What’s your mother’s name?
With Mother’s Day coming up, I’ve been reflecting on how much this question really matters. It’s not that a mother’s name is particularly important unto itself; it’s more that the name embodies a woman, a woman with a unique story, a woman who no matter what story she lives every day is deeply connected with her children (and maybe even children that she has not physically given birth to). (more…)
It’s hard to believe my boy, Edison, is 13 months now. He’s toddling around the house at different speeds with various amounts of control, experimenting with new and unusual crash techniques. It’s quite entertaining.
He can talk now, too. Hat, book, what and it’s impossible to forget his absolute favorites, hi, dog and ruff-ruff (of course spoken with a slight growl). I wish you could hear his little kid voice yelling all these words with abandon to anyone who will listen.
He uses his favorite words at very specific times. Whenever out and about, most anyone anywhere will hear his request for attention from strangers because of his very loud and clear hi!
But his real favorite is dog. It’s usually the first thing he says when he wakes up in the morning, and just to make sure I understand what he said, he will add a ruff-ruff for good measure.
It’s amazing to think that just a few months ago he literally couldn’t do anything.
Over the last several months, since I entered back into life after Edison’s birth, I’ve been volunteering in my church’s nursery. I typically take care of the newest babies, which is a great reminder of how far Edison has come, but even more it’s a great reminder of just how vulnerable babies are – which brings me to Carmen.
I met Carmen after a hike up a steep hill on a dirt path in the outskirts of Lima, Peru. All the while I was going up I kept wondering how far I would have to traverse to actually make it down the hill without falling.
Carmen knows this path well. She climbs it often. She climbed it when she was pregnant and she climbs it now with a 5-month-old in her arms. She climbs it because it is the only way to get to her house. (more…)
I was driving to work the other day and was blessed to hear one of my favorite songs, “He Reigns” sung by the Newsboys. I’m not sure how old the song is but every time I hear it I actually see in my mind the African plains.
For some reason the song just reaches all the sensory parts of my brain. I can smell the Amazon rain and hear the song rising over the noise. It makes me want to sing louder and love deeper in a way that I don’t always connect with on a daily basis.
Why? I don’t exactly know, but there is something extremely powerful to me in this song and the thought of coming together with other believers around the world in a grateful choir singing “Glory, Glory, Halleluiah, He reigns, He reigns.” It gives me chills.
It’s the song of the redeemed rising from the African plain.
It’s the song of the forgiven drowning out the Amazon rain.
The song of Asian believers filled with Gods holy fire.
It’s every tribe, every tongue, every nation, the love song born of a grateful choir.(chorus)
And all Gods children singing glory, glory, halleluiah, He reigns He reigns. (2x)Let it rise above the four winds, caught up in the heavenly sounds.
Let praises echo from the towers of cathedrals to the faithful gathered underground.
With all the bells rung from the dawn of creation some were meant to persist.
With all the bells rung from a thousand steeples, none rings truer then this.
And this is my favorite part.
and all the powers of darkness tremble at what they’ve just heard, cause all the powers of darkness can’t drown out a single word.
On that particular morning, the lyrics choked me. I kept picturing myself singing “glory, glory, halleluiah, He Reigns . . .” as a part of the grateful choir around the world like I normally do. Only this time I was holding my 16-pound little boy, Edison who is four and a half months old and standing next to a woman from West Timor holding her 15-month-old little girl, Maria, who weighs 10 pounds and hardly has the strength to eat. I couldn’t even sing with this thought in my mind.
I probably should have pulled over and parked so I had the time to sob before Jesus about this powerful picture and ask what He would have me do about it today, in this moment. Sadly, I didn’t take the time to do that as I was in a hurry, of course . . . but I suspect it won’t be long that I can outrun that time with Jesus. I know it’s coming.
