SIX WEEKS IN

You know something, sweet ones?  I still think of you.  

Six weeks in.  That’s how long I’ve been home.  Six weeks.  

Do you know that the one thing I was terrified of hasn’t happened yet?  That’s because my God is great.  He never fails. 

Six weeks.  That’s more than enough time to be all “settled in,” yes?  Because for two weeks my blinking became long and slow at 8pm and I was asleep by 9.  For a week I couldn’t even hear those names or the tears would brim.  For two weeks I was just trying to survive.  The jet lag didn’t get to me like I thought it would.  I would go to bed thinking of them and wake up thinking of them.  I had so much school to do I thought, for the first time in my life (honestly), that I might not finish it on time.  There was grace for that, it wasn’t as bad as I thought.  And for those two weeks, I begged God to not let me forget.  The emotions were fresh.  The aching for that place were realer than ever.  But still, I was terrified that over time that passion would leave.  The aching, the missing, the wondering.  

You know I still go to bed thinking of them.  I still wake up wondering about them.  I still spend every minute aching for them.  I still walk into Target feeling empty.  People still ask, and I still tell them it’s too hard to explain.  I still regret that, I still want people to understand.  Tears still fill my eyes when I hear that song.  She was still supposed to be my sister.  The days still feel empty and short.  I don’t know how to use all this in this land that is home.  I should have kissed his forehead one more time before leaving.  I still wish I knew what to say when people ask for “stories.”  I still pray for him before I fall asleep — the boy I didn’t get to say goodbye to.  

I honestly was scared out of my mind… that all of that^^ would not have stayed with me.  That it was going to be temporary… the rawness of it all.  

I was so scared I would be like so many others.  I was so scared it would be like the last time.  I did not want to see it come to a screeching halt and I did not want to see it become another thing “checked off the bucket list.”  So scared that it would just become a beautiful memory with no feelings attached. 

But He has given me prompts to pray.  He has given me “wow” moments.  He has given me emotions that are now permanently sewn onto the words of these songs and the names of these people.  And in the questions, He has given answers.  Maybe not written on a sign in huge letters, but He has answered.  He has whispered.  He has written on my heart.  And now I see, six weeks in, it’s not going anywhere.  He’s not letting it go.  And so… I’m not letting it go.  And in the moments of “really?” and the moments of “honestly?” I find another picture and I wonder.  I smell gasoline through the open window and I wonder.  I see glass bottles of Fanta and I wonder.  I miss them and I know.  

I asked the Lord to let my aching last.  Little did I know He was in the process of answering a lifelong question by saying yes.  

When it still aches six weeks in… when I still wonder six weeks in… when I still miss it six weeks in…… who would have known He would have answered in this way? 

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RUSSIA

I opened Facebook to this.

"In Russia orphans with mental and physical disabilities or learning disorders are classified into one of three categories: debil, imbecile or idiot. Those labelled as imbeciles and idiots are permanently institutionalized while still toddlers."

debil

Slovak noun for retarded person (very similar to imbecile).
It also can be used as abuse, swear-word meaning moron. 

im·be·cile

  [im-buh-sil

noun

1.

Informal. a dunce; blockhead; dolt

2.

Psychology . (no longer in technical use; now considered offensive) a person of the second order in aformer and discarded classification of mental retardation, above the level of idiocy, having a mentalage of seven or eight years and an intelligence quotient of 25 to 50.

id·i·ot

  [id-ee-uht]

noun

1.

Informal. an utterly foolish or senseless person

2.

Psychology . (no longer in technical use; considered offensive) a person of the lowest order in aformer and discarded classification of mental retardation, having a mental age of less than threeyears old and an intelligence quotient under 25.

The same day I wake up to this:

Until my heart stops beating, I'll never stop fighting.  

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HEART BROKEN IN THE MIDDLE OF TARGET

Two days after touching down in America and it was the first time I'd been out of the house.

You have to understand... I really let my heart get taken by Uganda.  I really, really let it go.  I felt that God had purposely called me to this place, holding part of my heart back would have just been dumb.

I hate the term "mission trip" if I'm being honest with you.  It really, really bothers me.  The whole "once in a lifetime"... "experience it once and then be done" Christian fad sort of thing haunts me.  It's not what God wants for us.  It's not how He wants us to use our time.  Yes, not all people are called to world missions, but when you get the opportunity to GO and serve Christ, it doesn't have to end there.  In fact, it really shouldn't.  

So there I was, second day home, really, really not feeling like home at all.  

Memories and wondering where and how and what was happening and still in a fog and 10pm here and 8am there and who in the world is holding you this time.  Who will feed you the bottle that burns your mouth every time.  

It was unbearable.

And then I went to Target.

Random stuff we all needed and new clothes for Trey.

And right there, right in the baby section, it all hit me.  

Nobody's at the store picking out a stroller for you.  Nobody's been down these aisles choosing a crib that you'll spend two years in.  No momma has joyfully walked down these aisles buying you clothes, and picturing your precious face in them.  No momma anywhere is in Target buying the totally unnecessary American baby stuff that we spend hours picking out.

And it broke my heart in two, right there, right there in the middle of Target on a normal Saturday. 

Nobody has the privilege of walking down these aisles picturing these precious babies' faces in these cribs and strollers and outfits and using these bottles and eating this food.  

You see, friends... when you ask God to break your heart for what breaks His -- and you actually let Him -- you feel a teeny tiny little piece of what God feels everyday.  

Because I know He doesn't sleep soundly at night, after seeing it all.  I know He doesn't let it be once in a lifetime.

You might say... of course.  He's God.  He has to care.  But when you really think about it, when you really let it soak in... God's heart is broken for the orphan.  God's heart breaks at the sight of the fatherless.  And for me, experiencing a tiny piece of that in the middle of Target, I realized the unending broken heart He has for His people.  

Father to the Fatherless... protector of widows... is God in His holy dwelling.

What a sight.  What a precious sight.  

My God sees.  My God cares.  My God has a heart that is broken.  And He's so much more than seen their faces, but He created them, and He knows their pain more intimately than any other person.  He has seen it.  He has touched it.  And every day is filled with pain until all is made right again.

Friends... this is real.  The orphan crisis is real.  Hurting kids in orphanages far away is real.  Babies born into a life of orphanages is real.  And God has made it clear.  We are all called.  

My mini culture shock meltdown in Target made me realize the severity of God's broken heart is real.  He broke mine when I surrendered my life to Him, and in the middle of Target I felt a little sliver of the weight that He carries daily.

Today I am holding onto the hope that God says in His word: "I will not leave you as orphans."  He hasn't failed me and He won't fail these precious kids, not now, not ever.

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