Guatemala Trip - Day 3

Wednesday, February 6th
(Sorry I didn't have time to flip some of the pics.)

It was very hard to go to sleep last night, and not terribly easy to stay asleep. We were awakened this morning by the incredibly loud sound of a radio in the room next door. It was alright, though, because it was already 6:20, and we had to be ready to go by 7:00.

We started the day with breakfast at David and Mirsa's house. We enjoyed an enormous stack of pancakes and some melon. The men left with David to go work at the school again. The women (except for one of our group, who went to the Bible College to teach for four hours) were enormously privileged to go with Mirsa to a women's shelter. It is ONLY because of her connection there that we were able to see it. It is in a remote location - even most of the people in Xela don't know about it, to protect the safety of the women there. They are mostly young women, who are running away from their families because of rape, incest, and abuse. Several months ago Mirsa was there and met a 13 year old girl who was holding her infant son, and her infant brother. There were too many stories that Mirsa and her friend Leslie shared to be able to retell here. It was heartbreaking to think of what these girls had already been through, and even more so when we found out that this shelter struggles to find food everyday. It depends entirely on donations, but getting the word out about the shelter poses a risk to the women who live there - many of whom are running away from very dangerous and well-connected drug traffikers.

Our job for the day was to repaint the kitchen. The building was very nice. We found out it had been built by a man from Spain. However, there are no funds for upkeep.. It was such an honor to be able to help out. There were several curious little children around, including one four year old girl who really wanted to talk to me. My Spanish, alas, isn't even at a four-year-old level. :) Figuring out how to paint the kitchen was also a very interesting challenge. To say that our methods wouldn't exactly be OSHA approved is like saying that the Pacific Ocean is a bit damp. At one point one lady was standing on top of a table, that was perched on top of the stove. It was ok, though, because it didn't interfere with the pressure cooker filled with tripe that was hissing away on the other side of the stove.

Mirsa and Leslie were able to go back to Leslie's house and get a ladder, which  meant that one of our group was able to really get into the corners up high. (The ceiling was about 15 feet tall.)

While we were working Mirsa introduced us to a 15 year old girl who was there with her 8 day old baby. We got to hold him. What a precious, precious, poignant moment that was.

Over lunch (sandwiches Mirsa brought, and an  exotic kind of fruit with orange flesh and a large, dark seed that some men use for shaving cream here in Guatemala) we talked about the needs of the shelter, and how to best help them. I suggested that they should get chickens. Mirsa thought that sounded like a good idea, and she called the director of the shelter, who said that would be a good idea. Mirsa is going to check to see how much it would cost to build a coop and get some chickens. I hope we can see it through and make it happen.

We quit work around 3:00, and got to go to one of the markets. Xela has many such markets, apparently, but I could hardly imagine how there could be more than the huge one we saw. It felt like it went on for miles, though it probably only filled a couple of city blocks. There were vendors who rented space indoors (quite a labrynth of narrow corridors, let me tell you!), as well as people just set up on the sidewalk. One lady's umbrella over her stand caught the wind and tipped over, breaking dozens of eggs and spilling several pounds of beans. We stopped to help her clean up as best as we could. I can only imagine what a financial loss that must have been to her.

The variety of things available was amazing. Everything from toilet paper, garden hoses, hand-embroidered fabric (quite expensive), pottery, used cooking utensils, and all the fresh veggies and fruits you could ask for. (Many I didn't recognize.) Leslie bought us a purple fruit - I don't recall the name - for 1 Quetzali that we split open with our hands and ate while we toured the market. Felt strange to spit to the many seeds on the ground, but that's what you're supposed to do. We didn't go through the meat section, because some in our party were a bit squeamish to see (and smell) so much raw, unrefrigerated meat.

However, the vegetables were so beautiful that it was all we could do to take it all in. Everything they sell there is grown in Guatemala, and their growing season lasts all year. The things I recognized included papaya, several types of bananas and plantains, mangos, watermelons, canteloupes, cucumbers, strawberries, onions, garlic, cilantro, star fruit, cucumbers, lettuce, cabbage, corn, lima beans, avocados - the list goes on and on. It was a feast for the eyes. We asked about prices, and found out, for example, that you can often get 2 or 3 big avocados (not the small, Haas ones from California) for around 8 Quetzalis, or 1 American dollar. Where was this market when I was vegan? :) I so wish we had access to such amazing fresh produce!

Here are a few pictures of the market:

After a shower and a tiny bit of down time (more for me than for Mark, who really deserved it - he spent alllll day hauling buckets of sand and rock at the school) we went to supper at David and Mirsa's. This time it was roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and the most delicious zucchini I've ever tasted. 

