In a few moments, this place will be silent but for the sound of rain on the clay tile roof. It is the last night the team will be together as all but a few will board planes for home. I took my usual perch on the street tonight and watched little rivers of rain water roll down the slants of the cobble stone street. It is unusually quiet tonight, even with the rain. Antigua makes a beautiful sound at night, silence that is only interrupted by the occasional Tuc Tuc splashing through the rapids that have formed within the low spots of the street. There are no dogs either, and the drunken man who frequents the corner opposite my spot has been absent since nightfall. Inside the hotel, along the open corridors, beside the fountain, in the corner chairs, and in groups of two and three, the team journals, recalls, and committs this weak to their memory. It is always the same on the last evening.
I sit and wonder about the terminal ends of this work and works like it. Where we are certainly wed to Christ through our inner statement of belief, that resting upon our Salvation that His death upon the cross alone brought for us. That death and sin fell short of its reign in man as Jesus' Resurrection silenced both. In the end there is only God, as it was in the beginning, there is only Christ Jesus.
So upon and against this truth I ponder the work of missionaries in the world and still find joy in that, as Paul teaches, faith without works is dead. But therein lays the point of the question I ponder in the rain. Who is being pulled from death?
Is it the little girl in the wheelchair who continues to fill my eyes and crush my heart? Is it the dozens of old men and women who finally see clearly as the read and work? Perhaps the hundreds who, for the first time saw a doctor, and at that, Americano. Is their leap forward into better health what we can say is rescued from the death of faith cast interior without connection to the world? Only God can know such things.
I believe, and perhaps it is only a hollow reflection of my emotive experiences in these parts of the world, that it is we, the missionaries, who are rescued from the spiritual death that all too often awaits us in the bedroom communities of our nation. I love my country and its people and let anyone who claims different be called a liar. But I see something so bleak around us, in our churches, in our halls of fellowship, in our absence from the things that truly matter. Perhaps we come to places like this to dip our toes into the harsher half of the dichotomy of existences, that undeniable valley between have and have not, that is America and the rest of the world.
So what is it we should now do? I wish we had that and a thousand other conversations in our churches today. Perhaps we could push to the left or right our arguments over sound systems, carpeting, and doctrinal styles and embrace the realities of needless, pointless, endless sufferings in the lives of the little ones for whom we loved this week. Jesus said that they are blessed and that, by our position in the valley of dichotomy, it will be easier for the camel to pass through the eye of the needle. So, again, what is it we should do now?
My wife and I spoke at a gathering of Christians some time ago about our experiences together in life, in missions, in our ministry, in our personal struggles. A man asked my quite sincerely after our talk was over, "How would you direct us to pray?" Of course I first said that only the Holy Spirit can direct such things but I offered some suggestions. I told him, "When you go to the faucet in your kitchen and the water is safe to drink, thank God. When your kids come home from school because there is a school to go to, thank Him again. When you eat, and you are full, and you sleep well knowing that you will eat well again in the morning, thank God. But more than anything, never let a day pass without taking your children in hand, holding them tightly and whispering in their ears, I love you."
If nothing changes for us but an increase in our love for those around us then we have satisfied what Christ reported to be the two greatest commandments to first love God with all we are and have and to do the same with each other. I saw great love in small acts this week and some powerful moments in unlikely places. For all the dirt, and pain, and tears, and chaos that enjoin these gatherings of missionaries to the world, there is always Christ within and all around us.
