Monthly Archives: February 2015

MKs Cut Out for Missions Project

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At CAG (Christian Academy of Guatemala), every class had the responsibility for a missions project. The family in La Rosa was fresh in my mind when the subject came up in my class. After I explained the situation, the students unanimously decided that they wanted to “adopt” this family. With contagious excitement, the ideas flew around the room. “We need a fundraiser,” shouted one of the girls. “Hey, let’s have a rummage sale here at the school.” “I can make snow cones and sell them at the rummage sale.” A couple of the boys proposed that they could make some beds, shelves, and tables during shop class. Another boy said they could learn to mix cement and put blocks together for the wall of a house. By this time, I felt chocked up inside. These MKs (missionary kids) showed their giving hearts.

Several of the students got into a conversation about how we could have fundraisers and use the money to buy land for the foster family. The ideas mounted without any encouragement from me. At this point, I had all the kids take out their journals and write down their ideas. When I read the journals later, I cried. One fellow wrote that he would give them everything he had. This provided proof of the Lord’s love flowing through the MKs’ hearts toward others.

With permission of the administration, we set the plans in motion. Of course, some of the students’ ideas were not realistic, but they discovered that themselves. I contacted the parents and turned the kids loose. The students’ spirits were in high gear and ready to go. We held a rummage sale at the school, cookies and snow cones were sold during recess time, and donations were put in the donation jar designated for this family. The smell of fresh paint hung heavy in the shop, with the sounds of the hammers and saws.

Finally, the big day arrived. Jose, the man who works with this family, agreed to translate for us and met us in front of the foster family home. The aunts recognized me and welcomed me with hugs and kisses. Suddenly, Christmas Day appeared for all inside that compound. The MKs brought in clothes, blankets, fruit, vegetables, cleaning products, canned goods, beans, rice, toys and of course, candy. The shop-made dressers came in, and a student showed the little girls how to put clothes in them. When we gathered at the gate to leave, I saw the oldest girl take off her new jacket, fold it, and put it in a drawer. She had just enjoyed an experience for the first time: having a place to put her clothes!

Before we left, we prayed with the family and then received words of thanks from the aunts and hugs from the children. Afterward, Jose shared some important information with me. He knew that we would continue to help this family, and warned us that everything needed to be low-keyed. If people in the area heard that we gave items and money to the ladies and children, they could be robbed and lose everything. We needed to hear this great advice.

In the next post, I will share the comments from the students’ journals about this life-changing missions project. Perhaps you too have had similar experiences during a short-term mission trip. I’d enjoy hearing about it.

Missions Project

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Many times new missionaries are emotionally moved by a need they see, and feel compelled to “fix it.” I felt the same thing. I had my first taste of “missions” in a little community call La Rosa. At a VBS held by a missions team, I met four skinny, shabby, unkempt siblings, from ages two to twelve. Their shy, cute smiles won me over in no time flat, but the depravity of their living conditions impacted me the most.

“What is the story of these four girls?” I asked the translator. He lived and ministered in the area, so knew the family well.

“The mother of the four children ran off with a man and hasn’t returned. The father died, and the two elderly ladies, sisters, are taking care of the kids. They are the aunts,” the translator explained to me.

“What is their home like, and do they have enough food to eat?” I inquired as I looked at self-made shacks around me that wouldn’t even be used for chicken coops in Montana.

“Their home consists of portions of tin and old boards pieced together. It is in a little land area butted up to the homes of others. They are considered squatters, and if the owner sells the land, they will be told to leave.”

“How much does it cost for a piece of land the size they have?”

The fellow pondered only a few seconds and said, “About $7,000 and that would include a simple, concrete block house.”

I wanted to see where they lived, and with my North American eyes, I picked up enough information to know I couldn’t just walk away and not make an attempt to help this humble family. The compound could have fit in my living room. The translator explained how the twelve-year-old walked six blocks with a five-gallon plastic bucket, to a public water faucet and carried water home for all six people. (This well was put in for community use with disaster relief funds after Hurricane Mitch hit Guatemala in 1998.) She did this at 11:00 p.m., because young men hung around this area during the day. The late hour seemed to be a safer option.

The kitchen table, composed of a few pieces of wood, sat on some concrete blocks. A mattress lay on the floor with pieces of clothing clumped on top of it. This solution kept the clothes off the floor and gave more padding for the six occupants at night. A few anorexic chickens lived with them, and they were the only signs of any food, except for a some bones and juice in a dirty bowl with some bugs investigating this for their own use. They lived in poverty city.

The gears turned in my head as to what I could do with my limited funds. I figured that people back in the US would want to help if they knew about this situation. Instead, my sixth grade students would grab onto this project, and their hearts changed because of their involvement. I mentioned in the last post about Anita and her disdain of living in Guatemala. When she got involved with the La Rosa family, she did a turnaround. All of my students, including me, saw a purpose.

In the next post, I will share in detail my students served this family and others. You will be blessed to see the love of Christ that poured out of these MKs for needy people in Guatemala.

Missionary Kids

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“I hate it here in Guatemala. I miss my friends, and I want to go back home,” sobbed Anita. (Her name has been changed.) The eyes of every sixth-grader were riveted on me for my response. How could I calm this hurting heart?

