Kim's Compassion: World Cup Fun

I am not a big sports fan...

But I do have a favorite athlete.

Her name is Luz Maria and she is a soccer star!

During our visit to Honduras last month, we had the amazing opportunity to watch our sponsored child play in a soccer tournament. How many sponsors get to do that?? It was amazing to get to step into Luz Maria's life and see all of the beautiful facets of her life--including this intense, athletic side.

Soccer (or futbol) is huge in Honduras. The "cancho" was packed with adults and children who came out to watch the tournament. Girls and boys teams competed.

Right now, the entire Latin world is consumed in World Cup fever. Jerseys, backpacks, wrist bands, and even calendars featuring World Cup teams are in high demand. On game nights, the streets empty as fans go in to watch their home team represent their country.

Do you have a soccer fan in your Compassion family? I am sure that a letter about the World Cup would be a big hit! Be sure to include some of these fun, free printables.

http://www.activityvillage.co.uk/world-cup-for-kids

Big Girls (and boys) DO cry...

There were times when she was a little girl...no mistaking it.

Her girlish enthusiasm...

 Playing soccer with the little boys...

Making faces and sticking stickers...

Chasing the missionary's son around the church for a petty insult...

And there were times when she was a woman.

Beside her father's grave...

Walking the long road to the project...

Filling out the pink dress...

I came to Honduras to be there for her quinceanera, the Honduran cultural portal into womanhood. I've seen enough birthdays to know that there is no magical transformation that occurs. Fourteen and fifteen look pretty much the same. We don't grow in years; we grow in seconds, minutes, days.

I haven't been able to spend many of those growing moments with Luz; I haven't watched her slowly blossoming into womanhood day by day. And yet I feel like, in more ways than one, Luz's quince was just what it should have been.

I think she will look back on that day as a dividing point in her life.

There were a lot of lessons learned, I think; big girl lessons.

She walked all the way to Gracias Friday morning to have the beautiful curls flat-ironed out of her hair. By the time she made it home and to the church Friday at 5, ringlets were already curling around her face. Nothing is perfect.

With the party set to begin in thirty minutes, she was alone. Her mother and sisters were no where to be found. With the help of Yessi, our translator, I helped her into the pink dress...a little snug. Sometimes, you have to take a deep breath before you zip a lovely dress. And hold it. And it is totally worth it.

We took photos...glamor shots on the flower lawn, avoiding cow pies. She was thirsty, but didn't want to drink too much. How would she fit in the bathroom?!? It's never like it is in the movies; the practical is always present.

It was six o'clock. The party should have started thirty minutes ago. Jonathan and I took her to the side for a last talk. All to soon it would be goodbye. Sometimes, words can't express what you feel...so many things are left unsaid...and it is okay. Sometimes the heart speaks.

Her family arrived a good hour after the party should have started in the back of a pickup truck. Luz's mother came with a grocery stack full of homemade tamales. The little room where Luz was waiting was suddenly full of women, rearranging hair and eating an impromptu dinner. The project workers, tutors, sisters, "aunts"...every girl needs strong women in her life.

 

 

The time came. I climbed the stone stairs in the twilight, catching a last lonely glimpse of Luz in the dusk, waiting for her moment. It was to be her entrance. 120 people were waiting inside. Sometimes, every eye is on you.

The music started. She didn't come through the door. Later, Yessi replayed the moment. As Canon in D began to echo across Villa Verde, Luz let out a gasp of tears. "Papa," she sobbed. He wasn't there. And he would never be again. Sometimes, you close a book at the worst moments.

Propelled in by Yessi, she walked as if in a dream. She looked so elegant...more of a princess than I have ever seen in my life. She looked straight forward. I'm not sure she breathed the whole time. A brief smile flickered my direction as she passed my table. Sometimes, you have to play the part when you don't feel like it.

The production went on. Prayer, speeches, even a sermon...and then elements of the quince celebration. The changing of flat shoes for heels is usually done by the father. It was tender moment when Luz's strong, hardworking mother took her dead husband's place and changed Luz's flats for her Cinderella heels. Tears for both of them...growing up isn't easy.