When we had finished eating we went to a different church for their Wednesday night prayer service. This church was much more humble, but very spirit filled. After a wonderful worship, one of our members brought a word about the need to get things in your life right with God in order to have good soil in your heart. Afterward, the pastor said got up and told his congregation that everything Chris said was a confirmation of what God has spoken to him - that this was going to be a year of prosperity because of the congregation getting right with God. The people cried. There was an alter call, and one man came up to receive Christ. Again - we were so humbled at what we received on a trip where we came to give.

 I know that these words are not sufficient to convey everything that is happening here, but I hope, at least, that you are able to see what a mighty God we have, and how very grateful I am for the chance to be here. 

Guatemala Trip - Day Two

Tuesday, February 5th
(Sorry there are no pics - the internet is too slow here.)

The day started early - we had to be in the van by 7:10. We drove first to David and Mirsa's house, where we were plied with enormous quantities of delicous food - scrambled eggs, fried plantains with sugar and cream, home made refried black beans. After that we got back in the van nd went to the school. It was interesting to see Xela during the day.  It is incredibly hilly, and the turns and corners are amazing. Traffic seemed equally chaotic here as in Guatemala City. Whoever is biggest and/or bravest has the right of way.

The school is on top of a very big hill, and the view of the city below is breathtaking. We knew we had a long day of hard work ahead of us, but it was ok, since we had unbelieveable views to enjoy. It was especially fun to see the volcano. It was inactive, but the one behind it wasn't, and we saw several puffs of smoke throughout the day.

We started with a tour of the school. It was amazing to see. It's been there for 50 years, is a Christian school, serves pre-K through 12th grade, is completely taught by American teachers, and all the instruction is done in English. It was very, very modest by American standards, but very neat and tidy. It's strange to see buildings with open courtyards between them. I don't think that would work in Iowa. :)

 Their library has around 15,000 books, and have the largest collection of English books in Western Guatemala. The computer lab has all Macs. Since class size is limited to 15 kids, this lab can accommodate a whole class at a time. They also have a class set of laptops, and of Ipads. All the kids bring their own lunches, and can heat them up in the mircowave.

After our tour, we got to work. They already had the foundation dug for 2 small classrooms they were adding. (Well... most of it. Mark got the pleasure of digging the rest.) Everything was done by hand. Our tasks for the day included hauling material up and down the very steep hills, cutting and bending steel to make brackets to hold the rebar together, cutting the wire and wiring the brackets to the rebar, and hauling sand (by 5 gallon buckets) up a flight of stairs to a different pile. It was very warm - 71 degrees or so. The sun is very potent this near the equator, and we had to be very careful not to get sunburns. Also, since we are at 7,500 feet elevation, it was very easy to get overly exerted and breathless. We broke for a lunch of sandwiches and chips which some of the ministries brought in. It was hard, hot work much of the time, but so worth it! To see how much progress we made in just one day felt phenomenal, especially after we had some parents, teachers, and students express great gratitude for our work.

After working we headed back to the hotel for a quick (and cold, and low-pressure) shower. Really makes you grateful for the little things back home. (FYI - flushing toilet paper is not allowed either. That is taking some getting used to.)

Supper tonight was also phenomenal - a chicken, broccoli, and pasta dish with a side salad and dinner rolls. If we weren't working so hard during the day, I'd be afraid we'd all weight 500 pounds by the time we go home.

This evening, however, has been the highlight of the whole trip for me so far. We visited a church in a nearby village. Before we arrived, David told us a little history of this village. In the 70's it was very poor and had no agriculture or exports. There was a man there who tried to commit suicide - pulled the trigger 6 times, and every one misfired. After that, he gave his life to Jesus. When he went to tell his grandmother (who had been mute for 30 years) about it, she was healed and able to speak. Soon, the whole village was on fire for God, and he blessed them. It is said that their vegetables are still the best anywhere - with carrots as big as your arm! To say we were excited doesn't even begin to cover it.

Our visit started with a tour of the whole building. The basement is used as a parking garage and also has a water purification system. Unfortunately, when they built on to the building to make the new sanctuary,  the system (which had been installed by a missionary group from the U.S.) had been disconnected. When the church was using it before, they provided free, clean water to all the schools and widows in town. (Remember - you can't drink the water from the taps.) The group that put it in hasn't been able to come down to fix it again, so they're without the clean water they (and so many others) used to rely on.

Their 3rd floor is totally open for now - a flat roof. Someday it will be offices, but it was the perfect place to look out over the town. Next door were a couple of houses that were especially eye opening. One was completely open over 1/2 of the house. We could literally see into their living room. The other house was a row house, and only had curtains for doors.

Their sanctuary was beautiful, and newly-remodeled. The pastor had a vision and a word from God to tear down their old church and build this one. It took years, and much faith, but he credits the building as a miracle from a mighty, capable God. He was such a humble, kind, man.

