God was in both

The summer I turned 16, I spent two full months in rural Botswana, a landlocked country in Southern Africa. I was this city girl from Long Island who usually opted to pass a gorgeous day reading or watching TV. I had never been camping, and, quite honestly, I avoided the outdoors as much as possible. But there I was, spending eight weeks living in a tent, cooking over a campfire, and dealing with unimaginable amounts of dirt and insects—and I loved it. I remember sitting on the dirt floor of a hut constructed with mud, dung, and thatch, having a conversation with the Motswana woman who lived there.

The lines on her weathered face and hands told stories of a long and hard life.

younger-me-in-Africa

Her clothes were tattered, her shoes peppered with holes, and her simple home bare except for a few essentials. She welcomed us in warmly and apologized for not having chairs to offer us. After she served us tea, I watched her make her own using one of our already-used tea bags.

She joined us on the floor and, with the aid of a translator, we talked about following Christ. As she spoke, her smile lit up the dark, windowless home. Her face radiated joy and hope from a source deep within her, far below the surface of her outward circumstances.

This beautiful Motswana woman’s steadfast faith challenged and inspired me. I wanted my life to be marked with that same kind of unswerving trust.

I had gone to Africa with the hope of making a difference, and yet God was using Africa to make a difference in me.

So I kept going back, returning two more summers in a row. I knew that missions would be more than a short-term endeavor for me and felt God drawing me back long-term. Not because I thought I had something to offer, or wanted to do something courageous, but simply because I was convinced it was where I belonged. It felt like home. So at 19, I decided to just go and see what would happen. Because more clearly than I’d known anything in my entire life, I knew that God was calling me to live in Africa.

And regardless of how things ended 13 years later, with marriage and ministry dissolved, I still know that I followed God to Africa. Just as I know I followed Him through the painful choices to close and move back to the States.

I may be unable to reconcile God leading me to life and ministry in Africa with Him taking it all away, but—even if it's with tear-filled eyes and trembling hands—I can't deny that He was in both.

Unlike me, God was not surprised or caught off guard by the circumstances of my life. He didn't have to scramble to come up with a new plan and purpose for me. What feels to me like a “Plan B” is still the original story God is writing with my life.

While some days it’s easier to believe than others, I know that the Author and Finisher is still writing. He never needs an eraser or a backspace. He needs no editor, no second draft. He writes it perfectly the first time. And He finishes what He starts. No abandoned stories. No half-hearted attempts. He is writing my story completely. Thoroughly.

All the way to the end.

bringing hope to the hard places

I sponsor three children in Ethiopia through Food for the Hungry. I had a vague idea of what child sponsorship meant, but if I'm honest, I really had no clue how it worked. Until I had the amazing opportunity to travel to Ethiopia in July to see it all firsthand.

Food for the Hungry believes in child-focused community transformation. They measure the health of a community by the health of its children—physically, emotionally, spiritually, and psychologically. Then by meeting the children’s needs, they empower and build entire families and communities.

They focus on people, meet needs holistically, do things with excellence, and bring lasting change. And they do it all without fostering dependence. They go in to each region with an end-goal and an exit strategy. They aren’t there to be a crutch or even to provide hand-outs. They are there to build capacity and sustainability in both people and communities.

And this all happens through child sponsorship.

I discovered that my monthly support does more than directly impact the beautiful children I sponsor. Yes, it provides Chaltu, Nathinael, and Aklilu with food, medical care, and education. But as if that isn't enough, it also helps to fund the ongoing development of the communities in which they live.

Food for the Hungry works with parents, pastors, and local leaders to address the needs of the community as a whole, not just the individual sponsored children. They build schools, teach effective farming techniques, construct water and sanitation systems, train teachers, provide supplies, and develop child mentorship programs.

And as a result, children all over the world are having their lives transformed. Just like my three precious Ethiopian kids.

One of Food for the Hungry's slogans is “We go to the hard places”. And they definitely do. They took me to visit some remote villages that face seemingly insurmountable challenges. But Food for the Hungry is there, making a difference and working with the most vulnerable of children who live in inescapable poverty.

Ultimately, the greatest gift they offer is hope. Their very presence and the development work they do communicates worth, value, and significance to those who have felt long forgotten. It opens their eyes and their hearts to the love of God, and gives them hope for the future.

I feel honored and humbled to be able to play even a tiny part in the incredible work Food for the Hungry is doing around the world. Partnering with them inspires me to purposefully seek out ways I can join them in bringing hope to the hard places.

Originally published on ChristianPost.com

pleading not guilty

I was worried I'd grown numb to it. Maybe I'd become calloused. Hardened. Immune. Because poverty wasn't affecting me like it used to.

When I faced it as a teenager—on mission trips to places like Nicaragua and Botswana—my eyes and my heart were opened to things I never knew existed in the world. I was wrecked to discover such unimaginable and inescapable poverty, and it messed with me at a deep level.

I'd return home and make all kinds of extreme commitments. I vowed to be less materialistic. I took radical stances with my "self-absorbed" Christian friends. I soapboxed about America's obsession with excess. I volunteered more, and served wherever and whenever I could.

But as the aftershocks of my experiences with poverty wore off, so did my radical life changes. Until my next mission trip.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

It was a vicious cycle of the best intentions that did nothing more than fuel my need to continually strive to be better, do more, and—somehow, hopefully—be enough.

I'm not saying I didn't genuinely have compassion and conviction and passion to live a life that makes a difference. I did. But it translated into a guilt-driven reaction to the extremes I saw and experienced.

