Edie Wadsworth

I’m finally home.  I’m working on my last post (Day 5) but I wanted to peek in this Monday morning to say that you have touched my life so much this week.  I’m just now reading some of your comments and emails and tweets and texts.  Your kindness to love and pray for me has completely overwhelmed me.  On the way home yesterday, I made a little video for you, that I hope, captures the spirit of the week.

I crawled into bed last night, so grateful for this place I call home.

I held Julissa and Diana in my heart and could see them so clearly.   I sat on the cardboard where Diana sleeps and I know that Julissa’s mom wakes up at 5 to make rice for their breakfast.  I see everything through their eyes now and I hope that the heartache that crushes me this morning never goes away.  I pray  that despite the miles and barriers that separate us, they will know the love of Christ that makes us one.  Compassion has unlocked that door for them and given them that chance. We are all home, in Him.

Day 5 coming soon!

Love to you, my friends.

I am emotionally exhausted.  My leftover tears from yesterday starting flowing this morning on the bus and would. not. stop.  As an interesting aside, lest you think I could be in danger of dehydration from all my blubbering, let me reassure you that our trusty Compassion staff is committed to child poverty and blogger hydration.  Like a boss.  As I cried, they pushed water intake.  Totally endearing, if you ask me although they don’t seem to be as committed to taking the hydration commitment to its logical conclusion.  Ask Shaun, he’ll tell you.  #howlongcaniholdit

I read some of your comments and emails on the ride to our Compassion center, about how you shared the joy and heartache of  Diana’s story with me, and I wasn’t sure I could pull myself together.  Then we got to the center and found out it was vocational training day.  The students would be giving us manicures and making pizza for us.  We were were in for a treat and one that just might have the power to stop the cryfest.

We started in the church, where the young folks that have been learning music played for us. What a treat, to hear them sing praises to God in full voice and playing the instruments they had been taught to play at this center, the largest Compassion project in Nicaragua.  They nurture nearly 800 kids here every week.  In a church of 400 people.  The pastor told how much of an impact Compassion has made in the lives of these young ones.  I saw evidence of that all day long.  They sang,

“Open the eyes of my heart, Lord.

Open the eyes of my heart.

 I want to see you.  

I want to see you.”

I saw evidence of Him everywhere today, shining bright in the darkest eyes.

We were supposed to observe the young whipper snappers in the class and assist them as they made pizza and cake.  You had me at pizza but cake just adds another level of love and communion into any fellowship.   Do you have any idea what it’s like for some of the kindest, most grateful kids in the world to make lunch for you?  And homemade pizza, no less? I might coulda hitch-kicked at the thought of it all but I’ll remind you of some of the side effects of militant hydration.   I was in charge of chopping the tomatoes and mint and peppers, under the careful supervision of understudy, Celia.   She kept saying to me, “Un poquito, señora.”  And every time I chopped the peppers smaller, she would say it again.  After four times of ‘un poquito’, I finally asked Carlos how to say, “Honey child, this ain’t my first rodeo.”  And as proficient as Carlos has gotten at translating Appalachian into Spanish, I rendered him speechless.  Celia was so darn cute with her corrections to my chopping skills that I took it all back and hugged and smooched her right on the cheek.

These vocational classes are the coolest thing ever.  Compassion provides opportunity for  the kids to study  in a variety of fields including training in hair, nails, computers, pottery, cooking, and music, and more, depending on the specific center.

They are learning to make pizza, my friends.  This is a life skill that I’ve tried to get y’all to practice with me.  I hope Celia and her friends will shame you into dough making.  These girls are bossy pants when it comes to all the details dough rolling.  Someone has taught them well.

We ate our delicious pizza and cake and headed out to do a home visit with Antonio, a charming five year old with all the promise in the world of having Shaun Groves hair when he grows up.

Look at those eyes.  

I asked his mom where he got those and she pulled out a tattered photo album with pictures of his father, still living with them, but working to support five kids.

He’s got his papa’s eyes.  And he was so proud to point him out to me in every picture.

He was also pretty excited to put 400 smiley face stamps on his sister’s arm!

The rains came down as we left his house and I immediately thought of the ark and how Antonio is safe in the fold of the Church and under Compassion’s care.  I left with hope that he will one day take classes like Celia and learn a skill that will give him confidence and the hope of finding a decent job.  But more than that, I pray that He will learn to trust His heavenly Father, that he will learn to see with world through the cross of  Christ.  That Antonio will recognize his neighbor in every dark and lonely place. And that Jesus’ will shine in him that like the warm June sun.

