Jesus Worldwide: Guatemala

From Katie: I love how every post in this series has been different because everyone has a different story about how God works. Do you have one? I'd love to hear it! (KatieAxelson[at]gmail[dot]com). Thanks.

This week's post is from Amber, a fellow Young Adult Volunteer at the LCMS National Youth Gathering last summer.
<>< Katie

When I left on March 6^th to fly to Guatemala with the Guatemala Healing Hands Foundation, I didn’t know what to expect. I’ve done local mission work before, but it was always through a church and our focus was always on outreach. This time was different. Not only was I traveling to a different country, but I was going with a somewhat different purpose. The Guatemala Healing Hands Foundation focuses on improving the health care in Guatemala through education, therapy, and surgery, with a special focus on pediatric congenital and hand injuries.

I applied to go on this trip as one of my occupational therapy fieldwork rotations. One of my professors is actively involved with the organization, and so she is able to take two students with her for every mission. To be selected, I had to write a series of seven essays explaining why I should go on this trip. In my application, I wrote, “My philosophy of service comes from the beliefs I have in the Bible and the servant heart it frequently discusses. This is the heart that inspires me in my pursuit to become an occupational therapist, and it inspires me as I am applying to go on this trip. First John 3:17 says, ‘But if anyone has the world’s goods and sees his brothers in needs, yet closes his heart against him, how does God’s love abide in him?’ My philosophy of service comes in showing God’s love by sharing my talents. God gave me the gift to be a strong student. He gave me the desire to help others. He helped point me in the direction of becoming an occupational therapist. My desire to go on this trip can be seen in the above verse – if I have the world’s goods, if I have the skill set to help someone out, and he or she is in need, then it is my desire to help them out in whatever way I can…in doing that, I serve not only others, but I also serve God.”

In the days leading up to the trip, I prayed that God would give me a servant heart and attitude as I journeyed into the unknown. When I stepped foot in Guatemala, I was able to quickly see a lifestyle much different than our own. It was as if time stopped while I was there, and I was able to appreciate the beauty of the world around me. I was able to take my time and form relationships with people. I became thankful for everything that I own. Each day, I felt more and more overwhelmed with thanks to God for all the great things he has provided me with.

We started our mission by team building in Antigua for two days. My favorite thing about Antigua has to be the cross that overlooks the city. Our tour guide told us that every city has a cross looking over it from the north. How powerful is that!? We also were able to go shopping at various markets and spend an afternoon on Lake Atitlan. We also went zip lining and were able to visit a macadamia nut farm. During these two days, I felt very immersed into the Guatemalan culture. First, I saw so much beauty around me, especially when I was zip lining. On anticipating the excursion to go zip lining, I was pretty nervous because heights aren’t my thing, but when I got there I felt so calm. My fears were gone and I was able to take in God’s creation.

The next big thing our team did before we began the surgical mission was spend a day in Chichoy Alto, a small Mayan village with about 750 people living in it. The Guatemala Healing Hands Foundation has helped sponsor stove and latrine building projects in the village in the past, and this year the foundation did even more. Children in this village stop going to school after the 6^th grade because of financial reasons. The foundation sponsored students to continue into the 7^th grade next year. Additionally, the foundation provided the money for the village to prepare a whole meal for the day we came so that we could have a celebration with them. The village people spend a few days working on preparing for our meal, and it was a special treat for them to have meat (they usually never get meat). The foundation also paid to build additional stoves and latrines this year. The whole team helped start the building project on Saturday, and the family members of the surgeons and therapists continued during the week.

I’ve never felt so overwhelmed with emotion as when we stepped off the bus in Chichoy Alto. The people were so excited to see us and welcomed us like we were family. While we were in the village, we were able to take the time to play with the children and bring smiles to their hearts. It was while I was in the village that I really wished I knew more Spanish so that I could really connect and relate to these children and their families. In the center of the village, there were two churches, and I felt joy in knowing that they had access to the house of our Savior. While some might look at these people and wonder how they could be content and happy with so little, maybe that’s why they’re so happy. I realized when I was there how distracted I am day-to-day, and how much the fast paced world never lets me rest. The Bible tells us that our money and possessions are nothing. They won’t go with us when we die. What’s important is our relationship with Christ. Not the desire for objects, not having objects, not greed, not wealth. God is what matters. When I was in Chichoy Alto, I was strongly reminded of that, and it made me think again about what my real focuses are in life and what they really should be.