Be well, know love first and last, pray for peace and work for justice, and always know that we are so loved by the Author of our lives, by the God who created you and I. Amen.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Friday, July 16, 2010
Where We Go
It has been a long but joyful week. So much good has been done by so many with so little with such love that to be in the midst of it, watching from the corner of my lens has been a great gift. I love photography. It keeps the content of the world in very clear focus without the tedium and distraction of my own thoughts. I have long tried to explain the experience. When my eye hits the viewfinder there is nothing else but the image in the lens. I here nothing, feel nothing, become nothing but a recepticle for the images. It is pure in its ability to connect. Some have suggested that perhaps the camera is my arms length from the world, a defense that allows for the filtration of the rawest of raw. I disagree. In fact it distills the reality into a gel that is thick and covering and enduring in my mind and in my heart. When I close my eyes and recall the places I have photographed, images race forward from long forgotten faces, stories, tragedies, and joy. Every intentional release of the shutter seems to have embedded a piece of that life into mine. I thank God He gave me this ability and a joy for employing it.
I found myself in the street again today with my rear end planted firmly in the dirt and debrie. I love that place. I just watched the people going by, drank a coca cola and leaned against the shaded corner of a stucco building. I allowed my mind to drift to returning home and the treadmill that waits for me. I began questioning my entry into Seminary wonder what if anything it would do to connect Christ more deeply in my life. I wondered if all of my studies, my reading, my fighting to maintain the GPA is more about avoiding where I know I want to be but am always unsure as to a real calling. I want to write about the lives I photograph. I want to be a vehicle that delivers the grit and dirt of the world outside our illusion to the doorsteps of suburban Christianity. Will Seminary bring me one step closer to that dream?
I hugged a lot of people today that I admire, love, and know I will think about for some time. The little girl in the wheelchair came back today and I prayed from a distance. I was overjoyed to know that a fund has been established for her and even as I write these words my eyes are filled with tears for the love of the men and women who are on this team who's hearts would not allow them to dismiss that little life. I wonder if the love we experience and pour out, that love that is of Christ and nowhere else, can only come from us when we are confronted with the horrors and pain of the world. I wonder if Theology can answer questions like that or if there is a sufficient apologetic to bring it to light.
I did some last minute interviews today. I really disenjoy (my own special word) that method and pace but it is what it is. It was good however to hear the thoughts of those who make up this team and to be re-affirmed that they are good hearted souls who love something more than their own lives. Life should be lived like a mission.
Tomorrow, Diana and I will get lost in the markets of Antigua, an experience we have not shared in this city. No cameras, no video, no water bottle or backpack. I have some little stuffed animals to find for my Jelly Bean and a gift for a dear friend of mine who could not make this trip as he was called home before we left. I have dedicated every image for the love of this man, my friend, my classmate, and my brother in Christ, Brad. I know he would have brought something back for his wife and I think I know what he might have chosen. I pray that my work here has honored God and the memory of my brother.
Let me close this week with a passage that always brings me home: "Jesus said to his disciples, My peace I give, my peace I leave you. I do not give as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Do not be afraid." Amen.
I found myself in the street again today with my rear end planted firmly in the dirt and debrie. I love that place. I just watched the people going by, drank a coca cola and leaned against the shaded corner of a stucco building. I allowed my mind to drift to returning home and the treadmill that waits for me. I began questioning my entry into Seminary wonder what if anything it would do to connect Christ more deeply in my life. I wondered if all of my studies, my reading, my fighting to maintain the GPA is more about avoiding where I know I want to be but am always unsure as to a real calling. I want to write about the lives I photograph. I want to be a vehicle that delivers the grit and dirt of the world outside our illusion to the doorsteps of suburban Christianity. Will Seminary bring me one step closer to that dream?
I hugged a lot of people today that I admire, love, and know I will think about for some time. The little girl in the wheelchair came back today and I prayed from a distance. I was overjoyed to know that a fund has been established for her and even as I write these words my eyes are filled with tears for the love of the men and women who are on this team who's hearts would not allow them to dismiss that little life. I wonder if the love we experience and pour out, that love that is of Christ and nowhere else, can only come from us when we are confronted with the horrors and pain of the world. I wonder if Theology can answer questions like that or if there is a sufficient apologetic to bring it to light.
I did some last minute interviews today. I really disenjoy (my own special word) that method and pace but it is what it is. It was good however to hear the thoughts of those who make up this team and to be re-affirmed that they are good hearted souls who love something more than their own lives. Life should be lived like a mission.
