This news came to me via text message.

“He didn’t make it. He died.”

My friend, Laura, had lost her father. A sudden heart attack took his life just two weeks before Christmas. It shook all of us. He was young and healthy.

How could something like this happen?

Fourteen hundred miles away, little Gloria, a sponsored child in Kenya, lost her grandfather. She was already without a father and now the list of loss grows. What good could come from yet another sorrow?

What words are appropriate for the grief Laura’s family is experiencing? And what comfort can be offered to a sponsored child like Gloria who loses a caregiver or a loved one?

How do you give thanks in the midst of overwhelming grief?

My honest fear is that my journey of gratitude, sparked by Ann Voskamp’s book, One Thousand Gifts, will continue to go well for me — until an extreme sorrow comes my way. And I know such sorrow will come, because death is part of every life.

Not for a minute do I believe God wants us to shove the hurt and pain aside just so we can pretend to be thankful, to paste on a fake smile and act like everything is okay. But I do believe that what God wants from me is the confidence to bring all of the tough questions, the heartbreak and anger, to Him.

If I can continue to trust Him in the midst of deeply painful, deeply broken places, that is a gift.

If I can continue to learn more about Christ’s heart in the midst of horrific times, that is a gift.

So today, as I grieve for my friends’ losses, I ask God to infuse in me more of His character. I ask for more of His heart so that I can trust Him when those unimaginable times come for me.

Thankfulness is recognition of who He is, no matter what life offers.

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates

Without a doubt, our current society lacks role models. Many children in Honduras are raised only by a mother and sometimes by grandparents and, as a result, boys and girls grow up in an environment with poor discipline and direction.

In most cases, character is formed on the streets through the practice of bad habits and contact with negative influences that unfortunately take the lives of these boys and girls through the path of delinquency, gangs and crime.

This is precisely the issue that concerns the church in Honduras and that is why our ministry and the church are working together to shape the character and discipline of many boys and girls in the city of El Progreso.

Located in the north coast of Honduras, El Progreso is an emerging town founded in 1927 as a banana trade center. El Progreso grew in the 1970s into a commercial and transshipment center for Caribbean ports.

El Progreso is also the home of five child development centers and a Taekwondo training center that is benefiting more than 250 children through a Complementary Intervention. This extraordinary activity is getting the attention of boys and girls and is a valuable tool that is helping to improve each child’s character.

Every boy and girl is told from the beginning that Taekwondo is a discipline that shows ways of enhancing their life through training of the body and mind; in other words, the right way to use all parts of the body to stop fights and help to build a better and more peaceful world.

According to the instructor Duman, everything started in this city with the visit of a generous Korean man who resides in the United States and comes to Honduras every year to share his Taekwondo knowledge with the young people. Duman was involved from the very beginning and was trained by Master Young along with other young people who are now serving as instructors.

Duman started as a tutor and has conducted the Taekwondo training for kids at the Niño Nuevo en Cristo Student Center for one year.

“This has been a wonderful experience for boys and girls, certainly a great opportunity for the kids to stay in good shape and also keep their minds busy in the sport.”

Children who participate in Taekwondo training have responsibilities and duties to fulfill in order to continue with the course: be punctual with schoolwork, respect everybody, and attend church and the child development center, among others.

Boys and girls are told that it is an honor to be part of the training, a wonderful experience that will not only prepare them to face a hostile situation but also to help them to set rules and goals in life. Parents strongly support these classes because they are keeping their children away from bad things.

Johnny started practicing Taekwondo two months ago with the rest of the boys and girls from his child development center. Like everything new in their lives, children enjoy wearing the Taekwondo clothing and attending the training sessions. Even though there is so much exercise to do, kids are always willing to go through these sessions.

“This is just the beginning, and I know that with the time it will require us to work and practice hard, but I look forward to it because I’m enjoying it very much.”

Johnny is 12 years old and lives with his parents. Currently in 6th grade, he attends the center twice a week where he learns about the sacrifice of Jesus for the sins of mankind. This is also where Johnny opened his heart to the Lord.

Johnny is a white belt just like his friends, but is determined to work hard in order to earn a yellow belt.