For now I’m ever more grateful that Compassion allows me to do something for the women standing beside me (figuratively speaking) around the world with their babies . . . other women who don’t even know Jesus yet, women who can’t write their name and have to beg for food to feed their babies or worse than that have to watch their babies die from starvation, malnutrition, diarrhea, or whatever other illness claims their lives.
I know that I can love these women in a tangible way through Compassion’s Child Survival Program. I know that I can help churches in their area reach out to them and offer not only needed health resources and nutrition but a different life, an opportunity — and not just one but multiple opportunities. Opportunity and success helps women become more confident and confident women can raise more confident children.
Thank you Newsboys, and whoever wrote that song, for staying open to the Spirit of Jesus. I think somehow it is a picture of heaven to me. I know that I want more people in the grateful choir with me holding cute babies.
There’s a journal sitting on the table next to my bed. There’s also one sitting on the table next to the rocking chair in Edison’s room. I have one to write my thoughts and feelings through my pregnancy and the other to journal through the first few months and years of Edison’s life.
Would you be surprised if I told you they were both empty?
Maybe someday I’ll regret not writing more during my pregnancy and this time as a new mom, but right now all the inspiring thoughts I can get out of my pen go in Edison’s baby book . . . and most of the rest of my thoughts, before he was born, weren’t that inspiring.
For some reason I just can’t write about how awful I felt trying to sleep every night in my bed with my every craving available in my refrigerator downstairs, or at the very least, at the neighborhood grocery store. I seriously don’t even want to try to remember the number of nights I tried to sleep in a sitting-up position in a soft comfy chair because my nose was so stuffed up I couldn’t breathe — and I didn’t even have a cold. As much as I want to complain, and probably did at the time, I know I really had it easy.
And the stuff I want to remember . . . like how cool it was to feel him kicking around inside me and how it is just a little freaky and amazing that God can even do such a miracle in me . . . would be really hard to “get” from words on a page. Right now, I remember these things every time I look at my son’s face and see that he is growing right before my eyes.
So, who am I to regret not doing something so indulgent as writing all this stuff down when most of the new mothers around the world can’t even read, let alone write their own name? Many of these women wouldn’t even believe that their words counted or their thoughts mattered. And I wonder, is it possible to raise a child with self esteem if you don’t have it yourself?
And really, how am I so different from them anyway? Don’t all mothers everywhere want the same things for their children? I still remember the first time Edison smiled at me on purpose. Now I even get to hear him laugh. Can you imagine not hearing your child laugh?
Child Survival Program multiplies the amazing sound of laugher around the world. It is the sound of health, it is the sound of life, it is the sound of Love . . . the kind Jesus was known for.
Last month, I was reviewing the next newsletter that will be sent to people who support our Child Survival Program. I wasn’t too far into it when the tears started coming. Ok, so it isn’t completely unusual for me to cry while doing my every day work … I mean I do work at Compassion. But this time was different.
This time I could hear my son’s giggle, I could picture his face and I knew that if I had been born in one of Compassion’s ministry countries, most likely neither my son nor I would be alive today.
To think of my now very active, 14 pound, 3 month old and to read about Martha in Peru who, at one time, had two boys (18 months and 3 years old) both of who were 15 pounds and barely able to hold their heads up — an 18 month old that is 15 pounds is one thing but a 3 year old that is 15 pounds. … are you kidding me?
And Edison, my sweet Edison, who was born by c-section after hours of labor that went nowhere will probably be 15 pounds in a few weeks … an average weight for a four-month-old boy in the U.S.
It’s a miracle that a small number of women and children in these circumstances actually survive. How can I not do everything I can possibly think of to tell others about what Compassion’s Child Survival Program is doing?
How can I not pray that this program can grow and grow and grow? So the children around the world growing up along with the amazing boy God has blessed me with will have the opportunity to reach their potential.
In a world with a growing global economy it is no longer about children and mothers who are far away, it’s about my next door neighbors … it’s about my own child.
And it is not just about survival it’s about women and children thriving so that they can change their own communities and countries and build a better world.
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