Tomorrow, Diana and I will get lost in the markets of Antigua, an experience we have not shared in this city. No cameras, no video, no water bottle or backpack. I have some little stuffed animals to find for my Jelly Bean and a gift for a dear friend of mine who could not make this trip as he was called home before we left. I have dedicated every image for the love of this man, my friend, my classmate, and my brother in Christ, Brad. I know he would have brought something back for his wife and I think I know what he might have chosen. I pray that my work here has honored God and the memory of my brother.
Let me close this week with a passage that always brings me home: "Jesus said to his disciples, My peace I give, my peace I leave you. I do not give as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled. Do not be afraid." Amen.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Runnin Down a Dream
Another good day with my eye pinned to a viewfinder. I had no video work today so I was able to relax back into my first and greatest love in imaging, pure photography. There is something very special for me in capturing in still life those tiny cross sectional moments in the lives of people around me. To be doing it here again, back in the company of my Maya brothers and sisters is a great gift.
Some of what I filmed today was technical in nature in gathering very specific images of stove construction and floor laying. For the most part I was able to wonder about the homes of those who were being served today and capture the images I think I do best, children in their own environment.
Tomorrow is a great day that begins at 4 a.m. with the sounds of home made explosives, screaming, and the sounds of people running amuck in the street. Curious yet? The have a habit of celebrating Saints days here in Latin America in very overt, extroverted, loud, explosive,.....you get the point. Beginning sharp at 4 a.m some 10-20 feet from our bedroom windoes ( a brilliantly fortunate consequence) large explosives the locals call fireworks will be lit continually for several hours. Now, I know most of you think you have participate in the real "big boys" of fireworks. Who among us hasn't heard uncle Cleophis tell the tall tales of igniting the quarter stick he and his buddy "3 fingers" home made the summer before they both were "taken away." I love that ol yarn. Go home boys. Sure, some of you have served in the armed forces and heard the "big guns." God bless you for your service but please follow Cleophis to the nearest exit. Even now, a few of you recall the first year your folks allowed you to light your first m80. Please, you are embarrassing yourselves.
These boys in Antigua do not play. I have seen first hand what is about to be launched. Large metal tubes hand crafted from abandoned Buicks of the 50's are filled with wads of explosives the size of Howdy Doodies head and jammed into aforementioned tube. What you end up with is what we affectionately refer to as a pipe bomb. The good news is they have constructed hundreds for the celebration. Remember, we will all be dreaming when the celebration begins.
As I recall my my first encounter with this spiritually guided assault on my senses and the fetal position I thus assumed under my bed believing that the end had in fact come and I had somehow missed the assumption, I fear for the emotional well being of my new friends her at the hotel. By now, several parents and spouses are on the phone to Shawn demanding emergency provisions for the safe exit from this location for the loved ones entrusted to his mission. Relax, I am engaging hyperbole folks. (maybe)
Anywho, I say let the party begin. Last year, I was interviewing Shawn on the roof of this very hotel, a really cool shot in most settings, and we were sure the party had ended. A few minutes into the interview we heard a muted boom and a "thing" was lobbed into the air perhaps 10 feet above our heads, finally exploding with the full force of the previously discussed explosives. Oh goody, they had learned to launch the pipe bomb. Oddly, we were both so tired, exhausted you might say, that we didnt leave the roof. I simple took my camera off the tripod, pointed at the sky and waited patiently for the next to arrive, which of course it dead, several dozen times. I love this place. Heck, growing up in Peoria you got hassled for a few bottle rockets and a bic lighter. Here, they celebrate the amateurs excursion into to the realm of of concussive debatury. Ahhhh, these are the good days. Better get to sleep youngsters, Cleophis has been spotted in the area and he's packing powder. This is going to be great.