For Denilson and his mother, life has been difficult. Denilson lost his father two months ago because of the dangerous living conditions in the city, but the child development center has been with them all the way. Denilson is also 12 years old and is participating in this training where he has found the space to release the tension and anger of losing his father.

Jaison is a bright 10 year old boy who has been training for one year. He is now a green belt and is excited about what is coming up in his life. Jaison comes to the center every Friday and Saturday morning.

“I have learned about the life of Jesus, songs and Bible verses, also to keep a good testimony and to do well to everybody.”

Purple belt Sonia has been practicing Taekwondo for a year now and improves each day through hard work. Sonia, like the rest of the children, also opened her heart to the Lord and learned many things at the child development center.

“I have learned that the Bible is inspired by God and that we have to respect everybody; also we are all God’s children, He loves us and He has a special plan for everybody.”

Kensy and her friends practice almost every day at home but also come to church at least twice during the week for approximately two hours to practice, which is also the case for Luis. Luis tells us,

“This discipline has kept me away from other things, which is good. Instead of spending so much time in front of the television set, I’d rather improve my movements.”

Every Wednesday and Saturday, several groups of children from different child development centers meet in their respective churches for weekly training. Kids ages 5 to 16 attend regularly to improve their skills and to get in good physical condition.

The change has been overwhelming in the children’s attitude and behavior; it has been simply a great strategy to bring out the best of every child and to fulfill the Word of God:

“Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.” — Proverbs 22:6, KJV

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World AIDS Day 2011 is about zero new HIV infections, zero discrimination and zero AIDS-related deaths.

Depending on how you look at it, and taken individually, those could be small things to accomplish, or they could be pretty big things, beyond our ability to achieve.

When talking with friends, I’ve come across a few things that are just too big for me to comprehend. I don’t understand the vastness of the universe. I don’t get how it’s supposedly constantly expanding.

How is that possible if there is no edge?

I don’t grasp the concept of time going on for eternity in each direction. These things boggle my simple mind.

And then, there are some things that are so SMALL they are beyond my comprehension. I don’t understand how something so tiny that it can only be seen through a microscope can cause irreversible damage to the human body.

Yet, to date, over 33 million people — spread out on every continent — are struggling with a tiny little terrorist in their blood streams, attacking healthy cells, breaking down the person’s immunity … and no one knows how to stop it.

I’m talking, of course, about HIV/AIDS.

This past summer, a few reports came out that scientists have discovered a new, breakthrough treatment for HIV/AIDS. I’m so glad there are people out there who can comprehend the small things beyond my grasp.

I’m glad there are those who spend their careers constantly peering through microscopes to take on the dangers the rest of us cannot see.

Regardless of my limitations, there is one thing I do understand: There are over 16 million children who have been orphaned because of this terrible disease.*

16,600,000.

I want you to see the whole number. That’s how many little boys and girls have lost mommy or daddy to the invisible invader.

If HIV/AIDS was a masked intruder, we’d do whatever it takes to put him behind bars. If it was a government, we’d demand invasion until the leaders were toppled and the children freed. If HIV/AIDS were anything our minds could grasp, we wouldn’t sleep until they were gone for good.

Tomorrow is World AIDS Day 2011. Please join me in praying for the 5,000 people who will die today, tomorrow, and every day after, because of HIV/AIDS.

I ask that you say a prayer for the millions of children who will lose a parent and the millions of others who will lose a son, daughter, friend or relative.

And please pray for those who comprehend the small things. Pray for those who are fighting to stop this awful pandemic. Pray they receive wisdom, insight and opportunity.

Sometimes the small things … are very big things indeed.

*Source: USAID

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Sometimes you have friends you feel at home with the moment you meet them. You shake hands, and turn a corner into a forever kind of friendship you somehow just know will stand the test of distance and time and hardship. I don’t know how it happened, or why, but the second Brian reached out to shake my hand, I knew that’s what we’d be.

We spent two summers side by side, teaching kids and teens about the Gospel as camp counselors. Together, with eight other counselors, we worked through hundreds of chapel services, roasted marshmallows, and campers who had lost their toothbrushes.

After camp we kept in touch, even though life started looking a little different for both of us. I moved to Colorado and got married. Brian decided to follow his passions and moved to Afghanistan for a season.

