Halloween, Day of the Dead, and All Saints Day… three days to celebrate the dead, the eternal unknown, and fear. I heard this phrase first from Joyce Meyers and since then from various sources: “Do it scared.” Nike’s brazen catch phrase shouts: Just do it!

Through the pain, doubt, confusion, fear and trials a passion beating in the chests of emboldened missionaries around the world drives us to remain steadfast. To deny the existence of these hardships is to belittle the price paid for centuries to get the message of the Good News to all corners of humanity.

In sharing these thoughts I do not hope to garner pity or sympathy. I desire to first thank God that he has enabled me to confront these issues instead of cowering, crippled and paralyzed, in the face of impossibilities. As a secondary measure I hope to portray honestly some realities that those who want to dedicate their lives to missions can expect to face.

10. Deceived – I worry that the sacrifice we have made is too great in comparison to the good we assume we are doing.

9. Harmed – The calloused skin around my heart makes it hard for me to feel compassion and makes it easy to block out the hurting people around me.

8. Harming – I fear our kids will suffer irreparable harm.

7. Inadequacy – It often feels as though our best just isn’t good enough to confront the enormity of the needs surrounding us.

6. Misunderstood – Sometimes I think people perceive us as money mongers because we might push too hard to finance the things that we think we need to do.

5. Compromise – With all the adapting and flexibility demanded by the conglomerate roles of wife, mother, Bolivian resident, U.S. citizen, and missionary I think I will lose myself and therein lose every bit of authenticity and relevancy.

4. Overextended – Living on the extreme edge in so many areas of life I wonder if there will be an event that pushes us over and sends us tumbling down the incline to certain defeat.

3. Blindsided – I put a bunch of pressure on myself to excel at everything I attempt. I know that I cannot hope to be the best in everything. So I am concerned that the things I have chosen to let slide are actually the things that end up being the most important, but I find out too late.

2. Identity – I fear I am driven by the validation which come from accomplishments because so often I am consumed by what we do. I lose sight of the truth of who I am and who God is in my life.

1. Disappointing – What scares me most is the sense that I will be a big, fat disappointment.

Man! If that’s not a downer list, I don’t know what is.

*** Tomorrow I reveal my new novel project for the month of November. It will be a much happier post.

Thank you for reading my lists. On this day 10 years ago we boarded a Bolivia bound plane with our tiny children. The next day, November 1st, we were swallowed up by the foreign. I would be lying if I told you I didn’t have some trepidation about the next 10 years ahead of us. If I know one thing I know it won’t be boring. Onward.

10 days from now marks 10 years as missionaries for us. A few short trips took us to a smattering of other countries but most of that time we have done life in Bolivia.

A verse of scripture sums up how I feel about this anniversary. Nearing the end of his life Paul says these words to the young man Timothy, his protege.

This is a trustworthy saying, and everyone should accept it: “Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners”—and I am the worst of them all. (1 Timothy 1:15)

Notice the verb ‘am’. Present tense. After years of miracles, skin of the teeth rescues from certain death, preaching the good news to multitudes and writing a great chunk of what we have come to know as the New Testament of the Bible the man says he IS the worst sinner.

In my teen years verse 12, just a few lines before the one above, was my favorite of the whole Bible:

And I thank Christ Jesus our Lord who has enabled me, because He counted me faithful, putting me into the ministry

I reveled in the truth I connected with in these words. Then I skipped past the wealth of hard wisdom in the following verses and dove into the admonitions of holy living. Now, I can understand more of what I used to criticize in the words of Paul.

Before, I used to say, “How can Paul, such a great hero, say he currently holds the ranking of the worst sinner?” Now I understand. More life means more time to mess up. More mess ups means more reliance on the grace of God. I get it now.

Paul lived about 30 more years from the moment Jesus met him on the Damascus road. His radical conversion took him from persecutor of Christians to persecuted believer. Since my conversion 25 years ago I have served him faithfully. You would think I had the right to put on a more-holier-than-thou hat and strut the wonderfulness of me for all that has been accomplished.