The service was beautiful as well. By the time we got done with our tour, they were well into their hour-long worship. Humble, but moving. The pastor insisted that we all get up and introduce ourselves, and the congregation (approx 40, mostly young people) all clapped after each name. The message that our group member brought was a very personal but simple word about the power and importance of forgiveness. Afterward, she invited people who felt the Holy Spirit calling them to forgive a certain person or people to come forward. Almost everyone did. She prayed for them all, and there were many tears. It was, clearly, a powerful moment for all of us.

Afterward, everyone wanted to take pictures of and with us. I have never felt like such a celebrity in my whole life. David said that it is very, very rare - possibly once in a lifetime - that these people would have a group of American visitors at their church. They took it as such a distinct honor for us to be there, and committed to praying for our church, as we committed to pray for theirs.

It is humbling beyond words to have been so welcomed with such open arms  - literally. We were hugged by or shook hands with everyone. And, though language was a barrier, we were very aware of the love that we had for one another. One woman gave me a big hug, and said, "welcome, sister" in Spanish. How amazing is our God that he can take me halfway across the hemisphere and still I can find family.

Guatemala Trip - Day One

Monday, February 4th

We started out early - arriving at the church at a.m. to meet the van. To say that Mark isn't a fan of flying is a bit of an understatement. But, our flights went well. We made it to Atlanta with juuuuust enough time to make our connection. The flight from Atlanta to Guatemala City took about 3 hours. Mark and I were glad to be able to sit together on the plane. I had a window seat. Here are some of the views we enjoyed:

When we arrived at the airport in Guatemala City, it was very apparent that we were in a whole new world. The toilet in the bathroom didn't have a toilet seat (perching on the rim isn't all that hard, it turns out). The language barrier became an issue. And, we saw the first of what we would soon find out are ever-present armed guards.

Our host, David, was perfectly comfortable driving his 12 passenger van through the chaotic streets of Guatemala City. Traffic laws (like many other laws) are more like suggestions. We were also surprised at all of the American fast-food restaurants. Burger King, Dominos, and McDonalds all readily visible. David, however, took us to a Guatemalan fast food chain caled Pollo Campanos. We also really ejoyed seeing the old busses, which were colorfully painted and chromed, and filled to the brim. Here are some shots of what we saw in Guatemala City:

(The exchange rate is approx 7.6 Quetzalis for every dollar)


After lunch we started off on the long drive over the mountainous pan-American highway. We alternated between driving through relatively-remote stretches, and long, sprawling towns. It was shocking to see the poverty. Some of the houses were little more than shacks. The farms, also, were so different that it was striking. Farmers usually can only afford tiny (maybe 1 or 1 1/2 acre) plots of land that are right on the mountainside and so steep I don't know how they even walk on them, let alone do any work. Everything is done by hand. I don't even know how many men and boys we saw carrying crude metal shovels, or how many women we saw carrying huge loads of vegetables on their backs or heads. What we saw the most of, however, was dogs. There were dogs everywhere - most of them so skinny they looked like they were about to die. We saw dead dogs, too. I did a roadside dead animal count, and was at 10 by the time we arrived. One was a cow. There were animals everywhere. We saw many, many people with cattle or horses tied very close to the roadside so they could graze. There were also people shepherding herds of goats and sheep, and chickens everywhere.

The drive was, however, beautiful. It took about 3 1/2 hours to climb to the summit (including a stop we made at a beautiful roadside rest stop). At the peak, we were over 10,000 feet above sea level. The descent was much faster - only about 30 minutes.

Here are a few of the pics I took along the way:

 Beautiful flowers growing at the roadside stop.

After such a long day of travel, we were very glad to arrive at David and Mirsa's house  in Quetzaltenango, which is called Xela (say: Shay-lah) by the locals and natives. Supper was phenomenal - roast beef, green beans, rice, rolls, home made tortillas, and ice cream with brownie pudding for dessert. 

After we were done eating, we headed to the hotel (Hotel 6). It is dated, and not up to the standards that I'd be thrilled with in an American hotel. It also has an armed guard (as did the entry to the gated community where David and Mirsa live). We are getting used to this sight, but it is unusual. The best part, though, was that the hotel had a bed, which was all that mattered. Can't say we slept the best, since it was veeerry noisy in the city, but it felt terrific to sleep! It is strange to be in a place where the houses and hotels have neither furnaces nor air conditioners. 

Potato Salad School

We have friends and family coming over tomorrow, so I've just finished making a giant batch of potato salad. It's my mother-in-law's recipe, and it's the only one I ever make anymore. Of course, it hasn’t always been my favorite. It was love at first sight when my husband and I met. I fell in love with his family as well. Their taste in food, however, was another story. The goulash was good. The nachos were great, but I just couldn't understand why this family insisted on putting green olives in everything. I’ve often heard that they are an acquired taste. At that point, I still didn't care for them much. Imagine my surprise, then, when they even showed up in the potato salad! I was beginning to worry I might starve at family functions.

