The truth, the unknown, and the maybes that hide in between

“And then, God takes his toothbrush and just (enthusiastic scrubbing sounds) on our hearts!” the indomitable Axel Flores informed us with enthusiasm.

“Correct!” I said with a delighted laugh, helpless in the face of child-like logic. “And what else does God do to help us when we stumble and fall? What was his plan to take us up to heaven with him, even though sometimes our hearts get dirty?”

Chimes of, “Jesus! He sent Jesus!” filled our slightly-uncomfortably-heated-and-smelling-a-little-like-a-sweaty-Axel-Flores room. Some spontaneous applause joined in with giddy laughter as we looked around at each other, feeling quite pleased with ourselves.

Every Thursday night, Group 3 of Kids Adelante completes me. To quote an equally overly quoted line from that same movie, ‘they had me at hello.’ And now, after six months, they continue to right every wrong in my unbalanced world…

A few weeks ago, a best friend of mine took his own life. When he did, he took a part of me with him. I don’t want that piece of my heart back because I could never bear to give it to another, but I would gladly give my own breathe, my own heartbeat, to have Ryan walk back through my front door and into my arms again. I’m still entirely broken. I’m still desperate for a different reality every morning. But I’m still here.

I’ve lost someone I never thought I’d have to live without. I’ve also realized I was sent these little angels to carry me through. Like they say, when God closes a door, He opens a window. I can see the light streaming through, but it seems so high. I just don’t know how to find my way to it on my own…Maybe all my babies are here to teach me how to fly.

Rest in Peace, my darling. You'll be in my heart forever and for always.

We're all one phone call from our knees...

With each dirt-streaked tear, each faithless stumble, each heart-led fall, my head spins as all-consuming questions begin to layer in a desperately chaotic search for more. Sometimes, the answers I uncover aren’t enough to satisfy me. Sometimes, they aren’t what I want to believe is true. And sometimes, I still just don’t understand.

When I was younger, I couldn’t comprehend that the world was constantly spinning even if I stood still. So I would twirl myself in unrelenting circles; when I paused, the earth would make its rumored turns around me. With that, I was appeased.

I couldn’t fathom why, beneath the scientific explanations and logical conclusions, the sky was blue. So I would lie on my back, close my eyes, and think deeply about other colors replacing that which is accepted; when I opened my eyes again, I realized that I simply wouldn’t want the sky to be any other shade even if it could be painted over. Yet again, I was appeased.

And now, after all these years, the world is still spinning and the sky is still blue. But now, I’m not asking why it’s true; I’m asking how it’s true. How is it that this earth continues to make its rounds when a best friend, a beautiful soul, a man like none before, has departed? How is it that the sky is filled with its age-old, limitless color when my own life has gone to black and white without the person who filled it with shining light and glorious hues?

Ryan, I can't explain big the hole is that you created inside me when you decided to leave us because I’m honestly shattered. I don't know how I’m going to put my own life back together because when I realized your arms will never wrap around me again, my heart exploded with the terror, the grief, and the unfathomable. You were a slave to circumstance, yet another victim to the casualties of time. The chains were suffocating, and the masters of pain and fear were closing in on you. But baby, we all would have willingly locked ourselves into that darkened place next to you if you had just given us another chance. Together, through laughter and hope and love, we would have fought back the shadows. We would have linked arms, allowing our friendship to be the only chains holding us together.

And so my darling, together we cry. We cry for the incredible man who held his head high for so long. We cry for the lonely world that is now deprived of a mesmerizing soul. We cry for you Ryan.

Your heart will never leave this place that you were so desperate to escape from; I will forever hold it in my own. Thank you for the privilege of being apart of your life. I love you. I miss you. I’ll see you on the other side my love, my sweet, my friend.

Past and Precedence

There’s this place I get trapped in sometimes, this bizarre and inexpressible chasm my mind creates after sleep yet before awake. My dream begins to break up into over-exposed images flashing in random sequence. The underlying message of my unconscious wandering dulls as clipped pictures pass by effortlessly and I am powerless to register any information beyond the emotions each scene evokes. A noiseless, shapeless drone quickly approaches with an increasingly loud murmur that means absolutely nothing and still significantly something. I wake up in a state of dim confusion, questioning the pieces of my life that are slowly falling back into place. To be honest, I often greet the day with little concept of past, present, or future. Countless hours have been spent navigating such an in-between, recollections merging with potential experiences and distant moments colliding with rapidly approaching decisions.