Some of what I filmed today was technical in nature in gathering very specific images of stove construction and floor laying. For the most part I was able to wonder about the homes of those who were being served today and capture the images I think I do best, children in their own environment.
Tomorrow is a great day that begins at 4 a.m. with the sounds of home made explosives, screaming, and the sounds of people running amuck in the street. Curious yet? The have a habit of celebrating Saints days here in Latin America in very overt, extroverted, loud, explosive,.....you get the point. Beginning sharp at 4 a.m some 10-20 feet from our bedroom windoes ( a brilliantly fortunate consequence) large explosives the locals call fireworks will be lit continually for several hours. Now, I know most of you think you have participate in the real "big boys" of fireworks. Who among us hasn't heard uncle Cleophis tell the tall tales of igniting the quarter stick he and his buddy "3 fingers" home made the summer before they both were "taken away." I love that ol yarn. Go home boys. Sure, some of you have served in the armed forces and heard the "big guns." God bless you for your service but please follow Cleophis to the nearest exit. Even now, a few of you recall the first year your folks allowed you to light your first m80. Please, you are embarrassing yourselves.
These boys in Antigua do not play. I have seen first hand what is about to be launched. Large metal tubes hand crafted from abandoned Buicks of the 50's are filled with wads of explosives the size of Howdy Doodies head and jammed into aforementioned tube. What you end up with is what we affectionately refer to as a pipe bomb. The good news is they have constructed hundreds for the celebration. Remember, we will all be dreaming when the celebration begins.
As I recall my my first encounter with this spiritually guided assault on my senses and the fetal position I thus assumed under my bed believing that the end had in fact come and I had somehow missed the assumption, I fear for the emotional well being of my new friends her at the hotel. By now, several parents and spouses are on the phone to Shawn demanding emergency provisions for the safe exit from this location for the loved ones entrusted to his mission. Relax, I am engaging hyperbole folks. (maybe)
Anywho, I say let the party begin. Last year, I was interviewing Shawn on the roof of this very hotel, a really cool shot in most settings, and we were sure the party had ended. A few minutes into the interview we heard a muted boom and a "thing" was lobbed into the air perhaps 10 feet above our heads, finally exploding with the full force of the previously discussed explosives. Oh goody, they had learned to launch the pipe bomb. Oddly, we were both so tired, exhausted you might say, that we didnt leave the roof. I simple took my camera off the tripod, pointed at the sky and waited patiently for the next to arrive, which of course it dead, several dozen times. I love this place. Heck, growing up in Peoria you got hassled for a few bottle rockets and a bic lighter. Here, they celebrate the amateurs excursion into to the realm of of concussive debatury. Ahhhh, these are the good days. Better get to sleep youngsters, Cleophis has been spotted in the area and he's packing powder. This is going to be great.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Wednesday...In Christ there are no borders
Good day, as they all are given to us by God, each of them should be called good. Sleep was a gift last night and i am rested to my normal hyperactive state of excitement to be filming in this place, with these people and this team. I must say again that if all who would so readily cast stones at our youth could see the work they are doing here they would never utter contempt again.
I watched to teams comprised of at least very young people today break their backs for God. I watched a crew build a stove in the home of a family that will, by its practical replacement for open fire cooking, change the lives of that group. Here, as in most developing countries, food is cooked indoors on a wood fueled open fire, much like a campfire. The homes here are filled for large portions of the day with smoke so acrid and thick that one must decide which is more torturous, the burning lungs or the stinging eyes. This ongoing condition contributes to chronic health problems of the people. Fortunately, an ingenious Guatamalan designed a stove built of cinder blocks, fire brick and sand that works wonderfully. Not onlly does is vent the smoke out of the home, it cuts wood consumption by two thirds. While this savings might seem a bit drab to our Western minds of limitless resource, here, these stoves save women an average of two entire days work of gathering wood in the hills. It is a difficulty and solution that is difficult to understand from our perspective. This week, these young people, and their, shall we say, more......hmmmmmm, you know, older folks, will install some 40 of these stoves. It is a significant benefit of Shawn's stewardship of the funds raised by the volunteers.
