Category Archives: God’s plan and purpose

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?

Where’s God’s Plan

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My eyes started scanning for my six pieces of luggage, as the carousel slowly hummed around. The murmur of Spanish surrounded me, along with the thump and bumps of the suitcases. Even with the lady beside me, I felt alone. I repeated in my mind, Jesus I have your hand and I need you to guide me. The woman with me said she needed to go. “No problem, gulp, I’ll follow the crowd.” I profusely thanked her for the help. The carousel stopped with a jerk, and I think the operator said there wasn’t any more. Now what do I do? Not one piece of my luggage arrived.

Arrangements had been made for a family missionary friend to meet me at the airport. I’d never seen her before, but since she was white and tall—and Guatemalans are dark and short—I had a good chance of recognizing her. Entering the lobby felt like walking into the twilight zone. Anybody from the street could come to the upper-level balcony and wait for their friend or family member who entered below. The custom called for families to come, and they crammed in like sardines, hurling greetings to those below. Outside, noises of revving bus motors, blasting horns, screeching tires, and people selling their wares made my ears throb. I looked for the white face amongst the dark, and found it a challenge. When people left, others crowded into the empty spots. She wasn’t there. After about thirty minutes, I became concerned. Then I went into near panic as I realized I had no contact information for her or the school where I would teach or for anybody in this city. Okay, Lord, I need a plan. I felt some calmness when I remembered the rainbow and Whose hand I held.

I stood there in the airport as travelers zoomed past me. There were no places to sit or bathrooms, and I didn’t dare go outside.This is a third-world country with a high crime rate. I had been warned to wait inside. I intently looked for somebody, anybody who looked like they could assist me. The Lord would show me who. I just had to be patient—not my best virtue.

Thirty more minutes passed, and a large missionary team came in. The primary colors on the white shirts reminded me of the rainbow of hope. I went up to two of the ladies and explained my situation. They suggested I come with them to the hotel, and their Guatemalan lawyer friend would help me find my friend. It all sounded good, but I felt like I needed to wait longer. One of the ladies gave me a note on a business card to give to one of their team, who would fly in soon. I calmed down but gripped that bitty card. God’s plan was in hand.

Suddenly, I heard my name from the balcony, and looked in that direction. I had to plant my feet to keep from jumping for joy when I spotted the tall lady with the huge smile. At that moment, the second half of the missionary team entered the lobby area. I took the card to one of them and explained that my friend had arrived and I was safe. The rainbow of hope became more brilliant in my mind’s eye.

I barely heard my friend apologize as she said, “I’m sorry we are thirty minutes late. We got tied up with an Alaskan team. You’ll meet them at the house.” To this day, my friend does not know that she was one and a half hours late. (She may know now if she reads this.) We dealt with the lost luggage and we were assured I could get it the next day. Ha! It was three days later.

I walked outside of the airport, and suddenly the noises didn’t irritate, but intrigued me. I entered a new and different world with excitement and anticipation, despite the emotional roller coaster I just went through. I had a new life, a new chapter, and an assurance that the Lord would guide and help me through times of uncertainty. I was ready to enter the mission field and wanted to see more of this new country and culture.

I still find myself reacting in difficulties and then having to apologize to the Lord for not focusing on His promises. Do you have a story to share about how the Lord gave you a plan during a crisis time? I think of the song, God Will Make a Way and sing it over and over when the way seems impossible. We can trust in God’s plans, whether the issue be small or humungous. In this case, the plan I thought He gave me wasn’t the plan, but He made a way for me.