It all seemed just fine and dandy until we got back to hotel.

I started sifting through pictures and grasping for words.  How do you tell a story like this and tell the truth, with tenderness and sufficient urgency but without manipulation?  How do you stand up for the children who are at risk for being orphaned, or sold into prostitution, or left to fend for themselves in a drug-ravaged land? How do you help others to see when it took coming here to open your own stubborn eyes?  Today, I am their voice and I crumble under the weight of it.  I don’t have the right words.  My blindness sickens me.  I come up empty, fumbling around in the dark and frustrated by my own lack of understanding. I pray that God uses my frailties.  I pray He opens my eyes. I pray He shows me all the empty places in my heart.  I hope He crushes my self-centeredness and self-greed and pride. I beg Him to replace this heart of stone and give me a heart of flesh— bright red, that beats with passion for even just one that is missing from His fold.

I turn to the psalms and read this:

Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good;
his love endures forever.

 Let the redeemed of the Lord tell their story—
those he redeemed from the hand of the foe,
 those he gathered from the lands,
from east and west, from north and south.

He opens our eyes with His Word.  

And that Word is powerful and does what it will do.  If only, we bring them to the fold to hear.

Some will be safe, inside the arms of Christ’s love tonight.  They will be led by a “straight way to a city where they can dwell.”  They will be redeemed from the hand of their foe. Their thirst will be satisfied and their hunger will be filled with good things. They will tell the story of how they were redeemed and they will cry out to the Lord in their trouble.

And they will do that because you say yes.  Because you give them a chance to see Him.  Sponsor and child and open your eyes and heart to a love like you’ve never known.

Follow the other compassion bloggers here!  And my dear friend, Traci, wrecked me with her post today.  But more than that, she poured out her heart in our hotel room tonight and we cried like babies. She’s something else.  You are gonna be blessed!

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I am loving my new friends so much.  Make sure you check out Christy and Kelly’s blogs and Shaun’s precious story of Sambaji.

Four exhausted girls, who are feeling inadequate and missing their kids will wave and send you hugs and kisses  from Nicaragua and say thank you for taking this journey with us.  Thank you for praying, for sharing your love, for taking the time to bless and strengthen your sisters.

We love you and couldn’t do this without you.

p.s.  I cannot tell a lie.  I am Keely Marie Scott’s newest super fan.  She is AMAZING!  She has taken most of the photos I’ve used in my posts and she is all kinds of charming with these kids. If you’re not following her on Instagram, then that’s a crying shame.  Join the fan club.  Also? I’m gonna try to steal all her jewelry before I leave.

Diana is her name. She hasn’t left my mind much for the past few weeks. Her name means “divine.”

I met her on a little dirt road in the middle of nowhere and didn’t want to let her go.  She smiled a nervous smile and held tight to my neck.

I’ve known for a week that today would be the magical day.  I felt like I’ve been waiting for Christmas.  And love comes in the flesh in ways we can’t always understand.

We walked to her house, hand in hand, and met the rest of her family.   Despite the prayers and the imagining what it would be like,  I couldn’t have known what was just beyond those pieced together curtains.  I ducked low and nearly  fell trying to climb down into the what they call the kitchen.

Claudia, Diana’s big sister, was bathing the 2 year old in a wash tub.  The little mama dried Mary Cruz off just like a pro, careful to wipe her little eyes and wrap her up tight.

We sat on her cardboard bed and made fast friends over Hello Kitty and hair bows and hand games.  Time stood still for me today.  Those two hours will feed me for years to come.

 Little sissy sat shy behind us and finally decided that maybe the hair bows were worth the risk to meet the crazy woman with the yellow hair.  There’s something about Southern women and babies that you just can’t come between.  I may not speak Spanish but I’m fluent in hair accessories and they are love in any language.

We spent an hour getting to know each other—playing legos and  baby dolls, braiding hair, and painting nails.  Southern girls, in training, I tell you!

Diana’s father Roberto peeped around the corner from the back side of the house, where he had been working.

He had kind eyes and spoke gentle when he talked of his family.

From the moment I met him, I adored him.  She is the first child I’ve met with a father in the house.  And her father loves her.  That does something permanent to a little girl’s heart. He works everyday, collecting and selling recycled trash, doing his best to support his wife and three daughters.  He pilfers through junk and waste and brings it back to their home to clean it up and see what can be salvaged.  I told him that I was so proud of him— for taking such good care of his family, for loving them enough to go to work for them everyday, for walking his daughters to school, and for saying yes when Compassion offered to enroll his daughters in the program. I thanked him for not giving up and for having the courage to stay.