Beyond the stoves, I watched a crew install a concrete floor today. The vast majority of homes have earthen floors which, by contact with the feet, leave most of the people here chronically infected with parasites. Like the stoves, these floors change lives in the long and short term. I watched a senior in high school, a young artist from Florida, an Occupational Therapist, an Executive Assistant, a Constible from Pensylvania (certain I have mispelled that one) and a local family "Install a floor"today. In short, this involves a series of back breaking steps such as hauling sand, rock, and bags of concrete and spreading them on the floor. BTW, the materials were about 50 yards from the floor which was at least 20 feet long and 12 feet wide. Then, a bucket brigade brings water to the mix and allows it to settle. Then, the crew picks up shovels and hoes and turns the entire mix over three times before adding more water and finally leveling the floor. The accomplished this feet in an hour and twenty minutes. A handful of Christians from the most diverse corners of society imaginable come together as the Body of Christ and make this happen.
I was honored and humbled to travel with both teams today. I wish you could see the work, the love, the expression of Jesus Christ in the flesh serving our brothers and sisters where there is zero chance of re-payment. I thank God that He has delivered a sinner like me to be witness through my lenses.
Let me finish with a final observation. I watched an old man carry a stack of wood on his back today. There was nothing unusual about this at all. Spend more than five minutes on any street in this area and you will see the very same scene. He was quite elderly, perhaps 70 or so, hunched over so far as to appear nearly doubled in two. The stack of wood was almost as big as he was and I would estimate that it weighed a minimum of 75 pounds, perhaps much more.
I shot away as I always do and noticed something I had never realized before in watching so many before him. He never once flinched. He never glanced to the left or to the right. Never up or down, always straight ahead. His steps were as steady as the leader of any drumline. He was even, rythmic; he was determined. I have no idea about the faith of this man and I would add it does not matter to me.
I sat and wondered what my faith would be like if any aspect of it had something remotely similiar to the determination of that man carrying that burden year after year after year. I know his bones must ache unspeakably and I can only guess at the lonliness of his enduring stride. Still, he never flinched. I wonder what my walk with Christ might become if I never flinched, if I never allowed the constant fears in my heart to be the obstacles of my spiritual development. I flinch at the wind, I turn my gaze away from God all too many times, glancing left and right away from His Son and towards the things that stand between us. My back aches and I complain bitterly. His back aches and his stride never changes.
I wonder what I am supposed to learn in this place beyond the images that shape my heart, more times than not, painfully. Is my ongoing discomfort and disdain for my Western life my glance away from where God has planted me and where He would lead me?
I sat at the edge of a dark street tonight and watched the people walking past. A dog approached me and looked hungry and so I fed him my peanut butter sandwhich. A man lay drunk and passed out in the gutter some 20 feet away while his wife and son tried to awaken him. A young couple sat on a motor bike half a block away, lit by the dim light of her doorway and kissed. I could here the young people from our group laughing and talking excitedly on the roof above me. I tell myself I could stay here forever and just "be" but then I recall my kids, my Jelly Bean, my Westies, my family and I am pulled firmly to my own terra firma, home. Can a man live in two worlds at once? I know sometimes I have and the outcome was nothing pretty.
It is late and they are about to lock the inner gates of this hotel. Even here, the world must be barred from our time of sleeping.
There is only God. Nothing more. Nothing Less. Amen.