A memory of undignified laughter lifts the corners of a dormant smile as my heart skips a beat in sympathy of such a moment; The way my happiness bubbled from deep within a secret place, moving forward at an unsurpassed speed with insurmountable force. The way my body shook with the effects of such pure joy, the trembles traveling straight through me, supercharging my soul. The way my tears of joy re-routed the dirtied, pain-filled streaks made by tears of regret, disappointment, and fear.

A memory of my dad skipping stones on a lazy river soars through my mind with uncanny detail; The way a vivid blue sky framed by fragrantly green trees made an expressive outline of his fatherly presence. The way unadulterated awe expanded in my young soul with each elegant, chaotic hop of his delightfully rounded rock. The way I stood, gangly limbs and ponderous expression, as I wondered whether my stone would always sink after an explosive splash or if someday my humble attempts would also yield faultless ripples, one after the other in perfectly rapid succession, as his always did.

At every turn, I run my fingers across the rough surfaces of my life that angle into the unknown. At every corner, I pause to catch my breath before whipping onto the adjoining path, prepared to scramble over the cracks, around the looming challenges, and past the beautiful things lining the way. And with each fleeting day, I sacrifice bits of my ever-shortening time to the memories; Memories of hellos, goodbyes, and bridges burned. Births, deaths, and the blinding light of life in between. Failed recipes, forgotten ingredients, and lessons learned from each mistake...

I don’t know where I’m going and sometimes, I wish I could erase where I’ve been. I suppose I can only content myself with the knowledge of where I am, and the blessing of something as simple as that.

And the World Turns.

             The scene was a simple one; kids playing with all their usual exclamations, the sky an open window, and my heart content. I had an eager, clammy hand pulling me wherever the fleeting whims of its owner led us and a destination that was certainly open for interpretation by the little ones who could override my every intention with a smile. My companions propelled me forward in the hurried manner of children that have no place to be, but are determined to reach that place with all haste. On our way past the brightly colored classrooms doubling as temporary bedrooms, those not party to our explorations called out a greeting and threw their arms to the blue skies in an enthusiastic hello. In return, the girls by my side would chant along with me as we practiced the Princess Wave, ‘Elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist. Touch your pearls and blow a kiss!’ It didn’t take long for giggles to become the only sound we could manage as skips and excited little hops accentuated our walk. Before long, a small head popped over the wall with curious eyes, checking out the commotion. ‘Cici!’ the tiny boy exclaimed, using my nickname. ‘Durga sweetheart, come!’ I exclaimed right back, my arm already out in preparation for his bony limbs wrapping halfway around me in a hug that always makes my heart smile. He shook his head in a decline but all the while, a wide grin stayed glued to his face. I walked over only to discover that he was changing into his school uniform. I backed away and said in brief, adapted English, ‘Okay, I wait.’ As he changed, that same wide grin kept me smiling, and my love for him swelled as he kept his eyes on me to make sure I didn’t leave him. Within seconds, he had skittered down the steps to my side. Even though I would have fought tooth and nail to keep him in my arms he was soon off to play without a backward glance, as boys are wont to do.

I cannot fathom an explanation, but this moment has kept me company every minute since being home. I think about little Durga constantly; the way he would stand by the porch where our team gathered, a blanket wrapped around his small frame and a face begging for attention just as it used to beg for food on the streets before he was carried to New Life, carried home; the way he was always the last child to give into yawns and heavy eyes, and the first to raise his hand with the sign of love on his fingers. I wonder if he lays awake some nights curled into his faded little mat on the classroom floor, the chilly air biting at his sun-soaked skin, while a multitude of other noises pierce the stillness and fade into the blackness unaccounted for. I wonder if he glances around at the dark shapes of his brothers, his friends, and thinks about the shadows of his past that came for him in the night. I wonder if he remembers how his parents tried to protect him before the world got through their defenses…It breaks my heart that he doesn’t fall asleep to hummed lullabies or soft goodnight kisses on the cheek. It tears me apart that he is still only one of hundreds of millions of babies facing the darkness on their own. It leaves me lost that I am helpless in the face of this disgusting part of humanity.