Not so. I despise the thought.

Were someone to try and put such a load on my head I would throw it down and smash it in the dirt with the heel of my foot. Give me a ratty, sweat-stained baseball cap to shove on over my ponytail that I might bend my head down and continue to work, unidentified and unnoticed. I am the worst of sinners. Jesus Christ came to the world to save sinners. These are trustworthy sayings.

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Paul and Timothy hung out together. I wonder what they talked about. Being human and young I imagine Timothy asked Paul about his extremes: the worsts, the bests, the most favorite, the most amazing, etc. Not all their talks were Bible worthy material.

In the coming days I would like to share some lists that talk about these last ten years, and maybe even some of the years preceding those.

The index:

1. 10 Lists (10/22)
2. 10 Heroes (10/23)
3. 10 Favorite Spots in the World (10/24)
4. 10 Tastiest Foods in Bolivia (10/25)
5. 10 People Who Changed My Life (10/26)
6. 10 Best Missions Books and Articles (10/27)
7. 10 Most Memorable Moments of Culture Shock (10/28)
8. 10 Answered Prayers (10/29)
9. 10 Hopes for the Coming Years (10/30)
10. 10 Scariest Things About Missions (10/31)

Don’t you see that children are God’s best gift? the fruit of the womb his generous legacy?   

Like a warrior’s fistful of arrows are the children of a vigorous youth.   

Oh, how blessed are you parents, with your quivers full of children!

If God doesn’t build the house, the builders only build shacks.
   If God doesn’t guard the city,
      the night watchman might as well nap.
   It’s useless to rise early and go to bed late,
      and work your worried fingers to the bone.
   Don’t you know he enjoys
      giving rest to those he loves?

(Psalm 127 message)

“You’re distinct!” she said as I walked through the doors of Divas Beauty Center. The owner, a proud Paceña, regularly attends to my moderate primping and preening. This exclamation was meant to express that she noticed something different about me. Maybe it was because it was morning this time; usually I come haggard at the end of the day with one of my friends; the only time us mommies have the same moment free after the kids are in bed. Maybe it was the fact I was by myself for a change. Maybe it was the skirt. We determined it was because my hair, usually found tied up in a scraggly pony tail, was hanging loosely at my shoulders and notably longer because I am letting it grow out.

She ushered me in with the customary kiss on the cheek greeting and began the ritual. She opened the conversation by telling me she found out we had a school.

“There is much you don’t know of me,” I said with a twinkle in my eye. She took the bait and asked me to tell her more. The conversation drifted between school stuff, church things, orphanage talk and parenting. Being the only two in the shop at the time allowed some freedom not normally enjoyed in this slowly blossoming friendship. The questions became deeper and the information shared more close to the heart than ever before.

“So what’s the difference? Like, between Catholics, because I am Catholic by birth, but I don’t mean that Catholic, like, the Catholic church and… whatever it is you are?” She seemed to spit out the words with failed precaution in an apologetic tone. I laughed. Not at her, but at the fact that she asked the same question I have heard dozens of times before. After affirming the validity of the question I stepped in with a disarming example.

“You know, the way I like to look at it is like flavors. There’s chocolate chip, vanilla, strawberry and they are all these different flavors but it’s all yummy ice-cream.” This time she was the one who got to laugh. I went on touching lightly on some differences she might identify with.

“So what would you say is the most odd religion you know of?” She seemed to be more jovial now. I remembered she mentioned some monthly meetings she attended that some people in my circles might turn their noses up at. I saw the defensive response waiting behind the friendly smile.

“For me it gets back to hope. I couldn’t imagine being involved in a religion that provided no hope and removed me from the decision of my destiny. I love that I can have a direct relationship with my Creator, with Jesus Christ.”

“So where is your church?”

I gave her the address and the service times. We talked of other things like husbands, the States, jobs, kids, and beauty tips, of course. As I leaned in to give her a kiss good-bye she repeated the address of the church once again and told me she would like to come in the evening. I hope she does.

