Why We Go.

     A year or so ago, a former classmate had a conversation with me regarding mission work in Rwanda.  He said something along the lines of "unless you are living there, aren't you really doing more harm than good?"  I have been haunted by this thought since.

     He isn't alone.  This is a common sentiment in my generation.  We want to empower people to help themselves.  We don't want to sweep in to "help," then leave again to return to our cozy lives stateside.  It's true too.  What good, really, is it for a well meaning group to just show up for a little window of time, build a house, paint a church, play with some kids, then leave again?

     I get it.  When people travel to developing countries do to projects, to give hand outs and "tour" the lives of the impoverished, it does hurt.  It's counterproductive to create a culture of reliance on handouts.  No one benefits long term in Africa, Central America or in the streets of America with this kind of service.  Of course we want to train people to care for themselves.  But what does not showing up at all really look like?

     Let me tell you the flip side of this thought for those that doubt.  I live with the results of not showing up, not caring and not investing in the lives of those children.

• The flip side, when he is tired, he can't stand the feeling of his jeans on his tummy unless they are squeezing so tight that they cause skin breakdown.  The feeling of the threads of his socks leaves him on the floor in tears.
• The flip side, he can't sleep all night without old memories creating havoc.  Without having a physiological response to fear when the lights are out and he is all alone.  That's what it looks like when we don't show up.
• It looks like this child climbing on your husband's new coworker, inappropriately touching and cuddling with a stranger.  Any attention is attention, right?
• Not showing up at all, it looks like that little brown eyed boy eating more food in than the rest of his family easily at every meal.  His little brain still, still, has doubts that there will be more food when he needs it.  That's what it looks like.
• It looks like my sweet son closing his hand in the van door again and waiting calmly for me to open it to get his hand out. Without tears. 

     Doing nothing means that are thousands millions of children that don't get touched.  That don't have anyone look them in their eyes, count their toes, tell them they matter.  Those that argue for nature over nurture, I would venture to say are naive to what the lack of touch looks like in the rooms of an orphanage.  Did you know that those rooms are quiet?  The babies, they learn quickly that crying only uses energy.
     There isn't a numerical value for the time spent listening to a child, playing with them or just being present. If my son had been routinely rocked, snuggled and told that he was loved, I know without a doubt that the last three years of my live would have been very different.  

     And this is why we go.  Ryan and I know in our hearts and believe for our family that every moment matters.  

Beautiful Things

Sparrow #2 has lasted all week.

        Someone sent me a text today, "I've been checking your blog, how are you?"  So sweet and  yet brought so much guilt.  I know to many people that  it's messed up that I can put it all out there quote, unquote.  If someone asks me how I am, I refuse to give the "I'm fine" answer.  Really, I just found my 13yr old aloe plant in the bathroom sink and I'm pretty sure the dog is wearing my perfume.  Really.  Most people don't know if it's okay to laugh or cry at the absurdity of our daily life.  So instead of making everyone feel uncomfortable,  I reflect, I blog, I see Beautiful Things.  It's a roller coaster here; we go into survival mode, riding out the latest battle that Etienne fights.  Usually, by the time I'm on the pantry floor, in a tearful, snotty mess, it's about to be over.  That's when I can look back at it and see some beauty somehow.
     Tonight it was just Molly, E, Zeke and me.  We had a fun evening and I was aware of how sweet each moment was.  Coming home, there was some lying and some destruction.  I acknowledged his lie, didn't give him opportunity to  make it a bigger whopper and as I was talking, it was like I could hear Karyn Purvis or our counselor saying "Don't further talk in the moment, he isn't hearing you," but I couldn't stop myself from reminding him that lying makes the problem way bigger.  He turned into this screaming, hollering, kicking mess.  I hugged him with my whole body to calm him down. What he did next broke my heart. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands balled into a fist and his shoulders hunched over.  It looked like he is afraid for his life.  And I know that although there have been countless times that I have wanted to squeeze him with anger, I haven't ever physically hurt him.  But his physical response, it breaks me and it takes me back to the moment I saw him sitting naked on a cold concrete slab.  Getting a bucket of water dumped on his head and having some rough hands scrub him with lard.  I can't ever erase that image from my head and I share it because I know that many people will live life without witnessing injustice like that.  But God burned that glimpse into my son's former life on my heart to give me just a little bit more empathy, a little bit more patience.  That little boy has had more wrongs done to him in his life than I can count.  His body language reminds me that this is the reason he hurts me.  It isn't about me.  It isn't about my walls, his classmates or any of our stuff.  It's all about a broken hearted little boy that still doesn't believe he is lovable.
     I continued to hold him.  I prayed aloud, like I have started to do when I don't know what else to do.  Than he stuck his thumb in his mouth, closed his eyes and put his hand on my heart.  Patting my chest, he felt my necklace and said "There is your sparrow."  That is beauty out of ashes.