I watched to teams comprised of at least very young people today break their backs for God. I watched a crew build a stove in the home of a family that will, by its practical replacement for open fire cooking, change the lives of that group. Here, as in most developing countries, food is cooked indoors on a wood fueled open fire, much like a campfire. The homes here are filled for large portions of the day with smoke so acrid and thick that one must decide which is more torturous, the burning lungs or the stinging eyes. This ongoing condition contributes to chronic health problems of the people. Fortunately, an ingenious Guatamalan designed a stove built of cinder blocks, fire brick and sand that works wonderfully. Not onlly does is vent the smoke out of the home, it cuts wood consumption by two thirds. While this savings might seem a bit drab to our Western minds of limitless resource, here, these stoves save women an average of two entire days work of gathering wood in the hills. It is a difficulty and solution that is difficult to understand from our perspective. This week, these young people, and their, shall we say, more......hmmmmmm, you know, older folks, will install some 40 of these stoves. It is a significant benefit of Shawn's stewardship of the funds raised by the volunteers.
Beyond the stoves, I watched a crew install a concrete floor today. The vast majority of homes have earthen floors which, by contact with the feet, leave most of the people here chronically infected with parasites. Like the stoves, these floors change lives in the long and short term. I watched a senior in high school, a young artist from Florida, an Occupational Therapist, an Executive Assistant, a Constible from Pensylvania (certain I have mispelled that one) and a local family "Install a floor"today. In short, this involves a series of back breaking steps such as hauling sand, rock, and bags of concrete and spreading them on the floor. BTW, the materials were about 50 yards from the floor which was at least 20 feet long and 12 feet wide. Then, a bucket brigade brings water to the mix and allows it to settle. Then, the crew picks up shovels and hoes and turns the entire mix over three times before adding more water and finally leveling the floor. The accomplished this feet in an hour and twenty minutes. A handful of Christians from the most diverse corners of society imaginable come together as the Body of Christ and make this happen.
I was honored and humbled to travel with both teams today. I wish you could see the work, the love, the expression of Jesus Christ in the flesh serving our brothers and sisters where there is zero chance of re-payment. I thank God that He has delivered a sinner like me to be witness through my lenses.
Let me finish with a final observation. I watched an old man carry a stack of wood on his back today. There was nothing unusual about this at all. Spend more than five minutes on any street in this area and you will see the very same scene. He was quite elderly, perhaps 70 or so, hunched over so far as to appear nearly doubled in two. The stack of wood was almost as big as he was and I would estimate that it weighed a minimum of 75 pounds, perhaps much more.
I shot away as I always do and noticed something I had never realized before in watching so many before him. He never once flinched. He never glanced to the left or to the right. Never up or down, always straight ahead. His steps were as steady as the leader of any drumline. He was even, rythmic; he was determined. I have no idea about the faith of this man and I would add it does not matter to me.
I sat and wondered what my faith would be like if any aspect of it had something remotely similiar to the determination of that man carrying that burden year after year after year. I know his bones must ache unspeakably and I can only guess at the lonliness of his enduring stride. Still, he never flinched. I wonder what my walk with Christ might become if I never flinched, if I never allowed the constant fears in my heart to be the obstacles of my spiritual development. I flinch at the wind, I turn my gaze away from God all too many times, glancing left and right away from His Son and towards the things that stand between us. My back aches and I complain bitterly. His back aches and his stride never changes.
I wonder what I am supposed to learn in this place beyond the images that shape my heart, more times than not, painfully. Is my ongoing discomfort and disdain for my Western life my glance away from where God has planted me and where He would lead me?
I sat at the edge of a dark street tonight and watched the people walking past. A dog approached me and looked hungry and so I fed him my peanut butter sandwhich. A man lay drunk and passed out in the gutter some 20 feet away while his wife and son tried to awaken him. A young couple sat on a motor bike half a block away, lit by the dim light of her doorway and kissed. I could here the young people from our group laughing and talking excitedly on the roof above me. I tell myself I could stay here forever and just "be" but then I recall my kids, my Jelly Bean, my Westies, my family and I am pulled firmly to my own terra firma, home. Can a man live in two worlds at once? I know sometimes I have and the outcome was nothing pretty.
It is late and they are about to lock the inner gates of this hotel. Even here, the world must be barred from our time of sleeping.
There is only God. Nothing more. Nothing Less. Amen.
