really make an effort to communicate with him on his level. He can’t talk, but he does have his ways of communicating. I love all of the little things that make up my son. I love that he hates wearing shoes, and I can’t help but laugh when the workers get frustrated when he takes them off right after someone has put them on. I love that he loves to lie in the sun and in the middle of all of the action—even though it drives the other boys crazy that he tends to want to lay in the middle of their soccer games. What breaks my heart is that Ramón often spends hours locked in his room by himself, and when he gets frustrated, desperate to leave (as the other boys do), or is being picked on, his means of communicating is by getting a wild look in his eyes and biting his own arm or hitting himself as hard as he can. Thus, his arm is covered in bite marks and cuts and often gets infected and swells. Mami Nelly thinks he has a demon, and she may very well be right. All I know is that this helpless mother dies a little inside and cries out to God in desperation every time her little boy clamps down on his own arm. He responds so well to love—he smiles at me when I rub his back and likes to hold my hand—but he receives so little of it. I tend to tell God every day that as soon as He grants me my house for my children, Ramón’s the first child I want to take in because I feel in my heart that that little boy, who seemingly has no one, is mine.

Carlos
There is a special warmth in my heart for Carlos. I say that and truly mean it, but I don’t mean to say that he’s a favorite because the truth is that every one of my boys has found a special place in my heart that is all his own. But, every time I come to 21, my eyes automatically search for Carlos, and I dread the day that I go, and he isn’t there. I think Carlos has captured my heart in a special way because he was the first one I ever called my son. Carlos is another boy who has been there for a long time. He’s there because he stopped going to school, had problems with his mom at home, and had a tendency to run around in the streets (even though he hasn’t done drugs before). His mom goes through phases where she visits a lot and goes through other phases where she doesn’t visit at all. The not visiting usually occurs around the time that she has called and said that she’s coming to get him out of 21. This happens to so many of my boys—they get excited because they hear that they’re going to get to leave, and something falls through, a parent disappoints them yet again, and the desperation sinks a little deeper. Carlos and I—as is the case with lots of the boys—started our friendship with handshakes and joking. Because there is so much time on our hands, I usually make my rounds and do my best to talk to the boys I already know, learn the names and ages of the new ones, and get a sense for who could use a deep conversation that particular day. (I tend to pray every morning that God would lead me and guide me in all of my conversations and interactions with the boys.) It was the same with Carlos—I learned his name, did my best to remember his age and how many siblings he has and where he’s from. Learning their names is crucial. If I call the boys by their names, that’s the first step to developing trust.

One particular day, Carlos and I happened to be standing by the window together when it became evident that it was his turn for a deep conversation. I don’t even truly remember how it came up—I might have been asking about his family—but soon, he was sharing about how his father has been abusive, especially towards his mother. My 16-year-old son got so tired of seeing his mom get beaten up by his drug addict, dead-beat dad that he went with a group of friends and was going to beat his own father up. But, even after confrontations with his dad, nothing changed, and after various times of leaving, his mom always returns to the same situation and defends the father. Carlos is sick of this and is so very hurt. His mom tends to get angry (as mothers naturally would) whenever Carlos disappears to go to the soccer stadium and says things in the moment, out of fear, like that she doesn’t love him which, as is understandable, causes considerable damage. We began to talk about how our parents are humans and will fail us, and how we all act the way that we do in terms of hurting others because we’re all damaged and need Jesus. We talked about the need to forgive his mother and his father so that he can be free and not a slave to the anger that the enemy would use to bind him. He understood what I was expressing, and he understands that holding on to anger and hatred is only going to lead to a life of danger and likely drugs and self-ruination, but his question was, “What’s the point? My life doesn’t have any value anyway. No one cares about my life.” My heart broke.

And I said, “Carlos, do you know why I come here? No one makes me come here. I have to ask permission from Papi Alvin, my boss, to come here. No one pays me. It’s not an obligation. I come here because I love each one of you like my sons. I come here because I see immense value in each one of you and because I believe in what God can do in your lives. Your life is precious. God created you with a purpose. You do have value, and I come to visit you because, to me and to God, my son, you have value.” He got quiet and didn’t respond, and when I looked over, he was wiping tears from his eyes, so I put my arm around him and patted my kid on the head.