And the dance, for the father and daughter. My husband Jonathan, who is no dancer, had practiced the waltz all week like a schoolboy. He begged her to stand up. She finally took his hand. She only looked at him twice. He watched her face the whole time. In princely fashion, he managed to twirl her three times...this American godfather, her padrino, who came from a world away for this moment. Sometimes, family isn't just blood. It's who chooses to be part of your life.

Soon the ceremony was over. I saw Luz breathe. For the first time all night, I saw a butterfly. She floated from table to table, visiting her guests, accepting gifts. She never sat down during the meal. Sometimes, you would rather talk than eat.

At last, it looked like a party. People began dancing. Luz's charming brother Drolvin took a bus for hours to be there...to meet Jonathan and me...he was fresh out of the hospital for dengue fever. He was the smoothest dancer I have ever seen. All around, Luz's family was paired up. They were together, and they were happy...all of them. And sometimes a party is simply all the people you love most on the earth together in one room.

And then it was time. The guests began to leave. Luz's mother cried...in her few words, "Gracias para todos," I read much more. She had not had to do this night alone. You can do anything if you have a hand to hold.

Oh, Luz. Sweetest of hearts, ending her big night with us in a sorry huddle of tears. Nothing can make goodbye better, even if it is just for a little while. Love hurts...but it is worth it.

Jonathan cried the most after he heard that Luz had no time to change when she got downstairs. She was herded into the back of Pastor Modesto's pick-up truck, dress and all. He thought of her walking in the dark, up the rocky path, across the creek...a true Cinderella, sobbing her way home. Every Cinderella has a midnight, and a real prince cries thinking about her (even if he is just a padrino).

These are all lessons of womanhood...lessons you learn from the reality of life. Girlish hopes and dreams fade into the beauty of expecting real life...messy, unpredictable, but full of moments that no fairy tale could rival.

I wanted to see a girl become a woman. In so many ways, the woman was already there. I came to Honduras sorry for Luz...sorry for her long walk, her poverty, her dead father...and I left confident that Luz would be okay. I left knowing that inside of Luz Maria is a strong, loving, hardworking young woman who can handle real life--with all of its nuances. I left knowing that there is still girl enough in her to dream and to pursue a better future.

I left knowing that there can never be a time when our family lets go of her hand...not to always lead her, but to walk beside her with love and encouragement for her life.

I Need a Man for Jesus...

When my little Benjamin is a man, how will I know it?

Will he be a man when he is 6 feet tall?

When he stops sucking his thumb and dragging his blanket?

When he can hit a homerun in baseball?

When he gets married?

When he becomes a believer in Christ?

When he learns how to support a family?

How will I know? Better yet, how will he know when he has passed from being a child to a man?

In Honduran culture, a young girl passes into adulthood at her fifteenth birthday, whether she is ready or not. We made the trip to Honduras to be with Luz Maria for this moment of passage.

But for a young man, the line is more obscure. I have been haunted by this, somewhat--most especially because of the impact it may have on our sweet girl. This has been on my husband's mind even more so than mine. In the days we were in Honduras, he developed a very fatherly love for Luz Maria--a love that is jealous for her integrity, the "rip-your-arms-out-of-their-sockets-if-you-touch-her"  kind of love.

We learned something quickly. In Honduras, a man is not measured by his integrity, his maturity, by a test of skill, or by his ability to provide for his family. Manhood happens when a young boy has sex with a young woman for the first time. Horrified, we learned that many fathers take their young sons to brothels to lose their virginity. The fathers wait outside until the deed is done, wait to welcome their son into manhood. It is not uncommon in the least for 16 and 17 year old men to have several young children.

This custom is perpetuated further by the mothers and grandmothers of the community, who offer their daughters to men of any age and even encourage their daughters to become pregnant. This is not so that the daughter will get married and leave the nest, per say; this is to produce grandchildren. In our minds, grandchildren mean more mouths for the poor families to feed; in their minds, grandchildren mean security in their old age. We heard the story of a young man who left his impregnated girlfriend. The young girl's mother was exultant. She said "He got what he wanted, and we got what we wanted." Often, older men will have teen "wives" in numerous villages, committed to none. It is a sad problem. In fact. most families in these rural parts of Honduras are not the result of marriage, because couples never actually get "married." There is little or no commitment involved, little or no security.