Fast forward many years. My husband and I had been married for almost a decade. We had three beautiful children, and I had learned to love green olives - especially in Cathy's potato salad. She was called upon to make it for all the picnics, potlucks, and gatherings. The last few get-togethers had been difficult, however. My mother-in-law had cancer, and it had begun to manifest itself in interesting ways, including some we did not expect. There was, of course, the fatigue and nausea. But, there were other things, too – more campout weekends together; the re-telling of childhood stories; the increasingly-frequent exchange of wan, knowing smiles.  

She arrived at my house one afternoon with three huge bags of supplies - potatoes, bowls, special kitchen equipment, and (of course) green olives. Apparently, Potato Salad School was in session, and I was ready to be a diligent pupil. Because it wasn't a recipe she had ever written down, but rather a labor of love each and every batch, we mixed, and chopped, and tasted together. I took copious notes. By the end of the afternoon we had a big bowl of what was unquestionably her special potato salad, I had a recipe in hand, and she wore a tired but triumphant expression.

It was then that I really stopped to take a good look at her. Her hair had been short, wavy, and black before the chemo. The wig she had chosen that day was a chin-length, blonde bob. (Even in the face of such loss, she chose to find the bright side, experimenting with hairstyles she never would have been able to achieve otherwise.) She was thin, and didn't have the stamina she used to. In that moment, I suddenly realized Potato Salad School was about far more than just passing along a recipe. It was one part rite of passage for a daughter-in-law, one part passing-of-the-torch for a mother-in-law. It was, in short, the assurance that her potato salad - and all that it entailed - would continue, even if she did not.

Cathy passed away about a year later. It had been a long, hard process, and we were blessed to be by her side during the weeks she was in the hospital and Hospice. The whole family gathered with my father-in-law back at their house the morning after she died, numb and unsure of what to do. I found myself drawn to the kitchen, and began dragging out her giant bowl, methodically peeling potatoes, and hunting around in the cupboard for the jars of green olives that I knew I would find there. After all - the family was together, and that meant someone had to make the potato salad. I’m not sure it tasted as good as hers, but it was a comfort to have it there anyway.

Since then, I’ve been the one expected to make it for all the picnics, potlucks, and gatherings, and I couldn’t be more pleased. Every second helping and satisfied “mmmmm” are reminders of my beloved mother-in-law, all the love she had for her family, and our special afternoon together where I learned so much more than just how to make potato salad. 

Image courtesy of Simon Howden/ FreeDigitalPhotos.net

We Are Those People

(Image courtesy of Danilo Razzuti / FreeDigitalPhotos.net)

I know you've all read my rants about my slow, painful realization that I am an actual-factual, bona-fide adult. How it wasn't something I wanted. How it snuck up on me. How there are still days when I feel like I'm faking my way through it. And, yet, it's true. I'm a grown up. Seems strange to think about being something without realizing it, but I'm beginning to suspect that happens more often than we know. For example - I have so many people that I look up to. You know - people who inspire. Who live lives of greatness. Who have exemplary marriages, families, homes. Most of all, I am in awe of people who have unyielding and enduring faith  That's what impresses me. That's what encourages me. That's what I want to be. But, maybe that's what I already am - at least to someone. And (ready for it?) maybe you are too.

I got to thinking about this a few weeks ago while on the phone with my best friend, Lee Ann. During our daily phone conversation we were discussing the typical things that mature ladies talk about -  communicable childhood diseases, mortgage rates, thirty-minute meal recipes, how to clean pet stains out of carpet, politics. You know - the usual. Then, our conversation turned to her new Bible study group. Now, Lee Ann and I have discussed everything that has ever happened in our lives since the moment the first one of us learned our first word. Possibly even before then. So, the fact that our conversation was about the Bible was far, far from shocking. What was shocking, though, when I stopped to really, REALLY listen, was the wisdom of the words coming out of my friend's mouth.

Don't get me wrong - Lee Ann has always been a smart girl, and has a relationship with the Lord that has been tested and proven firm many times, in many ways. It's just, this is also the same person who once owned a pet raccoon, let out a cuss word in the middle of Vacation Bible School (right in front of the teacher!), and is from the same backwoods, redneck Oklahoma town that I am. (And those are just the things I can write about...) But, during the course of our conversation, she talked eloquently and humbly about the many times and ways she's witnessed in her community, reassured young believers, followed the leading of the Spirit (even when it was reallllly hard to do so), encouraged her husband and her children in their faith, etc, etc, etc. I couldn't help but think to myself - when had my best friend gotten so darn wise?