It was a nauseating roller coaster ride as I tried—and failed—to reconcile the poverty I witnessed with the life I lived everyday and to bridge the disparity between my abundance and their lack.

It was years after I moved to South Africa to serve in the poorest region of the country that I finally realized that those things can't be reconciled or bridged. The contrasts will never make sense.

And I mustn't allow my guilt to force-feed my insatiable striving complex. Nor must I allow it to paralyze me into inactivity or apathy.

I had finally learned to step off the roller coaster and actually engage in doing something that would truly make a difference. Not fueled by guilt, but by hope.

I realized that it isn't about being apologetic for what I have, giving everything away, or looking down on how much people spend at Starbucks. It is about stewarding what I have well, using it to serve, strengthen, and love others.

People often ask me how I could live and work for so long in a community of such dire poverty. "Do you just get used to it?" What they are really asking is the same thing I've asked myself: "Did you grow numb?"

And I see now that I didn't. But somewhere in my 13 years of living in Africa, something did change in me.

I stopped feeling guilty about what I had and the "luck" of being born an American, and I started to feel grateful to be part of the solution.

The problems and challenges are enormous, but we can all do something that makes a difference. In our own unique ways, with our own individual passions and talents, we can bring hope into places and hearts that gave up a long time ago.

Not because we feel guilty, but because we are compelled by the hope we ourselves have been given.

What's been your experience with responding to poverty? How can we move past guilt into being part of the solution?

{photos by Daniel White}

more than money

Bona is 17. When I met him in Ethiopia last week, I was immediately caught up in his handsome face and soul-stirring smile. Hearing his story and heart only endeared him to me even more.

His mom passed away when he was in first grade, and his dad died last year. There was a visible sadness in his eyes as he talked about loneliness, his older brother living several hundred kilometers away.

The social worker bragged on Bona for a bit. He is first in his class. In fact, he's been first in his class throughout his entire school career. Bona smiled, and I know his heart must have swelled in that moment, hearing all of us say how proud we are of him.

He's been sponsored through Food for the Hungry for five years. With their help and the grace of God, he's pressed on with perseverance and hope in the face of countless difficulties.

Next year, Bona ages out of the sponsorship program. All kids do at age 18. Food for the Hungry will continue to help him with his educational costs and supplies as he goes on to university. He wants to be a doctor, and he has the grades and the drive to actually do it.

I asked Bona how he feels about his sponsorship coming to an end next year. He told me that he really appreciates the tangible benefits of his sponsorship, but wishes he felt more connected to his sponsors. He said he feels as though he's missed out on the relationship aspect of sponsorship. "I wish they would write to me more. And even send me pictures of themselves. I don't even know what they look like."

Man, that hit me like a ton of bricks. Up front, we think the biggest commitment is the $32 a month. But ultimately, writing the monthly check is the easy part. And that's not even what the child is most hoping for. They want to feel connected—like they belong.{Don't we all?}

They don't just want our money. They also want our love and affection. They care more about the letters, notes, and pictures we send because those make them feel loved, cared about, and valued.

I felt so challenged and inspired in that moment to write to my sponsored kids more frequently, and to send pictures of myself, my family, my city, and things I enjoy. That takes more time and effort than writing a check, but these kids are worth it.

If you have sponsored children—through any organization—make some time this week to strengthen your relationship with them. Write a letter. Print some photos. Have your kids draw some pictures. And put a reminder on your calendar to do it again next month. And the month after that.

Let's not just be generous with our finances. Let's be generous with our hearts and our time.

For that's the most life-changing sacrifice we can make.

Originally posted on Deeper Story. Read the comments there >

give hope

My trip to Ethiopia was my first opportunity to experience a Christian relief and development organization working in a Muslim region. I wondered how those dynamics would play out, and my questions got answered when I visited three kids who live by themselves in the village of Abossa.

Sixteen-year-old Mehiret cares for her sister Lidia (age 14) and brother Bedilu (11). Their dad died ten years ago; their mom, 4 years ago. Both passed away from AIDS, and all three kids are HIV+. At age 12, Mehiret was left alone to raise her siblings.

In the Muslim community in which they live, the children were treated as outcasts. The stigma of HIV is still strong: the kids weren't permitted to share community bathroom facilities. People refused to share meals or even household utensils and supplies with them.

These beautiful children battled not only the loss of both parents and the need to fend for themselves, but also the rejection of the very community in which they lived.

At one point, Lidia couldn't take it any more. She stopped going to school and refused to take her ARVs (HIV medication). She just wanted to die.

Then Food for the Hungry entered the scene.

Two years ago, FH launched their child-headed household program, stepping in to meet the unique needs of orphans left to live on their own. In addition to providing their food, medical care, and education, FH also takes care of their clothing needs and living expenses. They stand in as family, taking the kids on vacations over holidays and school breaks. They provide legal support to ensure the children receive the inheritance and government funding available to them. They even built them a more adequate house—with its very own bathroom facility.

The community couldn't help but notice all that FH was doing. They saw physical needs being met, but also that FH staff weren't afraid to hug and love these children.

The evangelical response of Food for the Hungry stood in stark contrast to the community's, and it entirely transformed the Muslim village's approach toward the children.

These days, the kids are doing amazingly well. They are excelling at school, and dreaming for the future. The two girls want to become teachers, and Bedilu hopes to get his pilot's license.

Lidia shared that because of the love and support of FH, she is a completely different person today than the hopeless girl who wanted to die two years ago.

Because sometimes hope comes in the form of "forbidden" hugs, adopted-family vacations, and the construction of a bathroom.

Give hope >

{Thank you, David Molnar, for the amazing photographs and a lifetime worth of puns crammed into one week.}