The remainder of our mission was spent working with children with congenital and hand injuries, as well as educating therapists at Guatemala City hospitals on how to treat certain injuries using best practice techniques. Our headquarters was through a Christian organization based out of Nashville, The Shalom Foundation. Shalom is Hebrew meaning peace, wholeness, completeness, harmony, healthy, safety, and soundness; a powerful blessing. A powerful blessing indeed. The Shalom Foundation is an amazing foundation that seems strongly connected with what I wrote about when I applied to come on this trip.

When someone is in need, including medically, we will help them, just as Christ has loved us and helped us. The foundation sponsors one mission every month and all are surgically or medically related. Our team performed about 15 surgeries a day for five days on children with problems such as trigger fingers, burn contractures, syndactyly, and complications associated with cerebral palsy. Going on rounds the morning after surgery, I saw a lot of smiles, much to my surprise. The families were beyond grateful for what our team offered medically, and I’m thankful that we were at the Shalom Foundation where a spiritual offering could be given to the families as well. The Shalom Foundation’s hospital is not located in the best neighborhood, but behind the doors of the hospital, you could feel love and thanksgiving. The walls were beautifully decorated and scripture verses could be found painted into murals. God is love, and that love could be seen throughout this mission.

Each day, I asked God to give me a servant heart. He did. Each day I asked God to pour out His blessings on everyone we encountered. He did. While this wasn’t an evangelism mission, I think we were able to touch the lives of the people in Guatemala. Christ asked us to humble ourselves and serve others. That’s what this very mission did. When people ask about the trip, I tell them it was humbling. You realize quickly how much we have as Americans. You realize quickly how distracting that can be, and you start to see God a little more in things it was easy to overlook before. At the end of the day, if I impacted nobody (which I know is not really the case) during my time in Guatemala, I felt Christ’s fire burning inside of me and reconnecting me with the passion to always have a servant heart and to see God speaking through everything, in everything, always.

Life Without Music

Earlier this week I had coffee with a delightful woman whose family does not listen to much music. My understanding is that it's a sound issue where they can't handle the volume level. They went to a concert and had to leave because the sound stimulation was too much.

I tried to envision what my life would be like without music. I almost always have music playing. If it's not on, there's probably a song running through my head. Concerts are my family's bonding activity.

We've gone to the same multi-day Christian music festival for nine years. Our record is six Mark Schultz concerts in one calendar year. We sit around quoting "As Is" by Peder Eide as if "Samson was a long-haired, arrogant womanizer" is a perfectly logical thing to say in conversation.

If it weren't for music, we'd probably have to watch movies or take up karate like normal people.

When I talk about Lifest, I tell the silly stories: the standing ovation earned by a water bottle, the mud so bad our van had to be pushed into the parking lot, using my lawn chair as an umbrella, etc.

But I think about it, I think about worshipping with Phillips, Craig, and Dean as the rain gently fell on my face. I think about kneeling on fist-sized gravel to stretch my arms up to my Abba Father like a child wanting to be held. I remember Peter Furler (when he was in Newsboys) talking about God's perfect timing only to have a nearby train interrupt his sentence.

Can I worship without music?

I love how the Lord gets my attention through songs I've heard a million times. I get a taste of heaven when strangers unite as a family to sing praises to our Father. I didn't perform "My Savior, My God" in ASL in front of a crowded room of Nicaraguan believers; I worshipped my Savior, my God with my hands.

Through music may be one of my favorite ways to worship, but it's certainly not the only way.

