More Than Gold

Here’s the truth:  Leaving the mission field has crushed me. 

I didn’t want anyone to know.  I wanted to be strong, and to protect my family from the collateral damage of my grief and anger.  I continued attending church, kept the Bible on my nightstand, and tried to smile at all the right times so as not to raise any alarms—waiting for moments alone to fall apart.  God was near to me in every breakdown.  He whispered of His love in my ears and gave me visions of battling beside me when I cried out to Him.  Yet in all of it, I held him at arms’ length.

He could not be trusted with my heart, I reasoned.  He had not rescued me from the depression and anxiety that plagued my years in Guatemala and eventually caused me to give up.  He was God, and therefore worthy of my obedience... but my broken heart raged against Him for making me so weak.  I begged him for more strength, more ability, but instead He chose to embrace my weakness.  To wrap me in gentle compassion when I wanted to be treated harshly.  I wanted Him to send me back to Guatemala immediately—as penance, as discipline against the weakness in my spirit.  

He waited for me.  Ever-loving.  Ever-good, as I tried to make life work without Him.  As I fought to take care of myself without anyone’s help.  We worked hard and saved lots of money.  We would go to Bible school and return to the mission field.  I would be the "perfect missionary".  I would prove what a good help-mate I am to my husband, and I would never admit how scared I was.  If God would not punish me for my mistakes, I would do it for Him. 

And then, on Monday, I became the victim of a terrifying scam and ended losing our entire savings.  In the five most terrifying, isolating, and traumatic hours of my life, I lost every penny we had.  Literally. 

When I realized what had happened, I did what I should have done when the entire episode started:  I sought help.  And help came.  Without judgment at my gullibility.  Without anger for the money lost.  Grace proved stronger than terror.     

     

The very next day, as my family was still reeling from what was happening, my dad was in a potentially deadly disaster at work and had to be carried off the work site.  Although he was physically uninjured, he spent the rest of the day with a medic and a trauma counselor. When he came home he described the event as the most terrifying, isolating, traumatic event of his life.  The same words I had used only the day before. 

In the still-unfolding aftermath of these traumatic events, I am in awe of God’s grace.  My dad was not injured and neither was I.  My family rallied around Dave and I and it looks like we will still be able to go to Bible school, albeit not with the ease or flexibility we had planned.  And most importantly, our family has experienced a deepening of our trust in God.  I received grace in such a real way from Dave, and my parents, that I am assured of the words the Lord has been speaking over me all this time.  He doesn’t need me to be stronger, or more independent—He wants me to have faith in His strength, His love, His grace. 

There are those who, if in the same situation as I, would be homeless right now.  So, as I prepared oatmeal for my son’s breakfast this morning, I shed a tear of thankfulness for God’s provision.  He accepts me even though I am weak.  He surrounds me with loving people who want to care for me.     

As Dave and I sat together to pray yesterday, I told Dave again how sorry I am for what happened.  He stopped me with a hug and said, “Don’t apologize.  You’re praying again.  That’s more important than the money.”

“In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials.  These have come so that your faith—which is of more worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may be proved genuine and may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed.”

- 1 Peter 1:6-7, NIV.

It's Not Over Yet

         I have been hiding. 

         In a moment of weariness, ministry burn-out, and fear of the unknown, we made a hasty decision and fled from Guatemala.  The final crisis was built up of a thousand mistakes along the way:  never taking time to rest, unresolved infertility grief, and being completely unprepared for the intense struggle of parenting six traumatised teenagers.  We went in with arms open, hearts trusting that love would be enough.  That we’d figure it out along the way.  But in the end, we caused our boys additional pain. 

        We wanted to be the perfect parents.  To create a perfect home where the boys would desire to be, and to love the hurt out of them in the blanket of our parental affection.  We were overconfident, trying too much too soon and becoming too easily frustrated by the setbacks in bonding with the boys.  We were stretched thin emotionally before we’d even begun this extreme parenting, unable to see that we were on a collision course.  We expected too much—of ourselves, the boys, and the situation—and finally, when it exploded, we took the last remaining lifeboat and abandoned ship. 