On August 5, 2010, Brian was doing some work with a humanitarian aid organization in Afghanistan. His group was attacked, and many of them died, including Brian.

This news devastated me. All of a sudden I couldn’t understand why the world was still spinning, the sun was still shining, people were still working. I wanted to run out into the middle of a busy intersection with a megaphone and start yelling,

“Hey! Don’t you people understand we’ve just lost one of the most awesome guys here on earth? Why do you act like everything’s still normal?”

But I didn’t. Instead, I started looking for things to do to stem my grief. And I prayed. A lot.

Around this time the first child I ever sponsored through Compassion departed the program, so I began to look for another child.

For a long time I didn’t feel like I could sponsor any of the kids I saw, which is weird for me. I usually want to sponsor every kid I see.

After a couple months I saw one little boy on the “longest waiting” list. His name was Brian. So I clicked for more information. That’s when God’s attention to detail totally blew my mind.

This little boy shared a first name with my friend. He also shared a middle name with my friend. And he was born the first week my friend and I had started working together. I sponsored him and decided I would visit him someday, no matter what.

Someday came a lot faster than I expected when an invitation to join a sponsor tour showed up in my inbox after a couple months. I tried to put it off and told myself hundreds of excuses. Ultimately I booked the trip in a moment of insanity the day of the deadline, hoping it was the right decision.

When we received the trip itinerary, I thumbed through it, hoping we might visit Brian’s student center or something like that.

When I got to the last page about meeting our sponsored children, I cried. God was working in my grief. The day I would meet my little Brian would be one year exactly after my friend Brian died.

As the trip grew closer and closer, my mind filled with doubts. What if I got sick? What if I couldn’t eat the food? And, worst of all, what if Brian didn’t like me?

That question hovered in my mind for the entire trip, almost suffocating me with the implication that God might not be big enough to handle that particular detail. There was no reason so believe such a thing, but Brian was 7 years old. And 7-year-old boys think girls are icky. Right?

I was so nervous I almost threw up waiting in line to meet our sponsored kids. The pressure was intense: the pressure to be liked, the pressure for this to work, the pressure to honor my friend’s life and death through a new friendship.

And then they called my name. I walked through the doorway begging God to make this boy smile at me just once so the whole trip wouldn’t be for nothing.

Suddenly, this 7-year-old boy came barreling towards me and rocketed himself into my arms. The first thing I noticed was his hair. My little Brian had the same haircut as my dear friend.

I totally lost it, weeping and grinning all at the same time. He wrapped his arms around my neck and didn’t let go. All I could think was, Thank you, God.

On August 5, 2010, I lost one of my dearest and most treasured friends on earth. On August 5, 201,1 a little boy who shared his name and his haircut leaped into my arms and my heart forever.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ashley Mays and her husband live in Colorado Springs where she enjoys rock climbing, playing the guitar, and writing. You can find out more about Ashley on her website at: www.ashley-mays.com.

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates

Have you ever had a monumentally bad week? I’m not talking about running late, forgetting to turn off the sprinklers sort of bad, but an epic week that shifted your normal and changed everything? Last September, I had one of those weeks.

My very bad week began with the worst kind of phone call. One of my college roommates died in a car crash that morning. It was just months before her wedding.

Days later in my newly married community group, I watched a dear friend and Air Force officer weep as he looked deployment square in the face while holding his two-week old baby girl.

And then I got a letter from Compassion.

Weeks before, I learned that one of our Compassion kids, Kevin, had been removed from the sponsorship program. His mom had a good job, and he didn’t need us anymore.

We rejoiced with him and with his mother who was finally able to provide for her son, and we prayed for the new child who would greet us in the mail and take a place among the photos on our bulletin board of Compassion kids past and present. When the letter arrived that week, we met our new little guy through a cartoonish worksheet he had filled in about himself with crayons and pen.

Ezra indicated he was from Indonesia, average height, average weight, enjoyed school and loved his family.

In the last section of the sheet, tucked on the back page, he got to ask us something. There was just room for one question to these strangers on the other side of the world.

“Do you get to eat every day?”

