The good, the bad, and the “Abi”

Yeah, yeah, I know it’s been forever and a day again. My excuse this time is that I was sick for, literally, a whole month. I also went to Puerto Lempira, which is where the natives lives in Honduras, as well as the US of A. Also had a run-in with parasites. So, yes, this is long overdue, but at least I’ve got some kind of excuse other than pure laziness, right (AKA -bugs crawling around in my digestive system)? Ok, I’ll stop complaining about this and start complaining about something else now.

More specifically, the idea of “good” lives and “bad” lives. This topic has more humorously come to life with my Honduran friends and my best gringa friend, Abi. Abi is what I’d like to call your stereotypical homeschooled American. She’s got a great family that’s extremely, and I mean extremely, close. She’s also very, very sheltered. Both of those things are very good things for her in her life. In our friend group, we think of Abi as the innocent little cutie. The angel of the group. If we hear someone swear in a movie or do something inappropriate, everyone will immediately turn to her and jokingly throw their hands over her ears or eyes.

Abi, in our friend group, is the “good” gringa. Because I act/know/have experienced nearly the exact opposite life of sweet, little Abi, I’m sort of known as the “bad” gringa. Let me repeat that this is and inside joke, I’m like 90% sure they don’t actually think I’m a terrible person. However, this joke within my friends is a very real thing that happens in our world today. A lot of the time in the church, as well as with the Christians, we see a line between the good and the bad. Not so much as in thinking people are unredeemable or not good enough for Jesus, I think we’ve fixed those views. However, I see it in the way people are pitied.

Christians will look at people who’ve lived hard lives, who’ve done terrible things, and will think “needs to be pitied.” Likewise, they’ll look at sweet, little Abi and think “needs to be protected.” It’s like there’s this ideal image of a Christian burned into our minds, and we can’t help but try to turn every person into it. I’ve always had a really hard time with watching people pity those who’ve gone through hard things. Such as an alcoholic* who got help and became clean (*not a real life example of someone I know, stop guessing you jerk). The Christian would look at him and think:

I’m so sorry you went through that.

Alcohol addictions were never a part of God’s plan.

This is all Satan’s doing.

Thank God you’re “good” now.

Life would have been so much better for you if you were given a life like sweet, little Abi.

Those thoughts aren’t terrible thoughts, but I don’t think they’re right either. Especially that last thought. That last thought drives me mad. If only you were given a good, little life. If only you weren’t given that temptation. If only you never had a sip of alcohol. If only you had followed God’s plan.

What would you do if I said I was proud of that alcoholic? That I was proud of the fact that he was put through that temptation? The fact that he did take that sip of alcohol and faced that long, hard time? That all of what happened to him is absolutely, positively God’s plan? What if I told you I’d be so upset for him to be given a life over and claim the life of an “Abi?”?

Don’t get too mad at me yet, let me explain.

There’s sin the world, right?

There’s a lot of bad in the world, right?

There’s people suffering with all kinds of different addictions and problems, right?

There’s a huge amount of alcoholics, right?

Look at the alcoholic again. Yes, he struggled for a very long time. It will forever scar him. However, he now holds a power that no Abi will ever hold – a power to change the lives and relate to other alcoholics. Not only will he have the power to change those lives, but he will also be more likely to have a passion for helping alcoholics than the average human being. You see where I’m going here?

No matter how “bad” my life was, no matter how many things there are that I wish and pray I could take back, no matter how hard it is to swallow my shame and live with myself everyday, no matter how easy it would be to restart my life and be an “Abi”, I would never take it.

Because I’m proud of my “bad.”

Because I’m proud to say that I’ve been through more than the average person can even think of going through.

Because I know every single twisted, cruel part of my life was a part of God’s plan.

Because I know he chose me and crafted me to make beauty out of the darkness.

And because I know that he’s doing that in millions of other lives as we speak.

It’s because I so whole-heartedly believe that God puts his strongest into the dark and resurrects them with new, impassioned understanding to aid the world.

Otherwise, where would we be? We would have the Abi’s and the non-Abi’s. Those in the dark could stay in the dark, those in the light can stay in the light. How could that be useful in any way? The “bad” wasn’t always meant to exist, but since it’s come into existence, it’s been used to God’s advantage. He uses the “bad”, he embraces the “bad”, to change the world. So, I’m sorry to the Christians that believe that all of us are meant to be a certain type of “Abi” and anyone who isn’t an “Abi” has experienced misfortunes, but you’re so not right about us non-Abi’s. There’s no need for pity, there’s need for acknowledgment and encouragement.

