A Slave Set Free

I hopped off the back of the mototaxi and peeked my head in the door of Grace House to surprise her. She hugged me tight and kissed my neck, smiling that wide open smile that I remember from three years ago when I first met her. I hugged her right back and told her how good it was to see her.

And it really was so good. I watched her as she prepared the food for the kids that day and she worked ever so diligently. She thanked me over and over for the opportunity to be here, in this place, working. “The smiles of these kids keep me going every day. Thank you. Really, thank you.”

Pray for Grace House

I sat across the living room from her and I felt like with each word coming out of her mouth, someone was placing another brick on my shoulders.

God brought her here and this journey has been devastating to all that I have ever known. For three years now, our life has been turned upside down.

She told the stories and I just kept thinking, “They’re still out there. All of the other littles are still out there.”

The Savage

I remember very vividly the first time I saw him.

Mariclene had been our breakfast visitor for a while and on occassion she would show up with one of her biological siblings so they could also devour eggs and bread, often their only real meal for the day.

He was butt. naked.

Every time he showed up. Naked.

His long, seemingly highlighted, curly hair reached his shoulders and he had this wild-eyed look on his face at all times. He was about two years old at the time and couldn’t say a single word. He always came toting his little broken riding toy. (And if another child tried to take said toy, screaming and grunting quickly ensued!)

When You Know You Aren't Called

I watched him as he focused so intently on those little circles on the page. His little hand moving slowly but surely.

It felt surreal. This is the same boy who I had little hope for. The one I wrote about just last year and the emptiness in his eyes. And yet here he was, in his little red “House Grace” shirt with a pencil in hand and dedication in his mind.

“How can this be?” I thought to myself. “How is it that God would allow us to do this thing? How is it that He would let us be a part of loving the least of these in this way?”

I remember vividly the conversation that I had with Richard when we began seeing so many needs for these littles running barefoot and wild in the streets every day. Back when they filled our living room every morning and we filled their bellies with eggs and bread and hugged them tight. Richard and I sat together and life was lonely and heavy and doors had already started closing to our aviation dreams and we were wondering what our role was here in the place after all. And I told him that these kids needed a safe place.

“We weren’t called to start a children’s home,” he said. And I knew that was true. After all, {confession} I mostly didn’t even like being around kids that weren’t my own.

And yet, there was still something. The weeks passed and still this lingering thing that there was something brewing in our hearts for these kids and while we weren’t called to run a children’s home, maybe we were in fact called to build one. To facilitate. To empower.

My mind wandered even further back. Back before we moved on the street that changed our lives. Before we saw these sweet faces and met Rosa and our life was forever altered. I was sitting in the kitchen of another missionary. We had only lived in Benjamin Constant for maybe two weeks and we had yet to look for a house. They had taken us in for the time being and were orienting us on the small town we now unexpectedly called home.

“There are a lot of abandoned kids here,” he told me. “Parents abuse or neglect their kids, but there is no where for them to go. No safe house or orphanage. If fact, there is a surprising high number considering it’s such a small town.”

“Listen up,” I remember distinctly hearing the Holy Spirit whisper to my heart.

It was almost audible. I think I may have even had a look of confusion on my face when I thought, “How in the WORLD does this apply to ME?”

He went on about this need and I listened. And something was nagging at my heart, telling me to remember this conversation.

And now, over three years later, I sit with a little boy as he practices writing letters for the first time. A boy who refuses to go to school and his mom doesn’t care if he eats or has clothes or studies. But here he is. At Grace House under Rosa’s daily care being loved and told that Jesus loves him. That He died for him. That there is hope for him.

I glanced up when I heard a boy call out, “Chico!” Chico looked up and three boys walked by laughing at him.

Chico hung his head and stopped writing.

“Hey, you’re doing great! I’m so proud of you. Look at this “o”! You’re really learning a lot,” I spoke truth over him.  I smiled at him. “You’ve got this.”

He sat up, just a little, and started writing again. He finished moments later and looked up at me with the sweetest grin to show me his work.

“Incredible.”

He scurried off to play and my heart swelled. There is Hope in this place. Hope for Chico and his big sister whose story would break your heart to pieces. There is Hope for every one of the forty plus kids that come through these doors every day. Jesus loves these kids and He has plans for their futures and we get to play a small part.

I know what that feels like, that moment when your peers laugh. They see what you’re doing and they scoff, “They don’t know what their doing! This thing can’t make it. They’re unqualified. They don’t know what they want. They need {insert whatever here that they seem to know that we don’t}.”