Photo Links Updated
Remember to check out the link to our photo site at Picasa a few posts below. Just click on the little girls picture and you will be taken to the Picasa site and our galleries. Enjoy. God Bless
Tuesday: A Face In the Crowd
I pray two things before every mission trip. Lord, let my lens be your eye to the world that we might see what you would have us see, and, Father, let me see the face of Jesus in every life a film. Today brought both these prayers to life in a way that broke my heart, utterly and completely, and, at the same time, let me see the face of our Savior before me.
I have a technique I use when filming very crowded scenes as I often am in these places. I ignore the larger crowd, fix my lens to full zoom, and scan the scene, allowing my eye to find the story. As I scanned the crowd today, my lens was filled with many little faces, several old, and every shade of emotion and condition one could imagine other than anything of anger. I was near the eye checking station scanning left to right and my lense caught the face of a little girl. Her head was tilted to the right and she was drooling. As I pulled back my lens I could see that she was in a whell chair and that she was severely disabled. I debated as to whether or not I should press my shutter and decided not to as I never hope to exploit personal misery or suffering for the sake of images. I set my camera down for a bit and tried to clear her from my head but as hard as I tried my eyes kept returning to her limp little frame with her mother fussing over her, continually bringing her head back to upright.
I began to pray for her and I was literally overcome, to the point of losing my breath, to go and place my hands on her and pray directly over her. I approached her, asked her mother's permission which I recieved, closed my eyes and began to pray. I wish I could tell you exactly what happened but, as i right this more than 24 hours later I can make no sense of it beyond the Spirit of Christ becoming tangible in the moment between the little girl and I. The words that poured from me were not my own, rather, they were spoken from a place beyond the corruption and fragility of my heart. The prayer flowed like a river from my center and I knew that in that moment Christ was alive and acting in this moment for this little girl. I pulled my hands aways and went to a corner to continue to pray and read through some scripture, John 4, that always tends to re-center me.
The doctor came for the little girl and mom and, because she was in a wheelchair, she was seen initially on the floor of the open room. The doctor was quite gentle with this little soul and tried many times to get the story from mom of how she became so handicapped. I sat on the stares behind them and continued to pray for her. Diana came to sit next to me seeing that I was lost in this moment and put her arm around me and asked if I was okay. She no sooner spoke the words and tears exploded from my eyes. I had left a place of prayer and entered into a despair that is contrary to my faith. How is it that in one moment we seek the blessings of Christ and in the very next dismiss Him?
The doctor noticed that quite a few people had crowded around and motioned for some help to carry her in her chair up the stairs to the exam room. I asked if I could follow and he agreed. The interview with mom became much clearer. The little girl, now ten, had experienced a high fever at 3 years old, had a tremendous seizure, and from what the doctor gathered, had suffered a stroke as a result. Before this time, the little girl ran and played like all kids do. The mystery had become plain and the truth was unsettling to hear.
Something quite beautiful happened in a sequence that I hope to never forget. The doctor leaned forward, focused the attention of the interpretor and said, i hope to quote as close a possible...."Tell her this is more important than anything else. Tell her that she has done a wonderful job caring for her daughter. Few mothers could have done what you have done with your daughter, you have done a wonderful job." I wish I could explain the expression that overtook that woman. It was as if a lifetime of weight and pain had been taken from her. Finally, someone, someone important, a doctor had told her, you are a good mom. I spent 20 years in healthcare and have worked for more doctors than I can remember. Never have I seen one make a bigger impact on the life of anyone with nothing more than love. I thank God for that moment.
The mother began speaking again and I believed she was going to thank the physician. She spoke for some time before the interpreter began, "She fears that no one will be there to care for her daughter when she is gone one day." She was right, the fear was well founded. Who in this place could do what she has done. When you are in countries such as this you seldom ever see a handicapped child. This part of the world simply cannot accomodate them. No one ever told this mother that what she was doing was not possible or practical. But she was right, damned right and I hated hearing the truth, again.