Memories of India drown me. Their tides determinedly pull at the frayed ties between a recent past and my diluted present. Their depths flood the fragile recesses of my soul, where I tenderly battle their invasion…memories as fleeting as the whisper of a child’s breath as she falls asleep cradled in my arms; as the hint of a stifled message that lies hidden behind dark eyes with no point of escape. Memories as insistent as the tug of a little one’s heart on mine; as the words that crowded my mind, fighting for a way to be understood by the people who stole my every breath; as the power behind loving a stranger in a way that terrifies, satisfies, and entirely captivates. Memories so disorienting that they make me lose my way; they overwhelm my mind and heart; they persuade me to believe that without it, I am misplaced. I am nothing. They wash over me until the stars blinking above me combine in swirling chaos, transforming into the beautiful light that a single place, a single person, brought to my life. The effect is staggering. I forget where I’m going and instead, my body moves toward the magnetic pull of a distant home. I am forced to wrap myself in my own embrace, enclosing the abrupt pain of losing them all…

I don't know how to pray when all I can do is plead. I don't know how to forgive when all I can do is condemn the world for standing by as these children go to bed hungry, alone, and anonymous. I just don't know.

With each new day...

Every morning in this conflicted land only serves to further entangle my every thought, prayer, and heartbeat. I can pick up the scent of Indian air on my arm as I lay curled up in my complimentary airplane blanket, the rays of consciousness just beginning to pierce my sleeping mind. Distant whisperings from the hearts I have come to love gently pull me into this world. When I gather the courage to open my eyes and greet the rapidly approaching day, I am warmed by the sight that tightens its grip on my soul with each passing dawn. Lined up across the window, their precious faces pressed against the glass and their imploring fingers cupping all-seeing eyes, the little ones that have filled my tomorrows watch and wait for us to rise. They excitedly report each new development, repeatedly whispering our names to themselves in the hopes that it will hurry us to their arms.

Their love leaves me broken. Their loyalty is something neither valiant leader nor great king has ever experienced. Their every breath fills me with shining truth. I have never before felt so exposed, so convicted, or so entirely unworthy than during my time here. Since we have but a few sentences of mutual understanding, our surface communication has been limited to greetings, thanks, and ‘I love you’. I can no longer hide behind my qualifications or my lengthy explanations. They simply look at my face and know. I can no longer impress with my resume, or contort my character with words to seem more appealing to the untrained eye. They see directly through the maze I have surrounded myself with. Because of this, I honestly believe that without feeling obligated to fill the space between us with accounts of our life experiences, lessons learned, hopes and dreams, success and failures, the very core of our beings closes the distance and intertwines our spirits. It is a connection that surpasses explanation. It is a breathtaking moment that I think God delights in, when a heart just as it was created meets another of its kind.

The constancy and comfort of my Johnson County life has no place here. I am astounded by the resolute and resounding acquiescence to the object of survival; if one’s in a hurry, it is no problem to simply form another lane on the wrong side of the road. Stop signs are ignored, personal space irrelevant, and all American senses of propriety, time, and social cues completely disregarded. This is a place that tears down my safety net entirely, leaving me raw and impulsive. Being so alive, so real, has been a pleading prayer of mine for the longest time. It is almost painful to realize that upon arriving home, the walls are sure to go back up if I let them. But I plan to fight it with all that I am. I want these unparalleled children to forever have a place beyond barriers, no matter the tears and hurt that comes with that vulnerability. They have pried open my heart with undeserved tenderness. I take so much in my life for granted, but that honor is something that will resound for all eternity.

They called it love...and now I know it's love.

Her name is Lakshmi. She has a smile that begins with a sparkle in her eyes and ends with a giggle that touches my soul. Her hand fits perfectly in mine and her heart was made to pull me into its beauty. We wander the grounds of the New Life Children’s Home arm in arm, much of the time spent with her nervously checking every few minutes to make sure I still remember her name. When we see my father, she turns to me with an impish grin and exclaims, “My father!” No matter how many times this exchange occurs, I can’t help but laugh and reply in protest, “No! My father!” We argue back and forth until finally we agree that he is our father, and that makes us sisters. It is a conclusion that never fails to delight us both.

This world is unlike any I have ever known. It is vibrant. It is insistent. It is alive. From my diluted perspective it seems that each moment is a raw fight for survival. The rickshaw drivers run with the weight of their family, their homes, and their lives on their backs. They make the choice between earning money for the present and cutting their life expectancy in half with the slow death of suffocating manual labor. The beautiful people that face abject poverty every day make the choice to build their shelter out of dried palm leaves, knowing that any moment their decision may end their lives in a fury of flames. In a matter of seconds, one spark could literally bring their lives crashing down on top of them. The darling children who press themselves against me, their stomachs swollen from malnutrition and their eyes unsure of what I have come for, have all had to make the choice between allowing their thirst to overcome them or to drink from the filthy water sources that are responsible for 80% of sickness worldwide. These are the realities that have sliced open the bubble of happiness that has surrounded me since being here. Thankfully, my blessed relief has come in the form of the children that have been rescued from these harsh realities.  When they tug at my hand, I feel a welcomed tightening on my heart. God is good.