         We came back to Canada in early November, 2017.  At first we were too numb to feel anything, and when we did think about the boys, or about Guatemala, we could only cry.  The life we’d spent four years building in Guatemala was suddenly over, and we’d lost everything that mattered most to us.  Worst of all, it was by our own choice.  Our own fault. 

         It took Dave three months to find work.  We lived with family, struggling with simple things like how to order coffee or be part of a church service.  Nothing felt good anymore.  We tried to press forward, to find a way to forget the six boys we’d left behind.  If we could get far enough away from the memories, Guatemala would fade in our hearts.  We’d find a new dream.  A new passion.

        

       But that hasn’t happened.  The longer we are here, the more comfortable and normal our life becomes, the stronger the desire to go back to Guatemala becomes.  Those boys were our sons, and working with them was our passion.  It was our life’s calling cut short.

          On our final day with the boys, there was a football tournament for Zane and Wisly’s football team.  Our whole family spent the morning at the football arena, and then we took all the boys to Pollo Campero for lunch.  Sitting around the table felt surreal, knowing that we’d never be this family again.  The boys messed around in the car on the way back to the orphanage, teasing Zane until he was  upset and crying.  I was frustrated, feeling a sickening blend of anger at their behaviour, and heartbroken that my role as their mom was about to be over.  I didn’t need to discipline them for being obnoxious in the car—that wasn’t my job anymore.

           We want our job back. 

           The longer we are in Canada, and the more options career options we look into for the future, we know that we have already found the work we are intended to do.  We want to return to Guatemala and work with children at risk, most likely with the same organisation we worked with before.  We can’t get our sons back, and be the family we were before, but we can live near those boys and be a part of their lives again.  We can make good on our promises to love them for life. 

           The road back will not be quick, we know that much.  We left Guatemala when and how we did because we were in crisis—and we want to return healthy, with hope for a long career working with children at risk.  We feel the first step is to become better educated, and so we have begun looking into Bible school and counselling programs.  We are also looking for courses on working with traumatised children.  Schooling is only the first of many steps we will have to take before we are boarding a plane to Guatemala, but we feel peace in our hearts that God is with us and guiding our journey. 

          When we arrived in Canada it felt like our life was ruined.  We couldn’t hear God’s voice and we felt afraid, and alone, and ashamed.  Only now are we beginning to feel hope for the future.  It hasn’t been easy to keep trusting Him, but as always, God is proving His faithfulness. 

          Our story isn’t over yet.     

Worthy

This is my new normal.

One day we were a family of three, basking in the general simplicity of life with one child.  Suddenly, as if by accident, we became nine.  Seven sons each with their own unique needs and personalities. Every day is different.  There are days when it is as though we have been together forever and it feels natural to see so many faces around the table.  Then there are days when the trauma of the past rises up and tries to rip us apart.  They are not always sure that they want to become a family with us, that they can risk loving us enough to let us parent them.

To love is to risk loss, and they are not always sure they can trust us that much.  We are driven to our knees in prayer daily, begging God for the wisdom and strength to give our sons what they need.  To help them to grieve their losses and move forward in wholeness.  To ignore their rejection as they try to protect themselves from our love.  To hurt with them, and play with them, and love them no matter what they do.

The journey of building a connected, healthy family is long and painful, but God is with us in every step. 

My eldest and I have already had "the moment"-- where we cried together over the time we didn't have each other, and I told him how much I love him and that I wish he'd been mine since the beginning.  I've cried over the few little-kid photos I have of them, wishing with all my heart that I could have been here for them during that time.  That they wouldn't have grown up here without a mom and a dad.

It breaks my heart that they grew up without me.

But I am here now.  As I told my son, "I am sad because I missed your childhood, but if you will let me, I want to be your mom and love you for the rest of your life."  And through his tears all my son could say was, "I've never had a mom like you."

For these moments we battle.  For the chance to show them the love of God through a mother and father, we are willing to fight.   

They are worth it. 