Beyond that hope I hope she meets The Hope. I pray she meets Hope in all His beautiful perfection.

Sunday night here. All last week the rumors have been building of an eminent strike for Monday resulting in a snow-day-esque cancellation of classes and an incapacitated city. This morning I referenced this impending strike and worked it into a joke that had all the church laughing.

You see, in the first weeks of our arrival to the land of Bolivia some kind of dispute arose causing protesters to take to the streets. Frightened we wrote home to pray for us and pray for the nation of Bolivia. Surprisingly not many of the nationals seemed to get too excited about the demonstrations. Pretty soon we caught on that these protests form part of the every day life of the Bolivian culture. Not a week goes by without the presence of some disgruntled group up in arms about some offense.

A recent march in down town Cochabamba. The protesters wanted fair benefits in their government jobs.

How humorous Spanish language class became when the instructor gave us the assignment to work in groups to develop an oral presentation about a relevant issue and plan our chosen type of protest. We had to present to the class our protest strategy in detail. The choices they gave us were: a strike, a march, an hunger sit-in or a blockade in the streets. What fun!

This form of expressing ones public opinion is the way people have been given a voice. It is neither bad nor good in my eyes. It’s just the way it is.

I have some good news for you, though. God does not go on strike!

When God wants to see a change in our behavior he does not choose a public demonstration in hopes to move the powers that be in order to invoke change. Take the example of a city with many people who still have yet to acknowledge him as Lord. Does he take out a spot on the front page of the paper to announce that the sun will not rise on that certain city for the next five days? No! The sun rises in all it’s glorious splendor yet on those who deny a Creator’s hand. What a good God!

There is a verse in Romans chapter two that talks of what brings men and women into repentance. It’s not the strong arm of the omnipotent God. It’s not the smiting hell-fire and brimstone. It’s not the threat of a God with arms crossed sitting on high waiting to zap us with a lightening bolt or smash us like ants at the first slip up we make. Listen to this:

Don’t you see how wonderfully kind, tolerant, and patient God is with you? Does this mean nothing to you? Can’t you see that his kindness is intended to turn you from your sin?

What wonderful words! Here’s the same verse said in another way:

Better think this one through from the beginning. God is kind, but he’s not soft. In kindness he takes us firmly by the hand and leads us into a radical life-change.

I love this! Far from the world of manipulation of powers God makes the choice of a humble king to guide us with kindness. The question is if we are attentive to his kindness.

When was the last time you stopped to notice God’s kindness in your life? Why not take a moment and thank him for his kindness. You are precious to him. He shows you how highly he thinks of you by his goodness in your life. Don’t you just love that about him?

My uncle always told me, “Locks are for honest people.” He explained that if a thief wants to get pass a lock he does. The locks only guard against honest people. Still, I lock my car doors. We also have strong locks all over our properties that stay locked. You’d call me irresponsible otherwise.

If locks are only for honest people then I have a similar line of reasoning in regards to education. I would say that grades (or notes) on schoolwork are only for approval seekers in society. Those who excel with top grades either do so effortlessly or find a great level of satisfaction in the approval of superiors. Those who get average or below average grades quickly learn to not care about their grades simply doing enough to get by and at times not even that.

There are the exceptions to the rule of students who were once underachievers and then pull their grades up but not due to the fact that grades are given out. Usually a turn around of that nature is the result of a superior in the young person’s life taking a special interest and helping the student to feel that getting good grades is an important part of being successful in life. Grades by themselves are not a sufficient motivation to change behavior. I would even dare to say that the grades standing alone would be a discouragement in the case of a person who is not in the habit of getting high grades.

Yet, grades of some nature will exist in every stage of our lives. So a few words to those of us who interact with students.

• Encourage learners to love the learning process
• Encourage learners to do their best and be proud of that
• Encourage learners to applaud their fellow learners

I understand that grades are used to determine percentages and the “quality” of schools and that gets around to funding and taxes and bureaucracy. The people who have the duty of juggling those policy issues have my utmost respect and I wouldn’t wish for that job under any circumstance.