I like to apply the same theory to any kid in Honduras who’s had struggles. There’s countless of children who have gone through the most grueling of things but have come out victors, influencing everyone like them to lead better lives. They’re so, SO incredibly amazing. So before you go and “pity” those kids who lived through abuse or were a part of a gang, think about appreciating them instead.

But let’s not forgot about how amazing the “Abi’s” are, either. The point of this was not to put down the “Abi’s” of the world. I’m so proud to call Abi my friend, and so proud to say she is the way she is. She has so much influence to bring to the world as well, and so much potential in different areas that I could probably never reach. My point is not to say we should all be stereotypically “bad” people, because I believe we’re all put through different situations in order to gain different passions. I just don’t think that more “good” is needed than “bad,” or that more “bad” is needed than “good.”

Whatever life God designed for you was not a mistake, it was not a lapse in judgment, it wasn’t a test that you failed. It was a perfect design for you and you only, a task that only you can carry out. No matter how perfect or terrible someone’s life may seem, their life was a perfect mold for them, completely separate from your equally-perfect mold. God creates masterpieces of all colors, and none of those colors are called “good” or “bad.”

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In the Arms of an Angel

If you’re American, I immediately expect you to think of sad puppies when you read this blog title. While I’m not about to talk about puppy deaths, I am about to talk about something pretty depressing.

Caution to all Moms: you’re about to want to move to Honduras and live out the rest of your life adopting and taking care of Honduran babies.

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So five days a week, I work in the public orphanage in San Pedro called Nueva Esperanza. I work with two sets of kids mostly: the babies and the tweenage boys. Since I already posted about my boys last week (or two weeks ago, who can really remember anyway), I thought it was time to start talking about the squishiest part of my day. I mean that in a super-cute-chubby-baby kind of way as well as a that-diaper-sure-looks-squishy-and-stinky kind of way. These squishes are the cutest little dudes known to mankind (says the extremely bias missionary). Besides just being cute, they’re also just so sweet and huggable. They’re so great they even turned me into a baby person!

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Let’s take a moment to explain how anti-baby I used to be to prove how great these kids are. On multiple family party occasions I would come across my mom trying to get me to hold one of my cousins’ babies. We all know you can’t say no to Nancy, so I’d try it out. What would happen is, I’d hold it for like five seconds and it’d start screaming or crying. Then I’d just, like, hold it out awkwardly until someone came and took it. Babies didn’t like me, I didn’t like babies. They were drooly, poopy, screamy, and just plain boring. I mean, how do you sit around a baby for hours watching it almost roll over? WOO YEAH YOU TURNED YOUR BODY 60 DEGREES THIS IS SOOOO EXCITING! Yeah, no thanks. Can we go home and play The Sims now?

You would think, since that was how I used to react to babies, that I would still be at least someone grossed out/bored of them, right? Um, no. At least not these squishes. They’re just so squishy and fun and adorable. Ugh, man, I just want to take them all home with me. They’re the best. But sitting here and writing dumb things about babies being squishy is not what I was hoping to blog about today. How I came to love babies is not nearly as important as what’s happening to these adorable squishes.

As all of our common senses know, an orphanage is not the best place for a baby to grow up. For those of us that know Nueva, we know that this particular orphanage is probably one of the worst orphanages for babies to grow up in. Given that it’s not nearly as bad as it used to be thanks to the work of ROOM, it’s still a pretty terrible place. Some of these improvements by ROOM include: setting up a program for the babies called the Scarlet Project, hiring the best nursery worker ever named Pamela (definitely not bias here either considering she’s my good friend and ride to church every week) as well as a nurse and other Tias, providing clothing, bottles, and other essentials, and moving the special needs kids to another room in order to give the kids therapy and give a play room to the babies. They’ve really made some drastic changes.

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Unfortunately, even with those giant changes, the babies of Nueva are still struggling. When I or Pamela aren’t there, the babies usually just get stuck in their cribs and aren’t given any attention. They’re fed with bottles on top of pillows, cut so that they’ll drink it faster. They wait hours in dirty diapers to be changed. Their cries are not answered. They aren’t held. Healthy babies are put into the same crib as sick babies, even if other cribs are open. They’re bathed in the same water that the mops are washed in.