To affirm or encourage someone, that's worship. To serve and love on someone, that's worship. To hug someone, to squeeze a shoulder as you pass, to look someone in the eye. Worship. To genuinely ask how someone's doing, to sit down and share life over a cup of coffee, to bring lunch to an under-employed freelance writer. Worship. To dance, to play ping pong, to sign, to make copies, etc. they can all be worship. (My thoughts on this have been heavily influenced by TASTE Worship--check it out).

In Guatemala, there was a day I was "forbidden" to sing and sign. I worshipped that day. I removed flecks of orange paint from a brush and bucket, and it was worshipful.

Can I worship with music?

Last summer, I remember running through the park arguing with God about being twenty minutes late to a forty-minute show. He brought to my attention that I was not approaching the concert with the right heart.

It wasn't the first time.

How often do I attend a concert just to add another artist to my repertoire? How often do I absent-mindedly sing along without realizing what I'm saying?

These questions hurt because I am ashamed of their answers.

Even at Christian concerts, my heart is not always in the right place. I've sung along, I've waved my arms, I've screamed at the top of my lungs, and I hate to confess it has not always been for the Lord.

It happens under a rain-free sky. It happens in a crowded, dark auditorium. It happens in my church on Sunday mornings. It happens to me more often than I care to admit.

I voluntarily took a day this week and turned the music off. I washed dishes in silence. I drove across town in the quiet. I worked without any accompaniment.

It was weird and awkward at first but then it became peaceful.

That's worship.

Weird and awkward at first. Uncomfortable and strange. But then peaceful, wonderful, and necessary.

Whether you're a person who loves to literally feel the beat of the drums or just prefers white noise in the background, take some time this week to worship with the radio off.

Let me know how it works for you.

<>< Katie

Jesus Worldwide: Guatemala

From Katie: Today I'm excited to head to Guatemala (one of my favorite countries) with Compassion (one of my favorite ministries) through the eyes of Ashley (one of my favorite bloggers whom I've never actually met in real life). Sit back, relax, and cheer as you see how God worked!

I didn’t think I had the kind of courage it takes to pack my passport and hop on a plane to a foreign country without any friends or family until my friend Brian died. He’d been doing work with a humanitarian aid organization in Afghanistan when he was killed on August 5, 2010. Brian and I had worked as camp counselors together for two years and had become good friends. His death shook my world to the core. I wasn’t sure how to cope, so I prayed. Often.

I was already sponsoring two little girls through Compassion International but had felt for many months that I needed to sponsor another child. In the midst of the grief surrounding my friend’s death, I decided to start searching for another child to add to my Compassion family. It took a few weeks, but I finally found a very handsome little boy in Guatemala. He had a shy smile and sparkling eyes but those were not the first things that caught my eye. That little boy shared both his first and middle names with my friend.

A few months later I found out Compassion was hosting a sponsor tour to Guatemala. I’d never been out of the country before. I couldn’t say much more than “¡Qué pasa, calabaza!” in Spanish. And my heart pounded every time I thought about trying to go through customs. But in a moment of insanity or incredible courage (I’ll never know which), I signed up for the trip and paid the deposit.

I shouldn’t have been afraid. I should have known God would take care of me. But me of little faith, I was afraid. Very, very afraid. As the trip inched closer and closer, I started to notice strange “coincidences.” I nearly unraveled in gratitude when I received the schedule for the tour and saw that the day I would meet my little Brian was the one year anniversary of my friend’s death.

I set out on the trip at the end of July, passport and antacids in hand. We started out the trip with an outing to a Compassion church partner. The kids led us to our seats one by one and sang familiar songs in Spanish. They showed us their classrooms and drawings and letters from their sponsors, then we ate dinner together. I’m from the South where hospitality is an art form, but the kids in this project took it to a whole new level. I didn’t feel like a stranger in the country of Guatemala. I felt like family.

The week continued, and I only fell more and more in love with the people I met, with the others on my tour, and with Compassion. We witnessed children carrying the world on their shoulders, setting it all aside as they walked through the doors of the Compassion project and saw their friends. We met young adults with accounting and architecture degrees all because of God’s work in their lives through Compassion and letters of encouragement from their sponsors. I particularly enjoyed walking through the office there in Guatemala City, getting to know the staff, and hearing about the inner workings of Compassion in Guatemala.