I am worried for the young ladies in the rural villages of Honduras. I am worried because the measure of a man must be more than virility. These young men must be taught to be good husbands, good fathers, and ultimately, good, godly, men. They need to learn Biblical romance and devotion. It is more than a social matter; it is a spiritual matter. What they believe about marriage will ultimately have an impact on what they believe about Christ's devotion to His church...His bride.

In Christ, we see a groom who sacrifices all for His bride. He desires her absolute purity and holiness. It is a relationship of commitment, devotion, and love.

Sadly, most of the families that we encountered in Honduras had seen nothing but abandonment, betrayal, and abuse.

What can be done? God wants to raise up a generation of young men who are after His heart...a generation of young men who model their lives on the Lord's standards for life and love. And He wants the same for His young women...a generation who prepare themselves as His bride, clothed in purity.

These young people need encouragement and TRUTH poured into their lives. They need strong teaching and strong role models. Even now in Villa Verde, the youth group at Monte de Sion Christian Church has regular meetings that encourage the young people to live counter-culturally. People are needed to come along beside them as encouragers and role models for these young people. I know that in my letters to Luz, I am going to talk to her about the tough issues. I am going to talk to her about purity, about setting standards for marriage. I am going to tell her that I want to be there on her wedding day--that I believe it can happen for her, that God has great things in store. I am going to encourage her to be strong when temptation is near, encourage her to focus her heart on the lover of her soul.

This is Jesus Antonio, whom I met in Honduras. Jesus Antonio is 12 years old and from a broken home--a very poor home. He has no father in the picture. In a few years, he will be making decisions about his manhood. He will decide who he should model his life after. Right now, he has no sponsor. He has no one to encourage him, no one outside of his community who cares what decisions he makes or what his future will be like. You can change all of that for Jesus Antonio today. It is my heart to see a man step up to be a mentor for Jesus Antonio...someone who will walk beside him and teach him to be a man after God's heart. Because a man after God's heart will seek a woman after God's heart, and together, the two of them will be a model of love and devotion for a whole community and generation to follow. One couple could change the momentum for the youth in Villa Verde--one couple with the courage to live and love for Christ.

Jesus Antonio, right (Luz's brother Daniel in the center!)

Hope in a Plastic Sack

"Mother Teresa, whose sisters in Calcutta run both a hospice and a clinic for leprosy patients, once said, 'We have drugs for people with diseases like leprosy. But these drugs do not treat the main problem, the disease of being unwanted. That's what my sisters hope to provide.' The sick and the poor, she said, suffer more from rejection than material want. 'An alcoholic in Australia told me that when he is walking along the street he hears the footsteps of everyone coming toward him or passing him becoming faster. Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty.'

One need not be a doctor or miracle worker to meet that need."

 

--Philip Yancey, The Jesus I Never Knew

 

 

Our missionary host, at the end of the week, told us, "I don't really think construction was your thing."

 

True statement, for real. The job we did could probably have been done quicker and better by two Honduran men.

 

Looking at the work we did with VBS, I have to be honest and say that it could have been a lot better. We weren't as organized or well-prepared as we could have been. The project staff could have done it all much better.

 

In other words, our team was not a team of professionals. We all have our gifts of course, but even our gifts were hard to share because of the language barrier. But as Philip Yancey so eloquently said, there are some things that do not require you to be a professional. I would venture to say that there are also things that don't require a spoken language.

 

You might say that our money in traveling to Honduras would have been better spent if we had just sent it to the church. For sure, the airfare alone could have put a new roof on the church--something that is desperately needed. Why, when our money could have such an impact, do we go to places like Honduras?

 

There is something that we can offer, some need that we can meet--and I believe it to be a need that is far more deep and desperate than anything money can buy.

 

It is a need for hope.