“I know how you feel,” I gently responded. “I left a job I loved, my family, my friends, and three grandchildren to come here to teach. The adjustment will be difficult, but let’s do it together. We can ask for the Lord’s help, because He said He’d be here for us. We are here in response to Him.” She gave me a half smile as her eyes softened through the tears.

Anita’s reaction was typical with missionary children. (I’ve chosen to use this term, because I feel God’s calls both the children and their parents.) From my perspective, her cries were real but I didn’t know how to counsel her. I came to Guatemala by choice, but it sounded like she didn’t have a choice. I wanted to know more about MKs, so I started doing some research.

Missionary kids leave their familiar culture and do not grow up in it, because they have moved to a foreign country. Thrown into a new culture, they are seen as visitors. They are literally in this culture, but not a part of it. The MKs are stranded in-between the two cultures looking for a life raft. Third-culture kids was a term coined in the 1950s to describe what happens to these in-betweeners. They develop their own place to belong; an emotionally and mentally painful process for most of them. They face a testing time when they go back to their parent’s home country for a visit. The children find the social rules and customs are different, and they identify little with their birth country. Family members treat them as visitors, just as the indigenous do. Of course, there are varying degrees of this, depending on how long the child has been out of their family’s country

My classroom at CAG (Christian Academy of Guatemala) contained ninety percent of these children. I knew I would see the struggles of these MKs as they became global citizens. Wikipedia defines a global citizen: “as a person who places their identity with a ‘global community’ above their identity as a citizen of a particular nation or place.” CAG was considered a third-culture environment, and my students would need to make many adjustment to find their sense of belonging. On top of that, their scholastic education had to be fitted into the picture as well. I faced a great learning curve right along with those kids. With the grace of God, I wanted to help each youngster in my care to grab hold of how important they were to our Lord. God had a plan for their lives, and He would help them walk it out.

It is said that until you walk in someone else’s shoes, you can’t truly understand what that person is going through. I could only imagine what each of these children felt as they joined the mix of global citizens. The information I needed to help them didn’t come with my master’s degree. But God had a plan, and we could trust Him. He guided me and the MKs that year in incredible ways. We grew together in our learning.

I’m sure there are some of you readers who have had the experience of being an MK, or know of someone who went through similar situations. I’d love to hear your story. We have MKs here at Shadow, and I know the parents would enjoy reading any of your responses.

Street Children

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A NASCAR driver would find it a major challenge to drive in Guatemala City. The man-made lanes defied logic and police regulations. When there should be two lanes, there are three or four. The biggest vehicle is king of the road—the diesel spewing buses that rip and roar like a lion, as they move in and out of the lanes. Goals were to beat the other buses, and to make good time picking up more passengers, at the risk of everybody else’s safety. People totally ignore the turn signals but I learned an unwritten law; the power of the hand. The hand goes out the window with a waving motion to signal a need for a lane change. When a few inches are given, you make your move with words of prayer on your lips. When I began to drive in the City, I had to pry my fingers loose from the steering wheel when I reached my destination. I’m sure the indents are still there.

We were out to see the city and stopped at a busy intersection. Swarms of street children came running toward us. It was a three ring circus at its best. Dirty faced and ragged clothed children juggled oranges or little balls, with some simple acrobats, and then slapped the window for a donation.

“Chicles, chicles only for one quetzal. Candy? Please lady, give me some money.” There were more taps on the windows as kids pleaded their case. I saw this same scene over and over. The heart grabber was usually in the mix. A young girl, of about eight or ten years old, carried a baby on her hip. “Señora please give me some money to buy milk for my sister.” Chances were great that they were not sisters and the money would not be used for milk.

Teens would try to woe drivers at night by breathing fire. A sip of gas, a small torch, and one quick and hard exhale made a plume of fire. Was the few quetzals worth the pain they endured? These kids were fighting for survival. This was the reality of their world and inside I screamed, “This is not fair. They are only little children.”

It appeared to be a good thing to give them money so they could buy food, but the system did not work that way. I found out later that these children worked for somebody and they were expected to bring in a certain amount of quetzals each night. If not, they paid a brutal price. Their bodies bore the evidence of that. Questions formed in my mind as I looked into the hollowed eyes of these children. Where did these children go at night? Did they have families? Did they earn enough money to eat? Who protected them? I had many unanswered questions that weighed on my mind. The biggest question being, Could I do something to help even a few of these youngsters? Who was I to take on an age old problem? I wanted to gather these kids up and take them home with me. Like a parasite, the hopelessness I saw wormed its way deep into my heart. I knew the God of hope and love. That He had some answers for my questions. He loved these children more than I could ever imagine.

Later, I pondered over my calling to Guatemala to teach missionary children. I refocused my mind, and set the other concerns aside for the time being. I knew the Lord would open doors for ministry, but in His time, not mine. This world-wide problem needed the collaboration of many to be able to touch the lives on the streets. Again, I found myself praying for God’s plan to show me the way.

I know many of you have been in similar situations. You wanted to do something and yet the answers seemed off in the distance. I’d love to hear of your experiences and how you dealt with these feelings. What revelations did you have as God guided you through these heart breaking times?