I left the room and went to the curb on the dirty street behind the clinic, put my head to me knees and wept. I can make no sense of children's fate in places such as this sometimes. Like the kids in other places we have worked, I will continue to pray for her. There is nothing more I know to say.
I have a technique I use when filming very crowded scenes as I often am in these places. I ignore the larger crowd, fix my lens to full zoom, and scan the scene, allowing my eye to find the story. As I scanned the crowd today, my lens was filled with many little faces, several old, and every shade of emotion and condition one could imagine other than anything of anger. I was near the eye checking station scanning left to right and my lense caught the face of a little girl. Her head was tilted to the right and she was drooling. As I pulled back my lens I could see that she was in a whell chair and that she was severely disabled. I debated as to whether or not I should press my shutter and decided not to as I never hope to exploit personal misery or suffering for the sake of images. I set my camera down for a bit and tried to clear her from my head but as hard as I tried my eyes kept returning to her limp little frame with her mother fussing over her, continually bringing her head back to upright.
I began to pray for her and I was literally overcome, to the point of losing my breath, to go and place my hands on her and pray directly over her. I approached her, asked her mother's permission which I recieved, closed my eyes and began to pray. I wish I could tell you exactly what happened but, as i right this more than 24 hours later I can make no sense of it beyond the Spirit of Christ becoming tangible in the moment between the little girl and I. The words that poured from me were not my own, rather, they were spoken from a place beyond the corruption and fragility of my heart. The prayer flowed like a river from my center and I knew that in that moment Christ was alive and acting in this moment for this little girl. I pulled my hands aways and went to a corner to continue to pray and read through some scripture, John 4, that always tends to re-center me.
The doctor came for the little girl and mom and, because she was in a wheelchair, she was seen initially on the floor of the open room. The doctor was quite gentle with this little soul and tried many times to get the story from mom of how she became so handicapped. I sat on the stares behind them and continued to pray for her. Diana came to sit next to me seeing that I was lost in this moment and put her arm around me and asked if I was okay. She no sooner spoke the words and tears exploded from my eyes. I had left a place of prayer and entered into a despair that is contrary to my faith. How is it that in one moment we seek the blessings of Christ and in the very next dismiss Him?
The doctor noticed that quite a few people had crowded around and motioned for some help to carry her in her chair up the stairs to the exam room. I asked if I could follow and he agreed. The interview with mom became much clearer. The little girl, now ten, had experienced a high fever at 3 years old, had a tremendous seizure, and from what the doctor gathered, had suffered a stroke as a result. Before this time, the little girl ran and played like all kids do. The mystery had become plain and the truth was unsettling to hear.
Something quite beautiful happened in a sequence that I hope to never forget. The doctor leaned forward, focused the attention of the interpretor and said, i hope to quote as close a possible...."Tell her this is more important than anything else. Tell her that she has done a wonderful job caring for her daughter. Few mothers could have done what you have done with your daughter, you have done a wonderful job." I wish I could explain the expression that overtook that woman. It was as if a lifetime of weight and pain had been taken from her. Finally, someone, someone important, a doctor had told her, you are a good mom. I spent 20 years in healthcare and have worked for more doctors than I can remember. Never have I seen one make a bigger impact on the life of anyone with nothing more than love. I thank God for that moment.
The mother began speaking again and I believed she was going to thank the physician. She spoke for some time before the interpreter began, "She fears that no one will be there to care for her daughter when she is gone one day." She was right, the fear was well founded. Who in this place could do what she has done. When you are in countries such as this you seldom ever see a handicapped child. This part of the world simply cannot accomodate them. No one ever told this mother that what she was doing was not possible or practical. But she was right, damned right and I hated hearing the truth, again.
I left the room and went to the curb on the dirty street behind the clinic, put my head to me knees and wept. I can make no sense of children's fate in places such as this sometimes. Like the kids in other places we have worked, I will continue to pray for her. There is nothing more I know to say.
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