 

Let's be honest...if anyone knows hope, it is Americans. We are born believing that we can do anything and be anything that we want. We are nursed on the great American dream. We are taught to make a way, to pull ourselves up by our proverbial bootstraps. We are fed on stories of the settlers, the pioneers, the founding fathers. We are educated to know that the world is big, bright, and full of possibilities. We see and hear wonders of technology, we search out depths of emotion through music, literature and art, we marvel at medical breakthroughs. Our imagination and ingenuity know no limits. We put man on the moon! I can share a little of this hope. I was born and raised to believe in hope--and my relationship with Jesus Christ has taught me a true, real, lasting hope.

 

There are places where such ideas are as foreign as I am. Places where you are born knowing that you are nothing...taught that you have no value, no place, and no purpose...nursed on the rusty tin can of despair, taught to submit to the yoke of poverty. You are fed on stories of disease, oppression, and injustice. Education, physical health, and possibilities are for the elite. You eat from the trash, dress from the trash, and die in the trash. It is horrible, but it is true. In some places, life does not have value. We put man on the moon, while they put men in the grave--children in the grave. And the hope of Christ falls on ears deaf to the sound of it.

 

We met a little girl in Honduras. When I first saw her, she was playing on the seesaw. I thought she was a boy. Yes, she had on a pink shirt, but she also wore a black knit ski hat. 

She had the demeanor of a kicked puppy--quiet, always shying away. She did her crafts carefully, as though she were afraid of making a mistake...no confidence.

 

I asked about her. Yessi, our translator, reported back to our group at dinner that night. This little girl, we discovered, is named Maria Bernarda. She lives with her mother and her stepfather. Her Compassion child profile will tell you her birthday...that she likes to jump rope and play with dolls. And you will see this photo of a sweet little princess.

 

But what the profile can't show you is the little girl, shaved bald during one of her stepfather's fits of rage, stripes across her neck and back. The black ski cap can cover the short hair, and her shirt can cover the stripes...but it can't cover her shame. In her world, short hair is a shame for a girl...it is not trendy or cute. There is a distinct stigma against short hair in the Honduran culture. Her attitude, her behavior screamed shame.

 

No doctor can fix that.

 

The next morning, we decided to make a trip to the market. The ugly boy's hat burned in my memory. We visited booth after booth, trying to find what we wanted between the tables stacked high with rotting vegetables, ridiculous pageant dresses hanging overhead. It was a bizarre cross of a craft market, a Wal-Mart, a food court, and a day old veggie stand--half indoors and half out.

We finally came across what we wanted...a cardboard box/beauty supply store. We dug through piles of circa-1989 hair styling items...black plastic showing through the gold painted barrettes...and before long we had amassed a pile of items.

 

A pale grey ski-cap that said "No Fear" (not exactly what I wanted). A handful of pretty barrettes, bows, flowers, and butterflies to clip onto the hats. And the jewel--a frilly, polka-dotted, bedazzled hat. Eventually, the pile grew to include one of the pageant-style dresses, a ring, and some plastic jewelry.

Do you believe that hope can be carried in a black plastic sack? When we arrived at the center that afternoon, I called Maria to the side. By to the side, I ultimately mean I was followed by about thirty of her new "closest friends." Nothing is done alone at the center.

 

Out on the stone steps, I pulled Maria close, and I told her that in America, short hair is very stylish. I told her that she was beautiful, special, important. I told her lots of things like that...and I gave her the bag. As she opened it, the distinct, lingering odor of market wafted out. She politely looked at all the gifts. I clipped a flower on her black hat and asked her if she would like to try on the new hat...

But no. She didn't want to. I got her up in my lap and hugged the life out of her. We took some photos. She scampered away.

But the next time I saw her, she looked different. She was wearing the new hat...and a smile. Notice a difference?

For the next few days, every time I saw her, I smiled. In art class, she struggled to make a paper chain. I showed her how. I always made sure she had snack and was a part of the game. And under my gaze she seemed to blossom. Hope bloomed in her heart.

 

She will still go home to hurt. I can't change that, as much as I would like to. But she will take something home with her, something that can change everything. She takes home hope. The staff at the Compassion center, who has already investigated her situation and spoken on her behalf, will champion her cause. And every day, when she gets to choose which hat and which bow to wear, she will remember that somebody, somewhere, thinks she is special.