Sometimes it makes me want to do just like Chico, hang my head and stop for a while. Maybe they’re right. Maybe this whole thing will crumble apart. Can we really impact an entire town by reaching a few kids? Can we really overcome evil with good?

But the Holy Spirit whispers, “Hey, you’re doing great! I’m with you! This is My work. You get to be a part. Believe Me. You’ve got this because I’ve got you. You were called to this.”

So we put our hands back to the plow and we trust that He who is in us is greater than He who is in the world. And I see Richard, now so passionate about something we were "not called to do". And we know that He did call us to this, even if it was never in our pretty, laid-out plans. His ways are so much higher than our own. He has a purpose and even if we only reach one, that’s enough.

Join us. Join us as we love the least of these. Pray for their souls to know Christ. Pray for Rosa to have strength to endure the trials and faith to carry on, despite opposition. Pray for these volunteers that sacrifice their time and resources every week to love these kids and show them there is Hope and His name is Jesus. Pray for the kids’ lives to be impacted. Pray for the parents’ lives to be impacted. Pray for funds to come in. Pray for the Spirit to open hearts and eyes to the needs here so that they sacrifice and give.

Pray. Give. Believe with us that this little home can make a huge difference for His Kingdom, right here.

Grace from His Fullness

Sitting there in the corner of that little 500 square foot house, I looked around the room at the little faces of the kids that had gathered together that Saturday afternoon, almost thirty of them. It was hot and cramped and little two-year-old Francisco was not happy that his mom had brought him there.

Taiwani sat next to Mariclene and my mind went back to when they ran the streets together. They were like the dynamic duo, stealing fruit from the trees in our back yard and throwing mud at the house when we said it was time to go home. Now Mariclene has been part of our family for a year and a half this month, and oh how she has transformed. But Taiwani still wakes up to the same troubled house she lived in when we first met her two years ago. The stories I know are horrific.

I see the others. This one being raised by her elderly grandmother because her mom didn’t want her and her dad got remarried and his new wife didn’t want her either. This one who will likely not make it to thirteen before she has a baby of her own because all of her four sisters before her have walked that same road. This one who is so selfish and overbearing because her parents give her every last thing that she wants because it’s easier than teaching a child. After all, no one ever taught them.

Then there is little Chico who stands outside the doors all wide-eyed. He refuses to come in because he prefers to “run the streets”. He’s five.

There is Rafaela who has the sweetest little timid voice and I swear she hasn’t grown an inch these last two years. Her dad is a drunk, but her mama, who can’t read a single word and asks Rosa to count her money because she doesn’t know the difference, works hard to provide for her and her brother and sister, always smiling as she walks several miles to work and back.

And so many others sitting there laughing and coloring and listening and learning. I know pieces of their stories and this room feels so much smaller.

I feel so much smaller.

It’s always made me a little uneasy when I have people tell me that the ministry we do is “amazing” or “incredible” or “awesome”.  

To me it feels heavy and not enough. I feel inadequate and overwhelmed by the needs. I look around and I think, “We could never do enough to change-really, really change--this town.”

I know how weak I am. I know my own faults. How many days I just want to go away, back to the comforts and familiarities of my homeland. Imperfect, unable.

I know Rosa’s family struggles. I see the personal battles she faces and I watch as the “church” criticizes her every move as she seeks to be faithful to the calling He put in her heart twenty years ago. Imperfect, unable.

I know the financial needs. The funds are limited and I feel like we aren’t doing enough but a dollar only stretches so far so we have vitamins to supplement the physical lacking and prayer to increase awareness. Imperfect, unable.

I know the stories of these littles as they file in and out on Saturdays. I know many of the houses they go back to and I wonder, “Does this really even matter?” Imperfect, unable.

And then I hear it. When I step away from myself and all this imperfect, it’s there. That still, small voice again that faithfully reminds me:

“I AM enough.

I AM sufficient.

I AM here.

I AM at work.

I AM the Creator of all things.

I AM the Sustainer of all things.

I AM amazing.

This IS amazing. Because of Me.”

{Or, in the words of Francis Chan, “God says, ‘This is MY party and I invited YOU!’”}

And so I applaud this ministry and say at the top of my voice that YES! this ministry we are a part of IS amazing. YES! the work we do here IS amazing.

Because we are so very weak, but He is so very strong.

Because we can’t see past this difficulty or that obstacle, but He holds the future.

Because we are so far from perfect in our endeavors, but He sees the intentions of the heart.

Because... Grace.