The irony is that I am a co-founder and fellow administrator of a school! Ha! The double irony is that I have nothing more than a high-school diploma and there are dozens of university graduates who are by definition my subordinates. Shall we abolish grades? No! Shall we do all we can to help children find their worth as a person outside of the achievements that their God-given abilities allow them to accomplish? A thousand times yes!

This process starts when the educator and person who influences children learns to place their worth in the simple fact that they are a unique human being fashioned by the Creator especially for the life they are living. A new motivation emerges when we can value others outside of their accomplishments. What beauty is found when we look for value in the character and individuality of others.

Agree? Disagree? Thoughts? Feel free to comment.

Adoption covers a multitude of sin. Forgiveness of the redeeming nature rarely lends itself to comfort or ease. Not all the points following surround every adoption in existence, but I can guarantee that every adoptive parent wrestles with forgiveness to some degree.  My personal observations:

• I forgive the birth parents who allowed this child of mine to live in the conditions she did for the length of time she did.
• I forgive the officials who probably traumatized her during her ‘rescue’.
• I forgive society for the fact that such realities as my daughter has lived through exist.
• I forgive the social services agency, the courts, the judges and all other government entities who I am sure are doing their darnedest but whose darnedest is painfully not nearly enough.
• I forgive the orphanage workers who made my daughter comfortable in an institution. Oddly enough these same people receive my utmost gratitude and admiration for their work of mercy.
• I forgive the strangers who stare and say unthinking things.
• I forgive the acquaintances who stare and say unthinking things.
• I forgive dear ones who intend no harm but might every so often do or say things that I perceive as hurtful either because I didn’t take the time to hear their heart or I am just a bit worn out from processing things that I am short tempered, which is no excuse it just is what it is and it makes it hard.
• I forgive my biological children for remarks and actions taken as they process having a new sibling.
• I forgive my husband for apparently being better at connecting with this tiny person who did not gestate in his body. Of course he had practice with it four times over and this is my first time around. Still I thought it would be easier for me and I see it as ‘easy’ for him and I have to just get over it.
• I forgive my adopted daughter time and again… as is the case with all of my children.
• I forgive myself for so many things like: lack of patience, lack of love, lack of preparation, prayerlessness, selfishness, jumping to conclusions, just plain laziness, unrealistic expectations, etc.

These paths of forgiveness have ruts worn down as I revisit them almost daily, and I am sure that my journey of forgiveness has only just begun.

In continuing with the theme of disclosure I will say that at times I stand and stare at these hard paths contemplating if I want to walk the road of forgiveness. There are times I choose to turn my back on what could be the sorrowful path to a freer heart. Yes, there are time I make the conscious choice to not forgive. These are dark moments. When the forks of avoidance turn me back round again in a depressing loop to the same point  I stand staring once again at the choice to forgive.

Then, labored steps move me beyond the tough spot in the route of forgiveness. With each painful, conscious decision to forgive I am sweetly reminded of the passage as though Jesus were speaking directly to me:

⁴⁷ “I tell you, her sins—and they are many—have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.” ⁴⁸ Then Jesus said to the woman, “Your sins are forgiven.” (Luke 7:46-48)

To love much I remember what great forgiveness has been shown to me.

Today, may we choose great forgiveness.

Chit-chat defaults to weather. World round people talk about the weather. Why? Because in its constancy of existence we find ourselves subject to the constancy of experiencing its changes.

I think God is like the weather. In His constancy of existence our experience with Him varies from day to day. We can know His still small voice like the breeze in the trees. We can also know His sadness like the slow, cloudy rain at night. We can know His joy like the wind that swirls and dances. We can know His desire for intimacy like the close heat of a humid summer day.

The Psalmist reveled in the weather and elements of creation when penning verses of praise, lament, petition and love. The Prophets heard from God while interacting with His creation. We too, need only step outside or simply look out the window to find a spark of connection with our Maker. Just as we use the weather to converse with other humans we can use the weather as a springboard to talk with God.