On our last day there, we met our sponsored children. I lined up and waited to meet Brian, feeling more nervous than I’d felt on my wedding day. I worried Brian wouldn’t like me or that he’d be upset because I hadn’t written him enough letters. Suddenly my name was called, I was propelled into a large room, and a little boy rocketed himself into my arms. I saw his dark brown hair, falling into his eyes in the same way my friend’s hair had fallen. I choked on tears and a smile.

That little boy loved me. And God loved me enough to take my grief and turn it into something beautiful through something as simple as sponsorship. When I first started my journey as a Compassion sponsor, I kind of guessed how my letters and $38 a month could change the life of a child. But I never dreamed that God would use that same sponsorship to pour compassion and joy into my own painful circumstance. All through a little boy with my friend’s name and haircut.

Who are the Poor?

For the last week I have been dog-sitting in a very nice neighborhood.  Day after day, I walk the dog down the freshy-swept street looking at the fancy homes, the manicured lawns, and expensive cars.  Part of me wonders if I could ever afford to live here.

Financially, it's a lofty goal for this unemployed recent grad. That's not what I meant.

I mean, could I afford to live here

when some live here?

Can I live here

having been here?

The Bible doesn't say "Don't live in a nice house"... but it does say "give everything you have to the poor."

But who are the poor?

Are the poor the children in a hogar in Guatemala who play with one-armed Barbies but have the joy of the Lord in their hearts and it shows on their faces?

Are the poor the people paying taxes on their 4,000 square-foot homes who are on the brink of divorce, have disrespectful children, and hire someone else to pick up their dog poop?

Part of me says, no way, I will never live in a classy neighborhood. (Especially based on those stereotypes). I've seen too much poverty to be comfortable in a large, neat home.

Perhaps that is true. For just me and the dog, this four-bedroom, three-bath home is way too big. But what if I had a husband and children?

Through trial and error, I have learned some aspects of third-world ministry. I have been to places where hand sanitizer and toilet paper are luxuries. The girls in the photo above aren't just children worlds away with stories that would break your heart. We know each others' names, they are my sisters, and they almost knocked me fifteen feet off that ledge ten seconds after that photo was taken when they tried to all see it simultaneously.

Yet, as I walk through this nice neighborhood and wonder about the people inside of the homes, I wonder about them and their lives. Do they know their neighbors? Do they realize there's more to life than fnancial success? Most importantly, do they know that God loves them?

How can I walk my dog down this street

knowing stray dogs roam down this street?

Easy. On both streets there are people that have never heard the name of Jesus.

How can I limit ministry to the without-money poor without including the without-Jesus poor?

Third world ministry may be teaching people how to brush their teeth, handing out bracelets, and fitting them with eye glasses. It can be loving them, making a fool of yourself, and living the gospel.

Is that not also what is the first world also needs? Love, humor, and (most importantly) Jesus.

First world ministry is greeting neighbors as you pass them on the street, hand-delivering a warm breakfast to the neighbor's housesitter and inviting her over for dinner, or cutting someone else's grass because they're having a busy week. It can be releasing a child from poverty through child sponsorship and telling others about your Fridge Kid. It's loving the way Christ commands us and living the gospel.

He is the God of this city

just as He is of this one.

Can I afford it?

How can I NOT?

The Great Commission commands us to GO and make disciples of ALL nations (Matthew 28:19, emphasis mine). I like to GO to another nation; it has become comfortable to me. But GO can also mean GO to the other side of the shurbery.

No matter where you live, GO and be the missionary you were called to be (Acts 1:8).

It starts with me.

<>< Katie

Listen

I woke up with a sore throat.  I had hoped it would get better as the day progressed.  It didn't.  By the middle of the afternoon I sounded like Kermit the frog.

Wonderful.

I thought about not going to small group.  It was a 45 minute drive there at the end of rush hour and a 45 minute drive back at 11pm.  I was already exhausted from making that same trek once that morning.  And I was sick.