“Indeed, we have all received grace after grace

from His fullness...”
John 1.16

If It Were Me

We drove by her in the taxi today. Her daughter was by my side and I pulled her in closer to me, just in case she had spotted her, too.

I felt it in the pit of my stomach, rising up as it does every time we cross paths. Even if she doesn’t see me, I see her and a wave of emotion overcomes me as I think:

What if that were me?

I glance over at my blonde-haired loves and wonder what it would be like to forget them. To know that they were out there somewhere, but to not really care. I pull my brown-eyed beauty closer still.

And I remember. Grace. That is the only difference.

Because sometimes I am tempted to be angry with her, this woman who gave birth to my daughter. I want to lash out even and say, “How could you?! Don’t you see what you have done? What mother can do that??”

Especially after long days when the thoughts try to enter my mind of how this woman abandoned this girl and now we are left piecing things back together while she goes on merry her way.

But it’s not really like that at all. Not one bit.

Because not too long ago, she was also that broken little girl. She was longing for love and a place to call home. I don’t know much about her, but I imagine she didn’t plan this life this way. I imagine in the beginning she didn’t plan to abandon her own flesh and blood, to leave them begging in the streets.

But she did.

And so will many others. Hopelessness.

And God knows I don’t have the answers to this cycle of hurt people hurting people. It’s a vicious cycle and when you live in the midst of it and you see the kids all around you that are just one short decade from statistically becoming the abandoners instead of the abandonees, it’s overwhelming.

Grace. It’s all there is.

And so we pray for this generation in this little Amazonian town that maybe God would allow us to be a tiny speck of a part in showing them what it can be like when the orphans have a true Father. When the abandonees can grow up to be men and women who love, give, serve, forgive.

God gave us one that is now tightly knit in our family forever.

For three others, He called us to start Grace House for them to find Refuge.

This year, we are praying that we can do even more in this little town to show God’s grace to these littles.

Will you join us? Will you commit to pray for Grace House and the abandoned and abused of this Jungle town?

Let’s be the church and watch as Christ transforms a generation that can impact generations to come.  

Meet Frankie

It was almost 9pm and Richard was coming back from running a late night errand. He would always glance down one of the side roads on our street, trying to catch a glimpse of the kids who frequented our home. Usually they were out playing in the street, dirty as could be, without an adult in sight aside from the occasional drunk man passed out on the side of the road.

This time was no different and he spotted little Frankie running towards him. He recognized his little voice shouting, “Estou com fome!!” (I’m hungry!)

He told me this when he got home and my heart broke just a little more for these kids.

That was more than a year ago now, back when starting a children’s home was just a whisper from the Holy Spirit. Back when we were still trying to ignore that voice because we knew starting a home would be hard and our life was hard enough.

As the months passed, we got closer and closer to Frankie and Rosa told us his story.

Frankie was neglected by his biological parents and was essentially raised on the streets for the first four years of his life by his older siblings. He constantly had open sores on his body and head and his teeth were rotten because his diet consisted primarily of Cheetos and candy.

He would have angry outbursts to the point of being violent at times, evidence of a child longing for someone to guide him. He was defensive, always protecting himself.

About six months ago, Rosa took him into her home. His biological mother signed away her guardianship without a second thought.

Before this time, Rosa was already his primary caregiver, though he still slept at home with his biological mother on weeknights. On the weekends, Rosa would let them sleep in her living room because his parents left him and his siblings home alone to fend for themselves. Rosa would make them meals and give them baths and clean clothes. When he first moved in with her, he still had anger issues. He hated baths and school and would eat until he was sick because he was afraid he wouldn’t have his next meal.

Since that time, he has grown into a strong, happy little boy. He is now six years old and loves to play spiderman and help Richard with the banana trees in our back yard. He’s learned to be polite and control his temper for the most part. He is even learning to read with the help of an afterschool program that Rosa has enrolled him in. He has grown significantly and no longer has the skin issues he once had.

Many of you who have traveled down on trips have met Frankie and you remember him because he brings a contagious smile wherever he goes.

Frankie calls Rosa “Auntie” but he knows she’s really his adoptive mom. Someone once asked him if he wanted to go back to his biological mom. He responded, “No!” When they asked why, he replied, “Because Tia (Auntie) Rosa loves me. She takes care of me.”

And it’s true. Rosa has the gift of caring for these kids as her own, much like God loves us as His own.

 Because Frankie is not Rosa’s biological child, she does not have access to any financial help from governmental programs. If you would like to help support Rosa through sponsoring Frankie monthly, follow this link.

To make a one-time donation to Grace House, click here.

Frankie is the second one from the left. Love this kid!