And then it hit me - she is one of those people. One of the people who inspire. Who live lives of greatness. Who have exemplary marriages, families, homes. Most of all, she is a person with unyielding and enduring faith. She impresses me. She encourages me. She is one of those people. And I was talking to her. Indeed - I was talking with her; engaged in the conversation as fully as she was. I was (could it be true?) holding up my end of this profound spiritual discussion with this profoundly wise woman almost as well as she was. Imagine the shock of finding out - all on the same day - that not only has your best friend become a wise, mature woman of the Lord, but you have too! I tell you, people, I was amazed.

Let me assure you - this was not a revelation that was easy to accept. Every time I would start to see in myself the same habits and attributes that I have long admired about others (spiritual maturity! lasting, happy marriage! love of the scripture! healthy prayer life!) I would start to see myself, and doubt would creep in. You know what I mean about seeing myself? I mean I would be reminded of those deep, dark, dirty things that I don't like about myself. That I wish weren't true. That I wish I hadn't done. That I wish were different. They kept echoing through my mind whenever I considered the idea that maybe - just maybe - God really could use me to do great things in the earth. To change people's lives. To make a difference. To further His kingdom. I wanted to believe, but somehow I though that surely someone like deep, dark, dirty ol' me couldn't ever really be one of those people. 

It could have ended there. I could have let myself believe the lies. Sink back into oblivion. Let my past derail my future. But, I didn't. Do you want to know why? It's all about choices. I have decided that God meant what He said when he declared that he would use the foolish and weak to put the wise and mighty to shame. I have decided that I can't believe in the full, redemptive work of the cross for others unless I believe it for myself as well. I have decided that if God could use a drunk like Noah, a womanizer like Samson, an adulterer like David, a prostitute like Mary Magdalene, and a denier like Peter, then surely He can use me too. Right?

But, most of all, I have decided that the world needs more people who inspire. Who live lives of greatness. Who have exemplary marriages, families, homes. Most of all, who have unyielding and enduring faith. And, though I will never, ever, in a bajillion years achieve those things on my own, through His spirit I can. Yep. I choose to believe that all of that good stuff can be mine - not because I am so great, but because my God is.

So, if two flawed (but fabulous, if I do say so myself) grown-up girls from Oklahoma can be those people, I'm pretty sure that means you can too. What are you waiting for? There's a whole world out there in need of people just like us.

Chasing Butterflies with Sarah

Listen up folks - I've got an important announcement to make. I've been saying it to my children for years, and have even lectured students in my classes about it. It's time I sit you all down and have the talk with you as well. Get comfy, 'cuz there's some preachin' comin' your way.

If your life isn't poignant, you aren't paying attention.

That's it. Do you need me to repeat it? If.your.life.isn't.poignant.you.aren't.paying.attention. It's as simple as that. Go ahead - let it sink in for a minute.

I think it's important to start off with a good, solid understanding of what poignancy really is, and what it isn't. Most of the time this word evokes feelings of deep sadness or mourning for people. And, it can be that. But, it's so much more, too. Merriam-Webster dictionary describes the word poignant as piercing, deeply affecting, cutting, designed to make a lasting impression. There can be pain in the poignant, to be sure, but there can also be unfathomable joy, peace, revelation, desire, empathy, epiphany... the list goes on and on. The best moments of poignancy, if you ask me, are the ones that contain both ends of the spectrum - the comfortable and the uncomfortable - at the same time. Those highly acute moments - which stretch our emotional muscles to their fullest, until they are positively taut and buzzing - are the places where we truly experience what it feels like to live; where the most complex things in life are boiled down into one self-contained, momentary emotional high note.

Let me give you an example. The other day I took my girls to the zoo. We ambled through the ape house, traipsed by the tigers, and loitered in front the baby lions. We shared happiness, jokes, questions, gestures, and memories. These things were good, but they were not poignant. That didn't come until we sat ourselves down in the theater, giggled at each other in our goofy 3-D glasses, and watched as the a movie scrolled across the giant IMAX screen in front of us. Typically, I do not find that screen moments = poignant moments, which made it all the more painfully and startlingly wonderful when I looked over and saw my youngest child chasing the butterflies that appeared to leap off of the screen toward her.