Do I go and risk infecting other people with this sudden illness?  Do I stay home and try to fight it?

I'm not a "stay home because I have a cold" person.  I get colds a lot, so I'd miss out on a lot of life if I stayed home every time.

So over to the mansion I drove.  When I got there, I learned half of the other people had colds, too.  Last week we were all healthy; this week we had a germ-sharing party.

A sniffler.  A sneezer.  Kermit.  What a choir!

Out came the guitar to sing some praise and worship songs.

Sometimes my speaking voice "frogs" before my singing voice or vice versa.  It's rare they're both nasty at the same time.  But, then again, I don't usually go from fine to Kermit in one day.

I apologized to the girl sitting next to me and tried to sing.  Yup, nothing.

Time to move my lips and life a joyful noise from my heart...

Time to listen.  Losing your normal voice is like being put in time out.  Sometimes it's just not physically possible to speak.  Other times it hurts.  Or you just don't want to hear yourself.

"I'm worshipping YOU, God," I said in my traditional frog-voice campaign.

Listen, God spoke to my heart.

Is this like Guatemala but without the orange paint? I want to sing.

Listen.  You sang on Sunday.

Thank You that I had a voice to participate in such a wonderful, Spirit-filled praise and worship service on Sunday.  I'm sorry it took losing my voice today to be grateful for something I took for granted yesterday.  Lesson learned.  [pause] Can I have it back now?

<>< Kermit

Skype Date

At Lifest on Saturday two lives where forever changed in one slightly uncomfortable moment.

Peder Eide, the host of the grandstand, held the packet of a Compassion child above his head and said, "Lifest, I've never done this before.  But this is Maria from Honduras and we need a sponsor for her right now.  Who wants to sponsor Maria?"

There we all were, listening for the pull of the Holy Spirit, wondering who was going to step up.  A woman from the sea of lawn chairs answered the call.

Peder invited her on stage and asked her why she chose to sponsor that child.  A brand new Compassion sponsor, you could tell she was a little overwhelmed.

"How would you like to meet Maria?" Peder asked.

She didn't know what to say.

He invited her out to a computer that was set up to Skype Maria.

Their conversation was short yet powerful. 

I cried watching Lifest Skype Honduras.

It made me homesick... for Central America.  For Spanish.  For kissing people on the cheek.  For trying to understand the difference between mango and manga.  For worshipping our God, our same God, in another country, another language, and another way and realizing He understands and is comfortable with all of it.

I can't buy a plane ticket to Nicaragua.  I can't Skype my family in Costa Rica.  I can't play with my kids in Guatemala.

But I can write a letter to Maria, my family's Compassion child in Columbia.  I can facebook my brothers and sisters in Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and Guatemala.  I can pray for believers in Central America and around the world.  I can look forward to and prepare for my upcoming trip to China with an unquenchable excitement.

What are you going to do?

Do you sponsor a Compassion child?  If so, send your child a letter.  If not, why not? 

Sure, most people don't get to Skype their sponsored child.  My roommate Jennifer got to meet her sponsored child in the Philippines, but that's not a reality for most of us.  Yet through letters and photos, your sponsored child becomes part of your family.  You get to share the hope of Christ and one day you will meet your sponsored child... just not on this earth.

Think about it.  Pray about it.  Try it.

Excuse me now, my sister Maria is overdue for a letter.

Dios les bendiga, amigos,
<>< Katie

Home

Last week I made my first trip to Baptist Country as an alumna.  When we pulled into town, it didn't feel like I had been gone a month.  It felt like we had just gone to Elizabeth's for the weekend.

Very little has changed. 
A few trees have blown down, the construction projects have progressed, and there are not nearly as many cars in the parking lot. 

So much has changed.
My ID card no longer lets me into buildings, my mailbox is boarded up, and I am not returning in the fall.  Yet still it feels like home.