 

Our Side of the Red Wall

This week was Camp Varones (Boy's camp).

The Varones are all of the boys, ages 11-17 who live on our side of the red wall.  The wall divides the children's home(Fundacion Salvacion) into two parts so that the boys can be locked away from the other kids at night.  Guatemalan law requires us to separate the older boys because of the potential threat of sexual deviance due to their past trauma and abuse.  Some of the boys in this age group have avoided the stigma of living behind the red wall because they were taken in by a couple of the house parents on the other side.  But sixteen young men remain on this side, waiting for the chance to have parents.

Fundacion Salvacion came under the directorship of Story International only a few years ago, and in that time they began implementing the "house parent" model, meaning taking smallish to medium-sized groups of kids and raising them under the care of a foster parent (or parents).  Currently at the Fundacion we only have three full-time house parents units, leaving four groupings of children without true family-style care.  One of those groups is the varones.

So, in response to this need, we had Camp Varones-- a dedicated week of eating meals, doing chores, playing sports, and hanging out, to help us gain an accurate assessment each of the boy's needs, and formulate a plan for the future.

And let me tell you:  It.  Was.  Awesome.

Mealtimes were a joy, laughing at all of their jokes and sharing devotions together each morning.  Afternoons were spent playing soccer, cleaning up the massive storage building, and winding down each evening for creative journalling and dinner.  The boys responded so well to us and were thrilled to be eating on their own, away from the noise of the main dining hall.  All week Dave and I prayed for God to reveal to us a plan for the future.

Finally, on Friday, we prayed again, and in an instant, God downloaded to us an idea for separating the varones into three groups.  We'd throw up a wall in the middle of the current varon bedroom to make two smaller apartments, and take the third group into our house.  One of the maintenance guys on staff had already approached us with a desire to house-parent the boys-- and it turned out that our director already had someone in mind for the third house parent.

And just like that, we went from an institution-setting, to making plans for three little homes.  The plan is that each room will have it's own bathroom, bedroom, and living area with a table for meals (which will be brought from the main kitchen).  Maybe in the future we could even get a couch or two for each house so that they will have a private area to hang out as a "family".  Each room will have five boys and a full-time house parent.  The boys will have loving, personal attention at last.    

For us, we will be welcoming six boys to live with us.  We will tell them tonight at dinner.

I am reminded of a dream that I had about a year ago.  I dreamed that I was standing on a stage, with a line up of handsome, well-dressed young men beside me.  I couldn't see their faces, or even see how many there were, but in my dream I wept, because I knew that they were my sons, and I was so proud and thankful to be their mother.  When I awoke from the dream, I knew it was from God, but I had no idea how he would possibly fulfill it.

God has answered my prayers and fulfilled His promise to me.  Every tear I cried and every prayer I prayed brought me here.

I have finally found my children.  

 "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?’”

22 This is what the Sovereign Lord says:

“See, I will beckon to the nations,
    I will lift up my banner to the peoples;
they will bring your sons in their arms
    and carry your daughters on their hips.
23 Kings will be your foster fathers,
    and their queens your nursing mothers.
They will bow down before you with their faces to the ground;
    they will lick the dust at your feet.
Then you will know that I am the Lord;
    those who hope in me will not be disappointed.”

      ---- Isaiah 49:21-23  (My favorite chapter of the Bible)

The Long Way Around

I knew I would marry my husband before we met.  We exchanged emails for a couple weeks before meeting, and in those messages he told me of his love for children and missions.  Once we were dating, we spent hours walking and planning of all the children we'd have and the ones we'd adopt.  Our love was built on a mutual desire to raise children.

Once engaged, we planned a May wedding-- then moved it up to February when we found out about an opening for houseparents at a children's home in Mexico.  We knew what we wanted to do and we were in a rush to get there.  A few months after our wedding we headed to Guatemala for language school, enroute to Mexico.

Then, I had (what I thought was) a miscarriage.

And with that, everything changed.  The confidence I'd held in my calling to work at a children's home was wrenched from my grasp in the wake of the pain of infertility.  It hurt to see pregnant women, especially teenage moms.  It hurt to see other people's children, while we were waiting for one of our own.  The idea of being around a bunch of kids a children's home felt like salt in the wound.