ROOM’s been putting in as much work as possible to get these babies out and put into good, adoptive homes. However, the director of the orphanage won’t give her babies unless they get incredibly, terribly sick. And by that I mean, unless the baby’s about to die, he/she isn’t going to go anywhere. This issue has caused the death of a beautiful baby named Enrique. This is when we start playing the incredibly depressing “Arms of an Angel” song now. Are we all in that I-want-to-adopt-600-puppies mood yet?

enrique

This is Enrique. The picture on the right is the picture of Enrique as he came to Nueva, a healthy, premature, newborn baby. The picture on the left is Enrique three months later, malnourished from the terrible care of the orphanage. Enrique died in the public hospital a little while after that picture was taken. The babies that don’t fight, ones like Enrique, are set up to face a slow, sad death in Nueva.

So what can you do about that? What can anyone do about it if the director won’t let anyone have the babies unless they’re near death? Here’s one way to help.

scarlettnew

Let’s start with one big, giant success story.

This little girl’s name was Scarlet while she was in Nueva. She’s recently been adopted and her name has been changed. This girl is what started what ROOM calls the Scarlet Project. I met Scarlet when she was malnourished and dying like the picture on the right. I thought she was a goner. I never even knew what ROOM was. I thought much like Jenny did. Scarlet will die, there’s no way to help her.

scarlettold

But then, to everyone’s shock, we saw the picture of chunky-monkey Scarlet some months later, posted by Tara on her blog, which Jenny somehow found (Fun fact: Jenny is the one who introduced me to ROOM, meaning that one blog post basically brought me to Honduras as a long-term volunteer). They saved Scarlet’s life, a life that everyone else had given up hope on. They also gave her a family, something we all thought she’d never get the chance to have.

The Scarlet Project makes successes like this happen. They take babies that they can out of Nueva, and give them to adoptive families. They also pay to have Pamela come in and take care of the babies, as well as hired a nurse. They pay for milk, they pay for new bottles, they pay for everything they can to keep these babies alive and healthy. They fight to get them to families. They send the babies to a private hospital to get better rather than to the public hospital where they could easily die.

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The biggest savior between life and death of sick babies is being sent to a private hospital. Without enough funding (which they really don’t have the funding they need right now), the babies get sent to a public hospital. This public hospital is the same hospital Enrique died in. The public hospital will only pay attention to extreme cases, leaving sick babies to get sicker until they become extreme themselves, and die. Private hospitals deal with sick babies quickly and promptly, getting them healthy before their minor sickness becomes a major sickness. When and if babies that are abandoned get sent to the hospital, ROOM can get them sent to adoptive families.

To all my tear-filled moms out there, help save the lives of these babies. I’m not Sarah Mcsomethingorother, but please sponsor ROOM’s Scarlet Project.  With any kind of donation, you can save more than just sad puppies. You can save the lives of these precious, squishy little human beings.

You could be the difference between life and death for these kids.

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Exhaustion

I know, it’s been forever and day since my last blog post. Sorry not sorry as my roommate Jilli would say. I’ve been busy, our router was murdered in a crazy storm (thank you Tara for letting me use yours), and frankly I just haven’t been motivated. But recently, I’ve witnessed something that has made me remotivated, so hooray! Well, sort of. Hooray for being motivated, not hooray for what I witnessed. I guess I should start with some background.

Lately I’ve felt incredibly weak and exhausted. I wake up and just want to go back to sleep. Which, honestly, would not be abnormal for me if it weren’t for the fact that at no point during the day do I feel like I have energy. When I did live in the US I’d feel the same way about waking up for school, but eventually build up some energy during the day. The problem right now is that the energy is never building up – I’m just always exhausted. Of course there are plenty of reasons why I should be exhausted. I wake up around 7:30-8 every morning, I play with very undisciplined, hyper kids for most of my day, when I’m not with kids I’m doing chores, I’ve been battling lice for the past month, I’m living in 100 degree weather and not drinking nearly enough water, etc. In all honesty it makes complete sense why my body should be exhausted. And that’s what I was convinced was happening for the past few weeks. Physical exhaustion.

It was only yesterday that I realized how wrong I was. My body is fine. Sure, it’s facing some weak points with all of those factors raging against it, but it’s faced even worse exhaustion back home and I’ve still managed to store up some energy. The real exhaustion I’m feeling, the weakness that’s draining every last bit of my energy out of me, is emotional exhaustion. I’ve got a huge case of heart break unlike any I’ve ever faced before.