There it was. A punch in the stomach. The ache for him. The knowledge that he had seen hunger. He had known it. The understanding that he got a chance to ask us anything, and he chose that question.

Three great tragedies – death, separation, poverty – all in one week.

I was down for the count, lost and overwhelmed. The world was too filled with grief, and my contribution wasn’t going to make a dent in it.

But in the days that came after, I saw friends and families swarm my college roommate’s grief-stricken family. People helped meet her family’s needs, provided council and casseroles, and sat through the long, tear-filled silences.

In all sorts of ways, they were the bringers of compassion, loving on parents who had lost a child, sisters who had lost a sibling, and a fiancé whose whole life changed.

We rallied around our friend who was to be deployed. He left knowing his wife and daughter had a dozen families ready to lend a hand – a dozen men to call for plumbing emergencies, a dozen girls to have movie nights with, a group of moms to turn to for mothering tips, and a lawn that would be faithfully mowed every week so his wife never looked like she was temporarily husbandless.

And then there was our Compassion child.

Yes, Sweet Boy, we get to eat every day, I whispered to his little kid handwriting.

But still, compassion comes at a cost.

My husband and I drive old cars. We only go to the dollar theatre, and we don’t have cable TV. The realities of our budget elicit an occasional pity party when I see a friend’s new family-friendly SUV and am reminded that we don’t have a nest egg big enough to start a family.

But we eat every day.

Is the cost to sponsor a child a sacrifice? Yes.

Will it break us? Nope.

But without our monthly commitment, Ezra could be the one to break.

For me, sponsorship means less grande, three-pump, no water Chai Tea Lattes. For him it means an introduction to Jesus, clean water, a belly full of food and a head full of knowledge from school.

Or as Christ said it – hope and a future.

We live in a world of blistering hurts and festering, generations-long injustices. God, in his sovereignty, lets us help ease suffering and right wrongs, and in the process, we’re changed too.

It’s easy to be overwhelmed and to be sure that nothing you do will make a dent. When I was in that place, God used the question of a little boy to remind me that only He could save the world, but in the process, He would use my little contribution to make a difference in the world of one child.

It was an awful week of tragedies followed by months of hope as God brought a community of people around the hurting and reminded us all that we get to be used by Him. The sacrifice becomes the gift, and amid the suffering, we can be the bearers of compassion.

I hope that someday when Ezra becomes a father, and his child gets to ask just one question to people on the other side of the world, it won’t be the same one we were asked.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sarah Warren is a writer who works in public relations for a university. She is also a newlywed who lives in Oklahoma with her husband, Kevin. When Sarah learned that Kevin sponsored several Compassion kids, she decided it would be nice if he asked her to marry him.

If you’re interested in writing a guest blog post, we are happy to consider publishing it. Read our guest blog post guidelines.

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates

When I reached the lady at Compassion, she told me the startling news. Our sponsored child, Mutuyimana Valentine, had just died. They did not yet have any details to share as they had just received the report from the field.

I went into my old paramedic mode and stoically asked a bunch of questions. There were no answers as to WHY at this point. That response might come in a week or so. But it almost did not matter.

The precious girl whom I had hugged in Rwanda last October was dead. Her mother and father had lost her, and she was only 11.

After five minutes of conversation, I hung up, and I became “un-stoic,” if that is a word.

Sad, sad, SAD.

The little shy girl who we had exchanged letters with and had “adopted” was dead, and I felt extremely sad. I wondered about her parents and her siblings and her funeral. I wondered why she had to die so early.

Compassion had completed health screenings on her, and she had no major health issues.

I began to question … why had I not written her more? I was thankful we had met in person.

I was grateful our church provided the Bible on an MP3 player that I gave to her during our personal visit. I had asked the Compassion worker to make sure she got into the Word and to remind her how to use the machine we gave her.

How many kids in the world die because there are not enough antibiotics? Or no doctors available for them? Or because their families lack clean water or the knowledge to treat illnesses? In Roanoke, if our kids have an infection we just go to the doctor and get medicine. ”All better.”

In Rwanda, especially in rural areas, that is not always the case.

I am so grateful that in her young life, she met the Lord and was trusting in Him. I am so glad God let people halfway around the world know this special little girl.