It was years ago when I first referred to that little town as "home."  If I flew to The Homeland, I said I was flying home.  If I flew to Baptist Country, I said I was flying home.  The lines between "home" and "school" were so blurry that I gave up on what to call each place and declared travel days "Airplane Day," no matter which direction I was going.

What is home?

Is home my parents' house?  Is home the college town where I went couch-surfing last week?  What exactly is home?

I wish I posted everything I've drafted because in February I wrote a post entitled "Redefining Family."  It claimed "family" was my five suitemates, my ten-person ministry team, and my lunch buddies.  Sometimes family has little to do with blood relation.

Home is where your family is.

I'm having a hard time deciding where "home" is because my family is in The Homeland, my family is in Baptist Country, my family is in Nicaragua, in Guatemala...  Does that make home all of those places as well?

In the same way that The Homeland will always be "home" because my family is here, Baptist Country will always be "home" because my family is there, too.

Beauty and the Beast taught me "home is where the heart is."  If that's true, then I'm heartbroken.  In Baptist Country, I want to be in The Homeland.  While in The Homeland, I yearn for Baptist Country.  I don't think this is necessarily a bad problem to have, but I am not a fan.  For four years my life has been split by 900 miles, a chasm that is not closing anytime soon.

Until God sends me somewhere else, home will have to be my parents' house.  No more trying to outsmart amazon.com to get packages delivered to my P.O. box.  No more loitering in the caf.  No more spontaneous trips to Wal-mart even though we don't need anything.  No more "Katie, party of twelve, your table is ready."

As I struggle to define such a basic four-letter word, I must also remember that in the grand scheme of things, none of these places are "home."  They are all temporary dwellings prior to an eternal home.  I honestly believe that someday there will be no sixteen-hour drives and no time change because there will be no time at all.  There will be a day when tears won't roll, hearts won't break, and pain won't hurt.  All of God's children will be home, constantly singing praises to Him, for He deserves it. 

That, my friends, will be Home.

<>< Katie

Do Good

Do Good
Good works don't save you.  But when you are saved, you do good works.

Do It Well
Every night when I was in Guatemala, Neal encouraged us with very similar words.
"What we're doing here is God's work.  That means we are to do it to the best of our ability.  Yes, we get tired.  Yes, it's tedious.  But we need to continue.  It's not a race.  Do the best you can, even if that means going slowly."

Do It Quietly
Boast in the Lord, not in yourself.  If you tell the story, make sure you give credit where credit is due.  Don't twist it around.  It's His story.  Not ours.

Do it for Christ
Most important.

Ephesians 2:8-10
For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.
Grace and peace, friends,
<>< Katie

Touch

Sometimes Elizabeth is struck with this uncontrollable urge to touch someone's hair.  It's really bad when she walks up to a stranger and starts running her finger's through this person's hair.

I had an "Elizabeth Moment" the other day.  Sarah was sitting beside me in class with a stack of blank paper in her notebook.  During the entire 50-minute class I had this barely controllable urge to run my hand along her beautiful paper.  I'm a writer; I can't help it.  Don't judge; it's the little things in life.  As soon as the professor dismissed the class, my left hand shot across the aisle and onto Sarah's notebook.  It happened at the exact moment that she was closing her notebook, sandwiching my hand between the new and the used paper.  She gave me a weird look, I explained, and the weird look continued.  But she let me touch her paper.

Brothers and sisters in Christ, what if had the same urge to touch lives in His name?

Christian told me this story about his first trip to Guatemala.  They were serving food outside the garbage dump in Guatemala City.  As the dump inhabitants came for food, Christian and some of the other members of his team sanitized their hands.

"The biggest thing we could do for them was to touch them.  These people were considered untouchable and when we touched them to sanitize their hands we accepted them," he explained.

Jesus did the same thing in touching the man with leprosy in Matthew 8. He could have said, "You are healed," and it would have been done. He's God. He has the power to do that. But He didn't. He made a point to touch someone that society had seemed untouchable.

Now, I'm not saying run up to everybody and touch them.  There are ways to touch people without ever making physical contact.