You see, I’ve been working (AKA playing) in a public orphanage called Nueva Esperanza for the majority of my week every week. I’ll go in anywhere from 4-6 times a week, start my day off by playing with the babies, and then going to play with the older boys after lunch. I know all the moms reading this right now are probably thinking “Yeah, babies do that to you.” Sorry moms, the babies are actually the easiest part of my day. It’s the older boys that are killing me. Well, actually not even the boys themselves that are killing me as much as the staff that looks after them.

nuevaboys

These boys range from the ages of 8-12 (except for two which are 13, but are going to be moved soon). A handful of them are from the streets, a handful of them dropped off by family, and a handful who’ve been taken away from family. Each has a separate, heart-breaking story. Now these kids are in no way “angels”. They’re extremely unruly, constantly beating up on each other, cursing, stealing, etc. I break up about 6-10 fights per day; half the time it’s play-fighting (which I will never understand how getting beat up can be “fun”), the other half of the time it’s an intense brawl between a bully and a challenger. Knowing and understanding that these kids are pretty much out of control will help you understand the Tia’s a little bit more.

A “Tia” or “Tio” is what the kids call the workers at Nueva. “Tia” means aunt in Spanish, and “Tio” means uncle. I would say at least 99% of the workers there are Tia’s. Anyway, there’s only one Tia per shift who looks after this group of 20-something older boys. Imagine being in charge of that many chaotic children. Definitely not an easy job. It makes perfect sense for these Tia’s to be more strict, tired, and cranky. From my visits, I’ve noticed that these Tia’s mostly just yell at the kids. They don’t hug, they don’t love, just yell and discipline. And I find that 95% of the time an understandable thing. The kids need discipline. They need someone to yell at them, or they won’t listen. If the Tia’s suddenly become mushy-gushy with them and go soft, all hell will break loose. I’ve come to terms that it’s ok for them to be hard and cold to the kids, as long as they let me be warm and soft to them when I visit.

The Tia’s usually really like me. When they want a break I’ll watch their room for a certain amount of time, and we’ll have casual talks every now and then. I help them break up fights, and help entertain their kids. We’re usually on pretty good terms because of that. But at the same time, they don’t like it when the kids seem overly friendly to me. For example, there’s a 9-year-old kid who’s slightly ADHD that likes to jump on me to give me hugs. I’m not a fan of it and I’ll always tell him that he needs to be calmer when he hugs me. However, the Tia’s get really angry when he does it. They’ll scream at him and tell him to get off of me and go into the other room. I mean, I get it, you can’t let the kids jump on people; but I feel like screaming at him for trying to hug me isn’t exactly necessary, especially when I’ve already told him it’s not ok. They also don’t like it when the littlest kid, who’s 8 years old, comes up to me and snuggles under my arm. It bothers me more than I can explain when they yell at him for snuggling up to me. I mean, sure, I’d understand being angry if the 12-year-olds were being extra snuggly with me, but the little picked on 8-year-old? Isn’t that a little extreme?

The worst of the worst, however, happened yesterday. I was in the older boys room when the Tia asked me to watch the exit to make sure no one ran out of the room while she checked on a boy cleaning the bathrooms inside. While she was checking on him, one of the 13-year-olds who I’ve probably grown the closest to out of all the kids and have been working the most with, sat down to talk to me. While we were talking, another boy came up and started annoying him. Of course, being the biggest and toughest in the room, the boy went to go show the kid who’s boss. He chased him down and started beating him up. I quickly followed to try to stop and break up the fight. The Tia rushed out the bathroom and screamed at the older boy, who then ran past me and out the door laughing. The Tia was furious. She then turned to me and screamed at me, “IF YOU WEREN’T HUGGING ON HIM ALL THE TIME MAYBE HE’D ACTUALLY LISTEN.”

I wanted to cry.

I wanted to scream.

I was pissed off.

EXCUSE ME? I’M THE ONLY ONE HERE THAT WILL HUG HIM.

Don’t you know he’s been on the street since he was eight? Kicked out of his house by his own parents?

Don’t you know he’s from Guatemala, chased out of his own country by gang members?

Don’t you know he’s been addicted to drugs since he was nine years old?

Do you know how badly he needs to be hugged? How madly he wants love? How hard it is for him to open up to people? How amazing it is that he feels safe enough to hug me everyday and trust me? Do you not know how hard I’ve worked to break down those walls and get those hugs?