 

And it didn't take a professional to give her that...the lesson learned in a brave and free society that values human life and champions the cause of little ones. America is still great, but the Gospel is greater. The Gospel of Jesus Christ, the God-man who walked on this earth, who died on this earth to give dignity, hope, and value to His people. He was rejected, we are accepted. Ultimately, only Jesus, the healer of the soul, can heal the diseases of loneliness, rejection, and hopelessness.

 

All of this to say that everyone can offer something valuable. I am not trying to get you to look at what I did. It isn't about me at all. He put an opportunity there and moved me to take it. God has called all of us to be disciples--servants--to go to the least, wherever they may be, to lavish His hope, love, and worth on the hurting heart.

 

I will always remember Maria as she was on the last day of our visit...a beautiful princess in a white dress and a smile.

 

 

Brown Eyes...

And they just kept coming, pouring in the little gate, covering the archaic playground equipment like ants on a wet lollipop. There were kids everywhere. I'm not sure what we expected, pulling up to the church at ten past one, VBS starting in 20 minutes. It had been hard to tear ourselves away from Luz's home.

I scrambled out of the back of Pastor Modesto Martinez's red, roll-barred puck-up, along with most of Luz's family and half a dozen others that had hopped in along the way. I raced up the stone stairs to change into some less disheveled clothes. To give you a taste of the morning, imagine being coated in sunscreen, dipped in extra-strength insect repellent, and rolled in dust!

It had fallen to me to direct the show...to be the ringmaster...of this VBS at the little church in Villa Verde. A church this size in the US might, on a great day, attract 15-20 kids for VBS. As I choked down the lunch prepared for us by the women of the church, I noted that this church, with no banners, advertisements, radio ads, or decorations, had drawn around 250.

The bug spray, the sunscreen, the bumpy ride in the trunk bed from Luz's house, and the swallowed lunch swam sickeningly in my throat as I joined the rest of our group at the table of honor prepared for us in front of the crowd. Swarms of children began assembling in tiny plastic chairs--the plastic chairs soon stacked to the side as it became clear that the number of children exceeded the number of chairs! Mothers nursed their babies in the back.

As the program began, my heart went out to Luz, who was called on to lead the children in prayer. Her voice was confident, brave...

The team was introduced...I was called up to lead...why on earth had I come to do this?

300 pairs of brown eyes stared back at me.

Each pair of eyes represented a relationship. According to all reports, we were the first sponsors to visit this project in ten years. We represented sponsors around the world to a generation of children and their parents.

Each pair of eyes represented a life. A life so precious, so valuable to God. And in a rush I knew what I was doing again. These little children, little lives, had grown up in the lie of poverty, the lie that tells them every day that they don't matter. The lie is perpetuated when they are hungry and can't eat, sick and can't get help, abused and left to fend for themselves.

Suddenly, it all made sense--the suitcases full of random items (like jumbo marshmallows and coffee filters), my unaccountable willingness to sing and dance like a crazy person in front of 300+ people--

This week of Vacation Bible School was about telling kids that they matter...to God and to us as sponsors.

We dove in head first. It was a crazy experience...there were so few of us and so many of them...but we did the best job we could do..

We delighted in their art projects.

 

We got silly with them.

 

We taught them new things.

We shared treats.

We made connections.

We looked for opportunities to seek out relationships.

We took every opportunity, every moment, to show these children how special, how valuable, and how precious their lives are!

It occurs to me that every day of my life should be spent this way...telling the people in my life that they matter, that they are valuable, that they are beautiful, that they are precious. I should say it not only with my words, but also with my behavior. I should live each moment fully engaged, searching for opportunities to let people know that I love them--for no other reason than that my God loves them.

When is the last time you took a moment to pour this kind of encouragement on someone in your life? Who needs to hear words of affirmation breathed over their existence? I challenge you to seek out someone...or lots of someones...and share a word of kindness...because the "you don't matter lie" is not just for the poor. It hits us all hard. We all need to know that we matter.

I am thankful to these precious children for reminding me of this truth...blessed by their hunger to receive the small gifts that we offered. Somehow, I like to think of myself reflected in their beautiful brown eyes.