And that’s when the dams broke.

I could barely talk.  My eyes are full of tears as I write about him now because I want to hug him again and tell him he’s brave for standing up for his family in a culture where most men would have left.  I told him that I grew up in a house without my dad and that I hoped he knew what a gift he was giving his girls. Diana looked up at me with love in her eyes, not sure why I was crying, but wanting to comfort somehow.  I wasn’t the one bringing the gifts that mattered today.  His grace always turns things upside down.

I just knew that I would visit her and want to bring her home with me.  But what I learned today is that she is home.  She lives in ramshackle lean-to with no indoor plumbing and cardboard for a bed.  But she is home.  She is surrounded by parents who love her and who are giving all they have, day in, day out, against all odds.  Their little shanty isn’t water proof and they hope that someday they will be able to do some repairs so that the girls don’t get wet when it rains.   They have hopes and dreams, that it won’t always be like this.  They want a better life for their girls but they are a family and we were so blessed by their commitment to each other.

 My little amiga, Diana.  

I can’t wait to see what grows from the fertile ground of a Father’s love, planted firmly in her heart.

I’ve often wondered whether it really makes a difference.  What can $38 do for a child a half a world away?  It won’t even fill up my gas tank.

Today, I know the answer.

A few hours after my heart was wrenched from my chest at Diana’s home, I spent the afternoon with her at the Compassion Center.

I haven’t been at a place more full of joy in a long time.

I saw her as she sat and listened to the story of the woman at the well.

I saw her eat a bowlful of nourishing rice and chicken.

I visited her class and did the hokey pokey with her in Spanish.

I boogied with her at a traditional dance festival.  (Don’t worry, mamacita’s still got moves and they may well be even better in Nicaragua!)

I read her file and saw the picture of her when she graduated from kindergarten.

I looked at her medical papers and saw the free care she received when she was sick.

I saw a list of things she’s been given so far, such as school supplies, birthday gifts, and a school uniform.

I saw that $38 a month changes everything in Diana’s life.

$38 has built a bridge from a man-made lake in Bean Station to a dusty road in Managua.

$38 has broken my heart a hundred ways to Sunday.

But this day will shine  a like a beacon in my memory—the day the Father brought His daughters together, to show them both how much He loves them.

I thought I was bringing the gifts today.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

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There are 31 of Diana’s  friends who need sponsors. I would be so honored to work and pray alongside you at Center NI-186, Arms of Love. Let’s sponsor all 31 today.  I know we can.  I love you all and I promise you that what may seem like your way of caring for a child in need is really Christ’s way of caring for you. He’s always works crazy like that.

Thank you in advance, for bringing love in the flesh.  You remind me so much of Him.

My other posts from the trip…….

A Good Place to Start, Nicaragua Day 1

When a Father Loves His Daughters, Nicaragua Day 2

Open My Eyes, Nicaragua Day 3

Obediente, Nicaragua Day 4

I’ve Got You, Nicaragua Day 5

Home

And a video of my favorite memories……

Hope is the thing with feathers,  That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,  And never stops at all.

We drove 2 hours to a city dump, just outside Leon.  The smoldering decay looked like the leftovers of an apocalypse.  Smoke rose up in twisted rings, like the Devil himself had been puffing on a big cigar. There were pockets of people, digging through the rubble, hoping to salvage enough trash to survive another day.

My stomach turned inside out as I got out of the van.

A herd of cattle  slogged right through the dusty devastation and a man-boy in a red shirt on a skinny horse led the charge. He would have made Marlboro Man proud. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched him sit up tall and do the work of an able ranch hand.  I’m guessing he was 12 or 13.

Emaciated dogs tore through heaps of God-only-knows-what, while a handsome fella tried his best to restring an old plastic yellow guitar.  Maybe he knew something about the hope that perches in the soul.  Maybe his little sister did too, because she offered to let him use her necklace as one of the strings.  It didn’t take him long to hear the music and he knew just what to do.

We talked to their grandmother, who has been eeking out a bleak existence at this dump for 22 years.  I could hardly fathom her life but she told her story with honor and looked us right in the eyes as she defended the only way of life she’d ever known. This is how she feeds her family.  This desolate place is where she begins every day of her life; without food, without shelter, without the most basic of human needs.

I was so haunted by  the metaphor of this trash heap, by the decay, the smell and the hopelessness of it all.

This is what separation from Christ looks like.  This is Gehenna.  This is hell on earth.