This is what’s emotionally exhausting me. The fact that these Tia’s, while they won’t show any love on their part, won’t let me show love either. I’m not a rule breaker. I hate conflict. In fact, whenever I feel like I’m breaking someone’s rules I get a mad case of anxiety. So it’s absolutely, positively killing me that doing the right thing (loving and caring for these kids) is so unacceptable to the Tia’s. These kids are becoming scarred for life. They’re never going to be able to have a normal, healthy relationship with anyone if they’re never shown love. They’re being set up for a loveless, lonely life where they never trust anyone.

You can give me sunburn, lice, no sleep and no water. You can push my body to it’s breaking points. But none of that can really exhaust me. I know now that the only way to truly exhaust me is to break my heart over and over and over again.

Pray that the Tia’s change their attitude. Pray that even if they don’t ever love on the kids themselves, that they’ll at least let me or other visitors love them. Pray that these kids can live normal lives after they’re out of Nueva. Just pray for them. Pray for everything about their lives. Pray. Because they need it, so very badly.

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How To (Not) Save A Life

This is something I’ve been struggling with quite awhile.
If I’m being honest, I don’t know if I can even deliver this quite how I want to.
But, I’m going to anyway, so proceed with caution.

Let’s begin with one word: missionary. Most people when they hear this word think Christian going around the world talking about Jesus. But, as I’ve come to know the word, I’ve seen much more to it than just that meaning. When I hear that word I think of plenty of different people, all with different lifestyles and purposes in life. When I think of missionary I don’t enclose the word to just one religion or one gender or one specific characteristic. The only thing I think I could solo out is that they live their lives serving others – the true missionaries at least.

When I think missionaries my mind immediately goes to Honduras (shocker, I know) and my friends who live/work there. Friends like Jenny, Jilli, and Lauren. They’re hilarious, extremely fun to be around, and have amazing hearts. They’re all different, but still love and adore the same exact children. But they don’t go around preaching the word of God. I’m sure they talk about their relationship with God to the kids they deeply know and care about, but their primary focus is not preaching and moving on to the next group.

Instead, they develop relationships. They make connections, they restore trust within children, make them feel the love they deserve, mend the broken-hearted, take care of street kids and show them their worth, and so much more. They care so much about the kids, and the kids in return care so much about them. They develop a deep personal relationship with each of the kids that I hope and pray I can one day have with the kids as well.

But just because they don’t go around proclaiming the gospels doesn’t mean they aren’t missionaries. They do much more than the people who go around proclaiming the gospels could ever do. Just talking about God and leaving is never going to do anything. Maybe it could do something, but chances are it’s not going to affect anyone much.

Think about it – some stranger comes up to you who’s much richer and much better off then you. They live in a giant house and have everything they need, while you barely feed yourself on a day-to-day basis. They have a near perfect family, while yours is torn apart. Everything about them seems perfect, while everything about you feels broken. They come for a week and just talk about Jesus and his love for you, and then leave. No relationships made. You’d really listen to them and change your life around?

In my own belief (which could be wrong) I think that to be a missionary means changing the lives of people. You don’t need to talk about God, you don’t even need to be a Christian. You just have to be willing to make a difference in the lives of others. I get that, for a lot of people, this probably is contradictory to their beliefs, but it’s only true way to change or mend anybody!

In my home community one of the most frustrating things I face when I return from a trip is that after people will ask me what I did and after I list off my gigantic list of activities and with which cute children I did them with, they’ll proceed to ask if I talked about Jesus. In some cases they’ll just begin with the “how was talking about Jesus?”. To be honest, I don’t really mention Christ too much. I pray in front of the kids, I’ll tell them that God loves them and I love them on a bad day, and other little things, but I’ve never preached to anyone. But I still consider myself a part-time (because I have school and can’t be in Honduras all the time) missionary. I don’t have near enough of a deep relationship with these kids to tell them about my faith and talk about theirs. If I’m going to talk about God, I’m going to do it correctly, like I would with any of my close friends back home. I’m not going to just lay it all on someone who barely knows me. When I talk to the kids about my relationship with Him, I want it to have meaning.

So I’m sorry if I just destroyed everything you’ve held about thoughts on missionaries, but this is my belief. I hope and pray that no one is offended by this. I also hope and pray that someone out there will expand their mind on who they choose to call a missionary. I hope that this somehow brings light to what a missionary really is, and that maybe it would be more appealing to others.

Missionary
Def: Someone who takes action to change and mend the lives of the broken
Ex: Anyone. Any religion. Any gender. Anywhere. Anytime.