Jennifer and Amy just sent letters to their Compassion children in the Philippines and Ecuador. Lives touched. The executive chef served some weakling from the self-serve ice cream cooler. Life touched. We packed seven Operation Christmas Child boxes last week. Lives touched. A grad student spent her birthday doing homework and grading papers, alone, until some friends invited her over to hang out. Life touched.

It doesn't always take much. A small act can have a huge impact.

May the Lord give us all uncontrollable urges to touch the lives of His children and those who do not yet know Him. Let's do it all in His name.

<>< Katie

PS: I was inspired to write this during church this morning. As I was revising tonight, I was thinking about how it was similar to this post I wrote for Kaitlyn's birthday. I just found out an hour ago that after two and a half years of medical treatment 800 miles from home, Kaitlyn finally will be able to go home this December! What a wonderful Christmas present!

Orange

"Are you ok with the orange?"

Instead of selling it for profit, Ruth was giving me a three by three book I'm going to fill with Bible verses.  The book has an orange theme, and I'm a purple girl.  I assured her the orange was fine and thanked her for the gift.

While orange does not make it in my top three favorite colors, it holds a special significance.

Orange is the color of the World Vision pen on my desk because it is bright enough to not get lost in the heap of dead trees.

Orange makes me think of Nikki and her now, rightfully, retired phone...
Orange makes me think of Carrie.

Orange is construction cones and Taco Bell hot sauce.

Orange makes me think of Guatemala.
Orange helped me realize that just like white crevices in stucco take forever to fill so does sin take forever to be removed from our lives. Every time we think we’re getting close, we find yet another missing spot… and then some more.
Orange is a reminder to stop and listen. Sometimes we have to be quiet to hear what God is trying to say.

Orange mean authority.
Orange means funs, friendly, and flexible.
Orange proclaims, "We believe!"

More than anything, Orange reminds me of my trip to New Orleans where I got to be part of Orange Nation. A week of long days and short nights. A week sacrificing ourselves and serving one another. A week of almost being trampled every night as I tried to play crowd control for 25,000 excited youth. A week I learned where "challenging" and "cherished" can intertwine.

I won this game, by the way.

Happy Reformation Day.
Happy Halloween.
Let orange be more than the color of the "publish post" button.

<>< Katie

God is an Earthquake

God is an earthquake.

Sometimes He bursts in with trembling force destroying anything and everything.  With one simple movement He flips your life up-side down.  Just like detrimental earthquakes get all of the press, unexpected life changes get all of the attention.  Yes, God uses those.

He also uses earthquakes like the ones I experienced in Guatemala.

I was sitting on the bottom bunk journaling when the bed began to shake.  At first, I didn't think anything of it.  Heather must have woken up and kicked the unstable bed frame.  Then I looked at Heather, still fast asleep.  I looked across the room at Mandi who was looking back at me.  Her eyes held the same questions mine did: what is going on?

Together we both looked at the huge water jug.  The water sloshing told us it was not just a bed frame problem.  We were experiencing an earthquake.  So small it could have gone unnoticed.

Sometimes God's signs and His words are so small they may go unnoticed.  So subtle you might pass them by. 

I just wanted to take a moment and encourage you to seek in the big earthquakes; hear His booming voice.  But also realize that sometime God whispers.  Don't let the whisper, the little earthquake, pass you by.

With love,
<>< Katie

Who am I?

Sometimes I fluctuate like a pendulum between "God is awesome and everyone needs to know!" and "who am I to expect people to listen when I proclaim His name?"  Sometimes I hit both in a matter of minutes.  What's great is that He can use both ends of the spectrum.

I was having a "Who am I" moment the other day.  Who am I to share the Gospel?  Why should people listen to me?  What story has God given me?  The only times I've gone to bed hungry where the days when I didn't like what was served for dinner. I've never lost my job.  I've never been ripped from the jaws of death.  I've never overcome a serious addiction.  I've never...