She is allllllllllllllmost six years old. That means something. Anyone who has ever had kids, and watched them grow beyond that age, or anyone who honestly remembers what it was like to be a child of five years old, knows that five is significant. It is special in a way that no other age is. (Yes, yes... I know that can be said equally of every other age as well. But, that doesn't make it any less true.) Since she is our last, this is the last time I will be a mother to a five year old. In the fleeting days of this year of her life, in the shadowy darkness of that theater, I witnessed the special gift of five-years-old in the most poignant of ways possible. All of the innocence and incorruptible curiosity that is five was positively leaping from her dancing eyes and outstretched hands. Elation! Abandon! Freedom! Excitement! It was all there, on display, for what I knew would probably be one of the very last times ever for her as my child, and me as her mother. As I watched her, I couldn't help but feel an immensely proud pain in my heart. It was as though that bubble of joy that she exuded was being drawn up with the rushing winds of time. I could not experience her five-ness without the immediate and stinging realization of her imminent six-ness following behind to swallow it up. The moment was as delicate as the butterflies she was chasing, and every bit as fleeting, as well.

That was poignancy. It was dropped into my lap like a bittersweet gift. Thankfully, I've learned enough to savor such moments. When Sarah's joy had subsided, and she took her seat again, I looked around and noticed a handful of other beautiful, young children reaching toward the dancing images. A few parents took note, wearing knowing smiles like my own. Many shushed their excited kiddos, coaxing them to sit down once again and be quiet. Most, however - most! -  missed the experience entirely. That is why I am lecturing you. I don't want you to miss out.

It seems to me that so many people today, tired of their lives of quiet desperation, seek the calm, the smooth, the easy, the expected. Contentment is enough. Complacency. Sameness. Equanimity. I understand the urge to have these things. We should know them well, and live much of our lives in their comfortable embrace. However, a heartbeat requires peaks and valleys. Without them, we are flatlined. We are dead. It is the same for our emotional hearts. Relying on the safety of the known narrows our capacity to feel the highs and lows; to learn from what they have to teach us, to be filled with the knowledge and reality of their existence - even when painful.

I guess that's it. Lecture over. I truly hope you either really enjoyed it, or really didn't. Whichever it is, I win, since either reaction causes a bit of a blip to the heart rate on the ol' emotional EKG. Like any good teacher, I can't leave without giving you some homework. Below are several opportunities for you to work your poignancy muscle. I hope they help you hit some peaks and valleys, in order to get warmed up for the rest of your day, the rest of your week, and the rest of your life. Trust me on this - poignancy is out there - all around you - all the time. I truly believe that there is beauty, love, pain, grace, mercy, challenge, joy, etc, etc, etc. in every circumstance and every life. In short, the poignant is all around you. At least, the capacity for it is. Whether or not you allow yourself to find and experience it is often more about whether you are willing to look, than where, or even how hard.

Oh, and one more thing - there will be a test on this. It's called life, and I sincerely hope you do well on it. 

Not Your Typical Sports Report

1.) Read synopsis. 2.) Look Through Photos. 3.) Think and Be Moved

Big Baby, Little Baby

The Ending to an Old Fashioned Love Story

A Day at the Park 
And Yet, He Loves Us Still

Happy New Second!

Well, it's 2013. Despite what those rascally Mayans might have predicted, the world didn't end (at least, not here in Western Iowa), and the inexorable parade of time keeps bass-drumming its way down the avenue of life. New Year's Eve has never really been a highlight holiday for me. Around here, we tend to celebrate in as low-key of style as possible - generally in jammies. (Sure, we get strange looks at the black-tie parties we attend, but at least our dry cleaning bill is lower!) All joking aside, the reason you'll find the Farrier family at home on December 31st has as much to do with our philosophy in life as it does with our desire to be comfortable.

My understanding is that at a typical, big New Year's Eve party, the celebrants eat tiny food off of toothpicks, drink way too many mixed alcoholic drinks, then finish the evening off with a countdown, confetti, noisemakers, and a single kiss at midnight. What's up with that!? First off, if the food is any good, why would you want tiny portions? And, if it's not good, why would you want to eat it? How fancy can a party be if they're too cheap to get out the silverware, and force you to use toothpicks instead? That concept right there is enough to keep me at home.  Secondly, how much fun can a party be if the hosts have to ply me with enough liquor that I won't remember the party? How much fun can a party be if all the other guests have been plied with enough liquor that they won't remember the party, either?  See? Doesn't make much sense when you stop to think about it, does it? The only good thing about being at a party with that much free-flowing booze is that you won't be able to recall having acted like a total idiot, and neither will anyone else who was there. Don't be fooled into thinking that means none of you acted like total idiots, though - especially in the days of camera phones.

Finally, there's the fanfare and hoopty-doo of the countdown itself. I don't get this. At all. Are we really that desperate to be done with one year, that we're literally counting down the seconds until its demise? Seems a little macabre and mean spirited if you ask me. Sure, there are some times when I'd like to see the clock tick a tiny bit faster - during boring meetings, while driving on long trips, and when someone else is in the bathroom and I really need to go. Most often, however, I find myself wishing I could slow the clock and savor the precious moments of life a little bit longer, not the other way around. It seems like only yesterday that my children were born, yet I now find myself surrounded by graceful, intelligent, lovely young ladies. The reality of desperately wishing for time to fly by - even if it is only the last few seconds of a year - is that you're also wishing yourself out of the best stuff that life has to offer: time. Time to hug your kids. Time to tell your friends and family how much they mean to you. Time to put your hands to a task that will make the world a better place. Time - it's already a finite, vanishing resource in each life. Why would you wish it away faster than it's already disappearing?