Since that conversation, the lines of communication and trust and motherly love have been open for Carlos. One day, I was getting ready to leave and came into the common room where the boys pass mindless hours watching trashy television. I always try to make a point to say goodbye to Carlos and shake his hand, so I did and turned to go. At this particular moment, the boys (with the adult supervisors in the room) were watching some movie in Spanish where the father figure was beating the son. The mother figure intervened, and the father figure began to beat the mother until she was bleeding. Soon, as the son looked on, the father started trying to rape the mother. The son jumped on the father’s back, attacking him and trying to defend the mother. As soon as the mother was free, she began to beat the son, yelling at him for harming the father. It was like watching Carlos’ life on the television screen, and he was sitting behind me taking it all in. It made my heart hurt, so I returned to my son, took his hand, and said, “Son, please don’t watch this. You don’t need to be watching this. Why don’t you go talk to Hermano Charlie and Hermano Walter?” And, if I would have said this to various other boys—even ones who let me call them my sons—they would’ve looked at me like, “Who are you to tell me what to do?” and wouldn’t have moved. But, Carlos nodded and said, “Yeah, that’s true, isn’t it?” He looked me in the eyes like I’d just given him permission to stop torturing himself and walked out of the room as I’d told him to.

Cristian
My little Cristian is so precious. He is one of the younger boys at the center at 12-years-old, and he has grown up in Immanuel, a large orphanage that I’ve visited before that is run by a couple from the States. He and some of his siblings have lived in Immanuel for some years likely because of an economic struggle at home. His mom faithfully visited him at Immanuel before he ran away. Like a typical little boy, testing the world and his independence, he ran away to experience something new and meet new friends. He ended up playing soccer in the streets every day until he was picked up by police and taken to 21. His mom isn’t aware of where he is. This sweet child is stuck to me like glue when I go. He makes me bracelets out of yarn, and he likes to ask me all kinds of questions. Knowing how much I love my adopted sons and how I love them all equally even if it takes me a while to find a moment to connect personally with all of them, he has developed the habit of going up to various boys and asking them, “Is Sarah your mom?” And I am surprised, and my heart melts when each one—even the ones who tend to keep their distance or who are my little challenges—say yes.

A Desperate Mother
I’ve been going to 21 for 10 months now. In this time, God has opened and changed my heart greatly. I’ve always loved the boys, but for me, there is always a huge difference between loving a child as a child who belongs to someone else and loving a child as if he or she belongs to me. When I adopt a child into my heart as my own, something within me changes. My whole mentality changes. No longer is this a person who I care about from afar, who I help how I can and when I can. Now, the person is mine which means that their hurts, their joys, their struggles, their needs, and their stories are all suddenly mine. I am responsible for this person to whom I didn’t give birth. I’ve held back and kept myself from reaching this point with the boys because I knew it was going to hurt, and it’s been a rough (but good) year with a lot of hurt. I knew it was going to hurt because I can’t take my sons home with me. I have nowhere to take them. I can’t enter their home lives and remedy their family situations. I can’t rescue them. I can’t ensure them education. I can’t promise them the bright futures I know God wants for them. I can’t protect them from destroying themselves and others. I can’t even guarantee that I’ll be able to be in contact with them or see them again after they leave (often quite suddenly and before I’m prepared to lose them). But, God told me not to hold back, and I have to obey. So, while I am so helpless, I do love each one of these boys just like they’re my own flesh and blood. And I have found that in opening my heart to this new level of vulnerability, while I do hurt, I also am much closer to God because I’m a desperate mother. I go to bed pleading for the lives of my sons. I wake up proclaiming words of faith and protection over the lives of my adopted boys. I talk to Him about the things I like about my boys and the things that scare me. When I get into God’s presence in church, all I can do is sob for my sons and worship God with the faith that He is working in their lives and holding their precious futures in His hands. And I talk to Him about the future, about my desire for their adoptive father, my desire for the house to hold us all, and my desire to please Him in all things, even during this stretching time of preparation.

All my love,
Sarah