Since then, we have almost become house parents three times, tried to adopt for years, and been through multiple other fertility treatments.  In all of it, the pain, the changes, the many moves that have taken us to new houses, cities, and countries-- God has been working in our hearts.  And in His unfailing love, He has been patient with us as we grieved the loss of fertility, and even the loss of adoption (as we've gone through years of waiting for Guatemalan paperwork to qualify us to apply for adoption).  It has been a painful process of relinquishing control over the deepest desire of our hearts.

On Saturday we are moving to a children's home in a city in northern-western Guatemala.  We will be helping to raise 93 children and teens (+ Z, of course).  Arriving at this point has taken almost ten years, but we recognize all that God has done during that time, and how much better prepared we are now than we would have been when we were first married.

We took the long way around, but we've finally found our way home.

He's in the Waiting

We are all waiting for something. 

For me, it’s the wait for a baby.  We have waited for years, and as much as we have healed from the original trauma of being diagnosed as infertile, it still hurts.  The longing doesn’t go away, and the grief stays with me.  Some, with only the best intentions to try to end my pain, have suggested that I stop waiting, stop wanting, stop praying for healing.

This week I waited for another woman’s baby.  As she battled through each of her difficult contractions and the hours began to pile up, the baby stayed hidden within.  Her husband and I supported her as she fought and breathed.  The midwife assured her that progress was happening, but it was not until the moment of birth that we had the proof.  It would have been easy to get discouraged, but instead my friend repeated, “I can do this.  I will see my baby today.” 

Watching her labour I rediscovered my own courage to fight for my children.  Though they are hidden from me, they are no less real.  I am battling for them in the spiritual realm.  My prayers are not unanswered.  Every one is heard and remembered.  My Heavenly Father holds my hands and looks lovingly into my face as I labour to bring them home.  He has not forgotten me.

Maybe you are like me, waiting for something that seems to be taking too long to come.  You’re weary from the battle.  You feel like you have prayed the same prayer over and over—without visible results.  The baby seems stuck and you are worried that you will be in labour forever. 

Take courage, my friend.  Your prayers are doing in the spiritual realm what we may only be able to see in the triumphant moment of birth. 

He’s in the waiting. 

My Mom, the International Traveller

My parents.  September 2016

My parents don't travel.

Ever.

Even if their daughter became a missionary and raised their grandson in a different country.  They don't travel.  They'll fork out the money to bring us home for a visit and rent us a great apartment to stay in during our visit.  They'll heavily support us each month.  They'll write us emails and buy us an Ipad so that we can use Facetime to talk to them.  All that and more, becuase they are amazing and generous parents.  My Mom and Dad are two of my very closest friends on the planet and we have a great relationship.

But they don't travel.  And since I live three countries away, this was becoming a problem.  I miss them.  Like, ALL the time.  And their grandson misses them.  They are the kind of parents who you want to have around all the time.  My dream life would involve living next door to them and having my mom help me homeschool Z.

I prayed for them to come visit.  I want to share my life with them and have them walk in my world for a while.  To take them to the market and see the sights and smells of a weekly grocery-shopping trip.  To chat beside the pila while I wash clothes by hand.  To take a walk around the Base and pray together in the prayer room.  For the whole three years that we've lived in Guatemala I have prayed for them to visit.

And then suddenly, unexpectedly, during a chat on Facebook, my mom announced that she'd started taking Spanish classes.  I thought this sounded like good news, and suggested again that she come down to visit to hone her skills.  To my shock and delight, she said she'd talk to my dad about it.

The next day, she wrote to say that since Dave will be in Canada for his sister's wedding in May, that she would travel back to Guatemala with him and spend a week with us!  My mom, travelling?  Apparently yes!  Z started making plans for all the toys he wants to show his Moma.

It feels like a miracle.  My beloved Mom is coming to visit me!  I miss her everyday, but during these few days in May we will be together.  We are so thankful and happy!