Perhaps, however, I've got it all wrong. Maybe it's not the ending of the old year that gets people so audibly excited, but the beginning of the new one. Can that be true? Are all the streamers and noisemakers really about the fact that the last digit of the date will now be one bigger than it was before? To be honest, that's always brought more hassle than excitement to me. My checks almost always wear a strange, smudged, hybrid number until well in January, when I finally get the hang of writing the new one correctly. I sometimes wonder if the people at my bank worry that perhaps I've had a small stroke, or something.

What is it about the rolling over of the clock on New Year's Eve that causes us to be made aware of the freshness of possibilities for our lives? I understand the importance of a brand new calendar, a brand new year, and brand new chance for things to be brand new. But, while the symbolism, vocabulary, and hype might make it seem that January 1st is the only (or best) time of year to embrace such sentiments, I'd like to offer an alternative philosophy. It's a good one, I think, and the very same philosophy that I mentioned at the end of the first paragraph, and which keeps me on the couch instead of out and about on New Year's Eve.

Every day is a new day, filled with new opportunity. That's it. It's not just the January 1sts of life that give us the chance to renewed. It's every day. More than that, it's every hour, every minute, every second. Literally. How long does it take to make the decision to do the right thing? How long does it take to say the words, "I love you"? How long does it take to share a smile? To open a door? To savor the sunset? To give someone hope? This, people, is the good stuff in life. This is the substance of what we're here for. And, the best news of all, is that we have the chance to be brand new (and help others be brand new) each and every second of each and every day. Even if you're at home, and in your jammies.That's the beauty of this philosophy.

So, I want to wish you all a very happy New Year. But, more importantly, I also want to wish you a very happy New Month, New Day, New Hour, New Moment, and New Second. Because, honestly, these are the things worth celebrating.

Almost a Miracle?

I've struggled with whether or not to publish this on my blog. It is about an intensely personal, yet very shared experience I had just over six months ago. It's taken me a while to sort through my feelings, work up the courage to contact the family for publication permission, and figure out just what I'm supposed to do in my life with the events that transpired that night. Perhaps this piece is the answer to that last question. I hope it is a blessing to you.

Something about the way he stumbled caught my eye. Even with the noise of my children playing in the backseat, the buzz of conversation from my cell phone, the distracted thoughts bouncing around in my brain, and the task of getting us safely home in the twilight – something about his fall caused me to pause. I hung up the phone, turned the car around, and pulled in the driveway to within 15 or 20 feet of where he lay. As I surveyed the situation and replayed what I had seen, my mind exploded with ‘what if’s’. What if he had fallen because he had been shot? What if the tank that was hitched behind his running truck, with its driver’s door agape, was leaking a toxic chemical? What if this was a trick to lure trusting passersby into a trap? What if? What if? What if? I prayed silently for wisdom, and scanned the area. My senses were all attuned, but the overwhelming thought that ruled all others was that I had to help this man. 

I told my girls to sit tight – that I’d be back in a minute – and got out of the car, letting the door close quietly behind me. Before I’d even let any words asking how he was escape, I already knew the answer. I heard him take a shallow, rattling breath as I walked over, knelt down, and put my hand on his shoulder. I shook him gently, asked if he was alright, and only got silence in return. Swallowing hard, I slipped my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed 911. The rest is a bit of a blur.

 I recall the reassuring voice of the dispatcher, who seemed so utterly confident in me that I couldn’t help but believe that I could do the things he was asking me to do. That I could roll this stranger over, check for breathing, do CPR. Mostly, he made me believe that we could keep him alive - together. And, he was right. After what seemed like an eternity (but was really more like three or four minutes) an EMT arrived on scene and took over doing the chest compressions and rescue breathing with a confident, practiced air – so different from my awkward, unknowing attempts.

 She asked me to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket and find a family member to call. I fumbled around, trying to discern the right number from his call log. This felt like a complete violation of this stranger’s privacy – even more than the rescue breathing and CPR had been. That was somehow clinical. This felt personal. I was a bit relieved when I was unable to reach the faceless ‘Jane’ whose number I had dialed. Then I felt guilty, thinking of how much I would want to know if it was my family member lying there.