Write to and pray for your sponsored child.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Quigg Lawrence is a Compassion sponsor from Roanoke, VA, where he currently lives with his wife, Annette. Quigg is the senior pastor of the Church of the Holy Spirit and enjoys photography and any sport where you get to hit something.

If you’re interested in writing a guest blog post, we are happy to consider publishing it. Read our guest blog post guidelines.

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates

Recently, I traveled to our Compassion Canada office for a week of meetings. But instead of sitting in meetings all day, I found a very tricky way of getting out of them: I came down with appendicitis.

Appendicitis doesn’t sound that scary, but when you’re pregnant — much scarier.

Thankfully, I was blessed to be in a developed country near one of the best ob-gyn facilities in the area. I had a quick operation, and my baby came through like a kicking champ (kicking all my sore spots, that is). I’ve never been so keenly aware that access to reliable, safe medical care is a tremendous blessing.

A week later, I sat in my home and worked on a report from one of our Child Survival Programs in La Paz, Bolivia. As the staff at this program interviewed mothers to be registered, they heard repeatedly how many of the moms had already lost one or two children. One mother, Lucia, has experienced the death of three children.

According to local data, 113 children out of 1,000 die before they are 5 years old. That’s more than 10 percent.

I can’t imagine the pain and devastation of losing one child.

A good friend of mine recently lost her baby, and some days the waves of grief that come over her make the most basic life functions unbearable. Imagine losing three children.

Nancy, the director of this CSP program, knows how hard it is for these mothers.

“One might think that since the moms have so many children, losing one doesn’t affect them, but that’s not the case. The moms feel that loss.”

It can be easy to subtly or even subconsciously assume that mothers in other countries are somehow different from us or that they feel things differently than we do. But that’s a lie.

They face their own unique challenges (that I certainly cannot understand) but they feel the same heartache that any human would feel.

The challenges in this particular community go deeper than just a lack of medical care and the emotional scars it has wrought.

Sometimes we would like to think that implementing a program is like waving a magic wand. A couple of swishes of the wand and “Ta da!” everything is better. Unfortunately, that’s not how it works — as any of our thousands of field workers can tell you.

Many of the mothers who live in this Bolivian community moved here from remote Andean regions. Many are illiterate and have little education. They grew up knowing only home remedies for sickness and don’t trust doctors or health clinics. In this community, the battle isn’t so much providing medical care for babies as it is educating the mothers to accept medical care.

According to Rosa, CSP program coordinator,

“When children get sick, the mothers usually treat them with home remedies because that is what they have learned. They don’t trust doctors. Even though their child might be dying, they take the risk of using only herbs because they aren’t in the habit of taking [children] to the doctor.”

Even among mothers who have the benefit of being in the Child Survival Program, it can be difficult to get them to seek and receive urgent medical care when it’s needed.

When it comes to childbirth, the mothers in our program are accustomed to giving birth alone at home and are resistant to giving birth at a clinic. Unlike home births in much of the developed world, these mothers are often alone — without aid from anyone who knows what to do if the delivery doesn’t go smoothly.

This is one of the factors that has led to such a high infant- and maternal- mortality rate, and why Rosa is worried about the moms. She doesn’t want to see any of them or their children die.

When asked what she would like us to pray for, she asks for prayer for the births:

“Please pray for the pregnant mothers. I worry about them. They don’t know how their childbirth is going to go because they always have their children at home because they don’t trust the health centers at all. So I would ask the supporters to pray for the childbirths.”

Would you join me in praying for all the mothers in the Child Survival Program, that they would give birth to healthy babies and accept the support and help they need?

Would you also pray for Child Survival Program workers such as Rosa and Nancy, that God would give them wisdom and discernment to educate and guide these mothers while being respectful of their background and culture?

And would you give thanks that we in developed nations are so very blessed to give birth where we know we have the medical care we need?

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates

I can’t get Vilma, the mother of Special Olympian Emilda Soriano, out of my mind. The other day I glimpsed what it is like to be a mother in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Iloilo City — a neighborhood made for the dead.