This is where we all start.  And this ash heap is where He finds us and saves us.  Every last one of us.

This is a good place to start, because He is the God who conquered death and hell.

A few hours later, a lady who makes her living at the city dump, Inez, was gracious enough to invite us into her home.  She invited us right in—without hesitation, without apologizing for the dirt floors or ducks waddling through the make-shift living room.  She pulled up four plastic chairs and smiled the entire time. She showed us the horse that pulls her cart to the dump, her dogs,  her shiny green parrot, and her beautiful daughters.  The look on her face while she talked about her girls was priceless.  Her youngest daughter Sarah, is sponsored by Compassion, which means that some of the burden for Inez is relieved.  She uses to extra to buy  food for the rest of the family.  She showed us pictures of Sarah’s sponsor and shy little Sarah told us she wants to be a lawyer someday.  The parrot ruled the roost, as it perched right on Inez’s shoulder, as she talked.  I wondered why someone whose daily life looks this bleak would want a parrot around?  It seemed kinda pointless, really.

But then I remembered that  hope isn’t always easy to find.  Sometimes, it comes disguised as a little thing—a dusty yellow guitar lying in an ash heap  or a pretty green parrot, eating rice from a red stool.

Sometimes, it sneaks in and takes the form of a sip of water or five loaves of bread or even funny shapes of silly bands.

But many still wait—daring to believe that the world will see and not forget.

That hope is still coming.

Sponsor a child today for $38 and give them more than hope.  Give them Christ and all the gifts He brings.

Give them the kind of hope that is eternal and ‘never stops at all.’  Hope that turns ashes to beauty,  little to much and strangers to friends.

Want to change the world?  Sponsor a child.

Click here to support a child today!

Follow the other compassion bloggers here!  Christy and Kelly met their sponsored children today, with tears flowing.  I get to meet Diana tomorrow and I can hardly wait!

This place is hard to leave.

And it’s not just the beautiful people and the beautiful sunsets and the stacks of books I love here.

It’s the place where I know who I am and what I was made to do.  It’s home, in every perfect sense of the word.

It’s the place where my gifts intersect with my passions.

It’s my sweet spot, where I’ve found a place to work and love and play.

It’s here that I’ve learned to live out my vocation with all its lovely mess, learning day by day to love the neighbors that are nearest.  I work hard and love tender and still find plenty of ways to need lots of forgiveness. And these dear ones are gracious in hearing my confession.  They reach out with His mercy and love me well.

But down there, I don’t know where I fit, just yet.  I’m worried I won’t know how to help, what to say.  I fret that the love He’s been growing in my heart these past few months won’t find its way to them.  I find myself desperately lacking all the good things I wanted to be ready to give.  It’s my own poverty that scares me to death.

So. I read Life Together: The Classic Exploration of Faith in Community (by Bonhoeffer)  again and it helped me remember that our fellowship with all the others in our life starts in Him.  He bids us draw near by way of His cross and He will make us enough.  My confession is truer than I even know.  Not only am I lacking all good things but my heart is deceitful and wicked and no one can know the depths of its depravity.  Saying this truth out loud brings me comfort because now I must depend on Him, trust in Him to do what I, in my sin and doubt, cannot.  I come empty, praying He fills me.  I come lonely, praying for the fellowship of his saints.  He will take my feeble offerings and make them holy.  He will honor what I have disparaged.  He will multiply the gifts and everyone will be full.

Am I ready?

No.  I’m so not ready.

But, I stand in good company with those who were unsure, doubtful, fearful, and  ill-equipped, and went anyway.

This time tomorrow, I’ll be on the other side of a giant wall;  a wall made of oceans and money and governments and  wars.  I’ll be on the other side of what separates our world from theirs.

My prayer is that Christ will give us ears to hear and eyes to see;  that He will make us know that what unites us is so much more powerful than what divides us.

May we find that our home was in Him, all along— as we seek to bring our brothers and sisters into His safe and loving care.

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I’ve packed my handmade gifts for the families we sponsor.

And a few goodies for my new blog friends.

I’m hoping my suitcase will shut. 🙂

AND, I’ll be listening to some Broken Ocean and studying my Scrabble dictionary as I wait anxiously to meet my fellow travelers in Houston!

Thank you for your every note, email, text, and message of encouragement.  You have NO IDEA how much it means to me.  I am so blessed to feel your love and support and to go bearing your love to the people of Nicaragua.

Pray for safe travels.

See you on the other side.

xoxo,

edie