Within a few minutes more, the ambulance arrived. The intimate silence of the driveway was suddenly shattered by a crew of professionals, each one doing his or her job efficiently and nobly. I saw them shock him. I felt lost in the hum of activity, and headed back to my car. I was pulling out into the road as they loaded him onto the board and into the waiting ambulance. It all seemed like a dream, but I recall the EMTs thanking me – saying what a miracle it was I had been there when he fell, and had stopped to help. A miracle.

I spent the rest of that evening in a daze, processing my thoughts and trying to figure out what it all meant. I have believed in God since my childhood, and witnessed His power in many situations. But, by His grace, I had been allowed on this night to be a part of His mighty works. I had been allowed to participate in a miracle. 

At some point the 911 dispatcher called to let me know that the man had made it to the hospital and was still alive. Though his prognosis was uncertain, he wanted me to know that any chance of survival the man had was because I had just happened to be in the right place at the right time. The next day an EMT called and let me know that - against all odds - this unknown stranger was still alive. Alive, indeed, and with a family that wanted to meet me. 

A few days later, the name I had seen on his cell phone became more than just bits of digital data on a display screen. Standing in the waiting room, I felt instantly connected to her as we embraced. She shared with me that the doctors had declared him dead a few hours after arriving at the hospital that first night. The roomful of family and friends had been told that he was gone. As she sat in the silence of his room, grieving the loss of her beloved husband, she had felt an insistent pulse arise. Ignoring it at first as the fanciful wishes of someone unprepared to trade in the title of wife for widow, she had only dared to believe once she looked up and saw his ashen face flush with color. The doctors had rushed in, asking what had happened. Her tearful, joyous response was that it had been a miracle. E.R. doctors and nurses who had witnessed the events of the evening had had no choice but to agree. Another miracle.

This man, who had been in a fitful coma ever since returning to life, was a testimony to God’s healing power, and I was getting to be a part of it.  I had been privileged to be there when he fell and start CPR. Privileged to hold his hand and pray for him while the EMT worked. Privileged to meet his family and hear their wondrous story of him coming back from death. Privileged to pray with them, and to be drawn into their lives. I was privileged, above all else, to witness the mighty hand of God as He worked a miracle that boldly showed even doubters and unbelievers His unshakable power. I was thrilled because the world needs more of that. I needed more of that my in my own life, too. 

The day after I had visited him and basked in the light of the miracles of his story, the doctors told the family that his MRI results showed very little meaningful brain activity. A few days later, he was moved to the palliative care wing of the hospital. The next day he passed away - surrounded by his wife, children, brothers, mother, and friends. I do not have any right – in light of their suffering – to speak of my own devastation. Yet, it was as palpable for me in the following days as my excitement over his miracles had been. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had somehow participated in an unfinished work, and I didn’t understand it. 

I learned long ago that God doesn’t answer to me. His ways are not my ways, and His thoughts are not my thoughts. But, that doesn’t stop me from asking questions and seeking answers. I prayed earnestly, pleading with God to help me understand why He had chosen to have the man die, when his testimony and the story of his experience could have touched so many lives and hearts. I felt burdened for the family he left behind – his grieving mother, wife, and teenage children. I prayed over and over again for some way of understanding why I had been brought to that place at ‘just the right time’, and been allowed to participate in something that I had come to think of as almost a miracle. It was at that point – when I had come to doubt the perfect and complete acts of the almighty God– that He reminded me of the truth. 

It was a simple scripture that I had read a thousand times before, but never understand so well until that moment. Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints – Psalm 116:15. Upon reading those words late one night, it suddenly occurred to me that every moment of this man’s life and death hadn’t been overlooked by God – as I was starting to believe – but, rather, overseen.   I was reminded of the story of Jesus coming to visit Mary and Martha after Lazarus’s death. Though He knew before He even left on His journey to their home that He could (and would) bring Lazarus back from the dead, the scriptures are very clear that He wept anyway – moved by his compassion at the grief of the two sisters and their friends and family. I believe it was that same compassion that drove God to order the events of that evening when my life intersected another in a very powerful way. 

Because this man was precious in His sight, God hadn’t wanted him to be alone as he lay dying. Because he is a tender heavenly father, God allowed the man’s earthly family time to grieve and reconcile with their new paths in life. Because He is ever-ready to woo the hearts of men, God allowed this amazing, faith-filled family a week to demonstrate what mercy, love, grace, and peace look like – a powerful testimony indeed. And, because He knew I needed it, God allowed me to participate in the greatest miracle of all – helping escort one of His beloved into the throne room. 

I have finally come to believe that there is no such thing as an ‘almost’ work of God. His perfect plan was completed 2000 years ago on a barren, wind-swept hill outside of Jerusalem.  There is nothing – not time, distance, or circumstances – that can take away our access to that all-sufficient work through Jesus. No life is hopeless, no person unseen, and no act of God will ever be an ‘almost’ miracle because of the moment that Christ proclaimed, “It is finished.”