Vilma’s shanty is cobbled together on top of a row of tombstones in a public cemetery. I made my way up a steep ladder and entered Vilma’s home — two 6- x 8-foot rooms with rotting wood floors barely able to hold my weight. The ceiling is made from rusted tin pieces. Each hole in the tin is stuffed with tinfoil to keep out frequent downpours.

As I spent the day with Vilma and her family and walked around the cemetery where Emilda often runs to train for the Olympics, I learned that they used to live on top of a crypt in the cemetery.

The owner of the crypt is a family friend who allowed them to live there for five years. Then the crypt owner gave the Sorianos enough money to build their shanty.

I weaved my way through the cemetery toward the crypt and was surprised to see so many tombstones for babies and toddlers. Each mother of each entombed baby had hopes and dreams for her baby, just as Vilma has for Emilda. But poverty cruelly cut each little life short.

Around the world, one child in poverty under the age of five dies about every four seconds. This seems unimaginable. And so unfair.

Each beautiful life was capable of great purpose — but how can a child born into an environment like this overcome sicknesses to survive past age five? As I read each tombstone, I felt less and less hopeful:

R.I.P Baby Boy Conte. Died March 10, 1980. Stillbirth.

R.I.P Marjorie T. Patrona. Born Nov 15, 1994. Died Nov 19, 1994. Family Remembrance.

Jerimie J. Bolvio, Born Aug 26, 1990. Died April 16, 1991.

Joshua G. Bolvio. Born Nov 27, 1996. Died July 24, 1997. Family Remembrance.

Each sweet life. Each hope for a future ended.

Then, as Vilma pointed to the crypt where she and her family had lived, she said this was where she brought Emilda’s younger sister, Glory, home from the hospital.

No brightly painted pink walls. No new crib. No stuffed animals, or books, or Winnie the Pooh blankets. Just a stark-white house for the dead.

It would be easy to give up here. I felt hopeless just walking through the cemetery. Not only has Vilma lived in this unimaginably bleak environment, but she has also heard no her whole life.

When Emilda suffered brain damage at the age of 2, doctors told Vilma no.

“No, your daughter will never get better.”

When Vilma enrolled Emilda in school, her teachers said no.

“No, your daughter will never go beyond kindergarten.”

When children teased Emilda, they said,

“No, your daughter will never amount to anything.”

But Vilma chose to hope. This remarkable woman rose above her stifling circumstances to find hope for her daughter.

Vilma chose to hope that her now-18-year-old daughter, even with the mental capacity of a 3-year-old, could live a life filled with dignity and purpose.

Vilma chose to hope that she — a woman whom others look down upon because she lives in a cemetery and dropped out of school to clean houses at age 13 — has a purpose too.

You helped us help Vilma find her purpose.

You have helped us encourage Vilma to continue to hope. You have helped us provide coaches, testing and money for the fees to help Emilda compete and make it into the Special Olympics Summer Games. And we have worked tirelessly to see that Vilma can go with Emilda to Greece.

The Greek Embassy told Vilma and our Philippines staff that it wasn’t possible for her to get a passport or visa. She has no birth certificate, no identity. Many would say she has no dignity or purpose.

But we chose to hope. After months of paperwork and meetings and even a special plane journey to Manila to meet face-to-face with Greek officials, Vilma got her birth certificate, her passport and a visa to see Emilda compete!

Vilma does not own a suitcase, an extra pair of shoes, or more than a few shirts and pants. Mai, the director of Salem Student Center where Emilda attends, has been gathering clothing donations for Vilma so that she will have clothes to wear while she is in Greece.

Tomorrow, Vilma will leave her home among the dead. Filled with dignity, hope and a purpose. This mother who fought to give her daughter a chance will board a plane and fly to Greece to see Emilda compete for the ultimate chance — to go for the gold in Athens!

UPDATE, June 27: I have a sad update. Unfortunately, I just found out that even though we thought all was approved, Vilma’s visa was denied.

Since Vilma has no bank account, no marriage certificate, and only a recent birth certificate (obtained when she applied for her passport), the Greek Embassy decided that she did not have sufficient evidence to prove that she would return to the Philippines if they allowed her to go to Greece, so they denied the visa.

We’ve been waiting to hear about Vilma for three or so days now. Mai, the center director, stayed in Manila several extra days to go with Vilma to the Greek Eembassy, but it was no use. The embassy staff didn’t believe that Vilma would return home. Mai ended up coming to Greece late early yesterday morning.