Jenny’s blog:
http://tchp.wordpress.com

Jilli’s blog:
http://sinquesosinmantequilla.tumblr.com

Lauren’s blog:
http://laurenv47.wordpress.com

A Special Situation

Abandoned.
Forgotten.
Alone.
Put aside.
Barely given a glance.
Pale
As if they’ve never seen the sunlight
Mocked
As if they were inadequate as humans
Left in a jungle of cribs, sometimes tied to their beds in fear and annoyance
As if wild animals.
This is no far tale.
These are the special needs kids of Nueva Esperanza.

Reginaldo

The second time I went to Honduras I spent a week in the public orphanage in San Pedro called Eden that was holding children from Nueva Esperanza, which had burned down. However, now they are now back in Nueva since it’s been rebuilt. I’ve had the privilege of getting very close to a lot of the kids there.

There’s a nursery at Nueva that holds all the special needs kids and all the babies. The conditions are horrendous. There’s only one worker for what seems like 20 babies (including a bunch of newborns) and about 10 special needs. The babies are of course, first priority. Not only do the special needs kids get put second, but they don’t seem to get much attention, at least of the loving kind, in general. They’re incredibly pale from never being outside. Their side of the nursery usually smells terrible, they sit in naked besides their dirty diapers in stain-ridden cribs all day long. Sometimes, the other kids will come in and pick on them. They call them crazy.

There’s a down-syndrome boy there named Adon who likes to pinch, and pinch hard. Because of this the workers (called tia’s) would tie him to his crib. When I was there for my first week, Adon had found a way to escape his crib and was trying to pinch all of us. A girl in my missions group blurted out,

“Would someone please put him back in his cage?”

I don’t think she really meant cage but it struck me none-the-less. These cribs were so much more like cages then cribs. They were treated as if they wild animals, when really, they’re just defenseless children.

Today in chapel one of our teachers came up and spoke to us. He started to talk about his first-born son, Charlie. He talked about his birth, how much he loves him, and all the wonderful things about him. And then he hit us with the blow. Charlie has down-syndrome. Charlie waved, happy as ever, to all of us, and then our teacher went on to talk more. He told us of a time when he was in high school and he laughed at a choir of special needs kids. His heart had been so incredibly changed by his son.

But the thing that struck me most about all of it is when he asked his 13-year-old special needs son, Charlie, to get up and sing with him. They sang “Our God Is Greater” in front of all of us. And it was probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Charlie sang, off-pitch, monotone, missing half of the words and squeaking.

But his dad looked at him with such pride and love.

His face showed nothing but absolute adoration of his son. All of us could see that our teacher couldn’t have loved his son more than he already did. At the end he showed us a montage of pictures of his beloved son, deeply smiling at every one of them. Charlie was so incredibly happy, too. It was enough to bring tears to your eyes. I had to do everything in my power not to cry when I thought of the special needs kids at Nueva.

Valentine and AnitaThere were a few from my group who had so much love for these kids. They’d hold them for hours, walk them, call them their baby, and even one of them changed an older kid’s diapers. I have so much respect for them.

But then there’s the rest of the population, like me. I can’t express how uncomfortable I am around those kids. I feel so out-of-place and I don’t give them nearly as much love as the other kids. Seeing Charlie and his dad in chapel today reminded me of how badly I needed to change. Those kids need just as much – if not more – love as the other kids.

Maybe I’m not called to serve in the special needs field, maybe I am. All I know is that I need to try, and that there needs to be a bigger group of people willing to step up and help out. There seems to be at least a small to medium interest, from what I’ve seen, to saving the kids in Honduras. But there seems to be little to none willing to save those with needs.

I know there are more people out there who have a heart like my teacher for these kids. And I know there’s some out there that don’t know it yet.

Please, please, please, anyone who is willing, fight for these kids. They need you.

“Now the body is not made up of one part but many. If the foot should say, “Because I not a hand, I do not belong to the body,” it would not for that reason cease to be part of the body. And if the ear should say, “Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body,” it would not for that reason cease to be part of the body. If the whole body were an eye, where would the sense of hearing be? If the whole body were an ear, where would the sense of smell be? But in fact God has arranged the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be. If they were all one part, where would the body be? As it is, there are many parts, but one body. The eye cannot say to the hand, “I don’t need you!” And the head cannot say the feet, “I don’t need you!” On the contrary, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and the parts that we think are less honorable we treat with special honor. And the parts that are unpredictable are treated with special modesty, while our presentable parts need no special treatment. But God combined the members of the body and has given greater honor to the parts that lacked it, so that there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoice with it.”

– 1 Corinthians 12:14-26