This morning we began our journey to reach villages that Wells for Life has recently brought clean water to. The car window created a frame for the flashing insights into injustices, triumphs, and realities. I felt torn between our celebrated destination and my burning desire to know the story behind hooded eyes and veiled pain. The landscape rose towards the heavens in layers of color-rich rice paddies and palm trees embracing the sky, mountains that seemed alive enough to move, and perfectly muddied waters reflecting the entire breathtaking scene. It never ceases to amaze me that such beauty could be intertwined with a part of God’s creation I will probably never understand.

My bag is lost somewhere in the world, condemned to roam for an unknown amount of time. The clothes on my back are borrowed while the dust and smell of this land are beginning to coat my skin. My heart aches with the love I have experienced and the suffering I have witnessed in this provocative country.

The past few days have been entirely indescribable. But as is my style, I will no doubt do my best to describe the indescribable over the next few weeks, though I have braced myself for failure. Please pray for us as we experience the joy of God’s love with the incredible people of India.

So long, farewell, adieu to yieu and yieu and yieu.

In the spirit of Christmas (or, more accurately, the spirit of almost-Christmas...but let’s not get complicated) I have a question, a relatable situation, and a point to make. And now, let me call your attention to the first order of business.

Question: Do you recall the part in The Grinch Stole Christmas when our furry green friend began to list Who enemies from the Whoville phonebook? It went something like this, “Aardvark Who, I HATE YOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUU!!! Next Who, I hate you!” Very reminiscent of his equally stinky and bitter cousin, Oscar the Grouch, the Grinch peruses the page, all while assigning a variety of angry feelings to each name. He continues with, “Hate, hate, hate, double hate,” and now for the finale, “LOATHE ENTIRELY!!!” (If you would like a reminder of this scene: www.youtube.com/watch?v=hbNglJqHvCQ&feature=related)

Relatable situation: Although I tell the kids not to use the word ‘hate’ directed at anyone or anything, I am about to break my rule for the sake of this argument. Anyway, back to the relatable situation. I cannot entirely understand the Grinch’s animosity towards the Whos, as I myself have never even remotely disliked a Who. On the contrary, I have always found them quite agreeable. However, the one thing that does fill me with vengeful emotions is something as seemingly pain-free as a goodbye. To paraphrase the Grinch’s format, ‘Disgusting vegetables, I HATE YOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUU!!! Early mornings, I hate you! Hate, hate, hate, double hate. And goodbyes? LOATHE ENTIRELY!!!’ Simply put, good-byes have never, and probably will never, be easy for me. I cried for half an hour when my two goldfish, Marcus and Mia, died even though I hadn’t even owned them for 24 hours. And I kept them in my freezer until I could give them a proper Viking burial. But my mom threw them away before I could do so. And then I cried some more. I just couldn’t bid them farewell. When I have to part with friends or family, I’ve reverted to the ‘See you later’ line because that other word is like a furry tongue filling my mouth.

Point: I just said good-bye to 60 beautiful children. For five weeks, I won’t laugh with them or cry with them. I won’t learn with them or learn from them. I won’t hold their precious faces in my hands or secure a quick hug before they slip through my arms again. To be honest, it’s devastating. I have always thought life was best spent roaming and floating from place to place, person to person. But I have never been so happy than with these kids, grounded. For some reason, a line from Peter Pan keeps redirecting my thoughts; “Never say good-bye...because good-bye means going away and going away means forgetting.” Is that what scares me about good-bye? Do I simply refuse to acknowledge change, and the horrifying possibility of forgetting even a second? Maybe I’m just terrified that I myself am the forgettable one.

Then I realized something. Good-bye is just a word. A word that represents separation. But it never means that I’m apart from the overwhelming emotion, the beautiful awakening, and the enveloping love that came before the good-bye. So even if the next five weeks away from all my kids turned into forever, even if I never got to hear Gaby’s laugh again, or watch Octavio say his memory verse, or compare nail polish with Jazmin, all of those things would be buried deep in my heart, ready to resurface at any moment. Those memories aren’t lost with good-bye. So for now, all’s well in my soul.

Just a little girl time. No big deal.

Oh Octavio :) Way too precious for words!

Ashley and Perla, Sweet Pea #1 and Sweet Pea #2!