A group of Bolivians observe Raymi Inti. This tribal festival for the sun god is designed to appreciate the work of that big ball of light we all live under. I get it. I get the urge to worship what could be perceived as the source of all power. I choose to believe the truth of a God above all nature; but I understand the desire to worship the elements.

Next time a conversation you are having defaults to the weather, as they so often do (even in social media), think about God like the weather. Constancy of existence and constancy of change surrounds us all twenty-four-seven. Appreciate the contrast of the weather of your relationship with God and the weather of others.

Back and forth a handful of times my parents always brought exotic treasures from Haiti. My favorite a game called Kay [kahee]. Haitian people visited, too, gracing our doors and sitting on our back deck until late at night with us. Their hands blending with the twilight as they laughed so deep and full every time their smooth clay balls outnumbered ours in the end.

Rolling the balls around in my fingertips I saw the tiny grooves of fingerprints from afar. Running my hand over the carvings of faces and flowers in the wood stained a deep reddish color I wonder about the blood running red through our veins. Differences only skin deep our needs are the same as the story of the game. The twelve large dips in the wood plane are homes. At the start four people sit neatly in each divot. The people start to move by mysterious forces from on high. A hand picks them and moves them one by one to different places. Now some pockets hold ten, others two, others one lone person sits and waits the next move. Belonging dances with emptiness through the turns as people come and go. The play simple to understand and do; in life we comprehend yet balk as we are forced to learn new normals against our will.

Quilt of my heritage weathered over ages, we sit on the stitches of aunts and mommy. She the age I was when learning the game thinks and reasons about the moves. Memories visiting to make new ones she and I play game after game. Game of simple moves, life of moves thousands of miles long. Is she learning from me to trust in the times we are hidden, dark in His palm, being shaken and moved? Can she celebrate the times of fullness and much people surrounding her with joy? Will she find peace in the solace of alone times?

Rocks rescued from dirt and given purpose are the people in our Kay board. Wood wounded with cuts and holes, re-purposed for a game sit between us. During my childhood we played on a board carved by poor, dark fingers brought to a land of wealth and played with by fat, white hands. The board for my family now bought at a store in the USA brought to us by a friend for my tiny missionary kids holed up in a hotel room, bored, lonely, visiting the land of their birth. This board taken from the land of plenty brought to a land of scarcity, our home. Dented and scratched we play, swirled dark and light skins touching, moving, dropping, picking up the game, the life. Sometimes empty holes surrounded by, yet not reaching, the happy fullness so close yet so far away. Sometimes full to overflowing the vacancies forgotten like a bad dream. Stillness comes when conversations interrupt the flow. Counting resumes and moving replaces talk. Smiles finish a game and life continues: conversations, silent moving, picked up by Mystery’s hand, moved, changed, empty, full, and counted.

Returning to the starting count of four in a little house wins you points. The four so celebrated for a few fleeting moments. Then dropped in a slot not thought of again until the end when making the final count. We breathe and fill our chest as the step closer to the win celebrated and cheered reaches our ears. Then wait, what is this? We are dropped in the slot. Categorized and frozen we sit not thought of again until maybe at the end. This is what all the fuss was about? Can we start again? Can we get back into the action?

Maybe I am being too dramatic. Maybe one game is not like a lifetime but rather like an attempt. This little slot of time when we accomplish something and then sit to wait for the end could be just a part of life and not the whole. It could be that we get many goes at this thing. It could be that we need to appreciate the time for what it is. Are we being moved around, changed and rubbing up with people, sometimes rubbing the wrong way, sometimes rubbing for sharpening and good? Then let us not wish we were elsewhere. Are we sitting still and resting after a big win? Then we should not wistfully pine for more action. Preparing to play, playing, winning, sitting still, we humans cycle through life.

“Ye also, as lively stones, are built up a spiritual house” (1 Peter 2:5)