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates

I recently received a letter from Ada, my 13-year-old sponsored girl in Honduras. Compassion had sent me a note letting me know that her father had passed away. This letter was the first Ada had written since that time.

My father has died.

Then Ada said something I didn’t know:

Now both of my parents have died.

My heart sank.

I live with my brothers and our grandmother now.

We are thankful that our parents are home with Jesus, but we miss them. My brothers and my grandmother and me, all of us, we miss them so very much. I have an uncle who looks like my dad. Whenever we see him, we remember how much we miss my dad.

Strange how some things don’t get lost in translation. Not at all. A broken heart rarely does.

I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent. I’m blessed that both of mine are still alive and that they choose to be a part of my life. But I do know what it’s like to lose someone you love.

My first experience with the tragedy of the death of someone I deeply loved happened when I was thirteen. It rocked my world, and in so many ways, it shaped and continues to shape me.

So my heart breaks for Ada, a beautiful teenage girl whom I have never met, save through an exchange of letters brokenly translated from Spanish to English and back again. It breaks not because I know her pain, but because I know the pain of a shattered heart.

I know that God can use this experience to draw her closer to Himself. I know He can make something beautiful from a broken world that has been forged together with the fire of His presence.

I also know there is an enemy who would like to use this moment to destroy her. And as Ada’s sponsor, I need to do my part to help make sure that doesn’t happen.

Since receiving her letter, I’ve been praying for Ada a lot. I have also been digging through Scriptures that contain an outpouring of grief from the human soul. The words I keep coming back to are the uncensored and unashamed cries contained in Psalm 77:

I cried out to God for help; I cried out to God to hear me. When I was in distress, I sought the Lord; at night I stretched out untiring hands and my soul refused to be comforted….

You kept my eyes from closing; I was too troubled to speak. I thought about the former days, the years of long ago; I remembered my songs in the night. My heart mused and my spirit inquired:

“Will the Lord reject forever? Will he never show his favor again? Has his unfailing love vanished forever? Has his promise failed for all time? Has God forgotten to be merciful? Has he in anger withheld his compassion?”

And then, after unloading the grief in his heart, the psalmist says this:

I will remember your miracles of long ago. I will meditate on all your works and consider all your mighty deeds. Your ways, O God, are holy.

Never one for covering up his emotions, the writer of this song asks the questions that are burning in his heart. Questions about who God is, his love, his faithfulness, his compassion – in essence, God’s very character.

But then he remembers. He remembers the works and miracles of years gone by. And he remembers: God is good. Tragedy comes. It rocks our world. But God is still good. He is still here. He is still holy. He will still redeem our lives.

And so I pick up a pen to write to Ada and offer what little encouragement I can. I kneel down to pray words of peace over her life. I shed tears over the pain I can feel encompassing her fragile heart.

And I thank God that tragedy will not have the last word in Ada’s life. I trust Him for that.

My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates

How do you say goodbye to a sponsored child who has died? Have you ever had to do that, or to say goodbye to another child in your life?

As with many things, there’s often the thought, “Oh, that won’t happen to me. That sort of stuff only happens to other people.” Then the world shook in Haiti and changed our perspective.

But children don’t just die or get injured in earthquakes. They die from malaria and AIDS. They die from diarrhea and other preventable causes. They die in childbirth and in accidents. And when they die it’s, well, it’s like this:

I can’t explain how one comes to love a child who they hardly know. But I can say that I felt like Akouvi was part of my family. I loved her. And so often in her letters, she told me that she loved me too.

I don’t think I understood the depth of my love for her until February 23. That’s the day that I found out Akouvi had died. That’s the day I felt like something had cracked open inside of me, filling me with red-hot grief. Sadness that burned so fiercely that even my tears could not extinguish it.

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I found myself very distracted the day we heard of his death. I wondered how his family is coping. I wondered what kind of ceremony they would have in Tanzania to remember such a precious child. I wondered if his family realized that his sponsor family was at a loss over what to do.

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My Account l Sponsor a Child l Help Babies and Moms l Crisis Updates