Then like He always does, God smacked me in the face as He began to remind me of all of the things He has done in my life.  I've had a seven year old Guatemalan boy fall in love with me.  I've been in a car-totalling accident and walked away without a scratch.  I've been able to make a difference in the lives of teens at home and at school.  I've personally handed a bag of food to someone who will live off of it for the next month.  I've (been told I) energized someone who didn't know if he could muster up the energy to do the job correctly himself.

You think I did any of that on my own?

Maybe I don't remember a specific day when I accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior.  Maybe I didn't overcome a life-changing obstacle to obtain the faith I now proclaim.  That doesn't mean I don't have a testimony.  Testimony is God's people speaking out about what He has done.  He has given me a story to tell.  Who am I not to tell it?

Being used and telling my story,
<>< Katie

She's Nuts

I appreciate Neal.
I don't always appreciate it when he sticks his finger into my ear, reprimands me in my dreams, gives me weird directions, or throws his dead skin cells in my face.  But all in all, I appreciate Neal for everything he does.

The other day I was complaining about doing my devotion and reading the wrong passage.  I'd read seven chapters in 1 Kings instead of four chapters in 2 Kings.  Oops.  Since he's our campus minister, I was really expecting him to call me out on the fact that I was complaining about reading the Word of God.  Sometimes Nealio doesn't respond the way I expect (see the dead skin cells blog).

"You know how to get through those long Old Testament passages, right?  Walk around, reading aloud, and act them out."

Neal's one of those people that if he gives me advice or a direct command, I should probably listen.  Neal says "Jump;" I say, "How high?"  Thus, I'm going to give it a try.  So, if I'm walking around talking to myself: don't panic; I'm just doing my devotion.

"But don't do this with Song of Solomon," he added.  Thanks.

Are you willing to look silly and try it with me?
<>< Katie

Blessed Be Your Name

I spent all weekend helping lead a youth retreat weekend.  On Saturday afternoon we did a service project and gardened for a few elderly church members.  Upon returning to the church, we each took some quiet time to reflect and pray.  As that kind of wrapped up, people seemed to be gathering in the grass on the hill and it became a spontaneous worship song session.  One of the songs we sang was "Blessed Be Your Name."  As we went through the familiar verses and chorus, I pondered how many times I'd sung that song.  On campus, in church, in my car, in Spanish in Guatemala, in ASL, with 35,000 teens, by myself, with a small group around a campfire... the list goes on and on.  Every summer for almost the last ten years my family has gone to an outdoor Christian music festival.  In the last few years, it seems every artist sings "Blessed Be Your Name."  I've sung with the hot July sun beating down on me.  I've sung it as refreshing night rain pelts my face.  I've sung it a lot.  You'd think I'd know the verses in the right order...

On May 21, 2008, singer/songwriter Steven Curtis Chapman's youngest daughter died tragically at age 5 after being accidently hit by a car in the family's driveway.  On July 11 of the same year SCC returned to the stage for the first time since the accident and earned a standing ovation prior to playing a note.  He softly explained after such a tragedy there was one song that kept running through his head and he began to sing "Blessed Be Your Name."  I highly doubt there was a dry eye in the entire audience.  With heavy hearts and sore feet we extended our arms to the heavens and worshipped our precious Holy Father while He painted us a beautiful sunset in the Midwestern sky.  The lyrics took on a whole new meaning as we proclaimed, "Blessed be Your name when the sun's shining down on me.  When the world's all as it should be, blessed be Your name, on the road marked with suffering, though there's pain in the offering, blessed be Your name."  If a hurting father could say it, so can we.  If the responsible brother could say it, so can we.  If the sunburned, mud-laden audience can say it, so can we.  Right?

It doesn't mean your pain is gone.  It doesn't mean you need to be happy-go-lucky.  It means God is still God.  It means you'll praise Him in the hard times in addition to the easy times.  In the United States, in foreign countries.  In the sun and in the rain.  From the top of the mountain and the bottom of the valley.  As yourself honestly, no matter what you're going through today, are you willing to say, "Blessed be Your name"?

Blessed be,

<>< Katie

Rushed Prayer

Katie
God
"Aloud"

For some unknown reason my friend Kevin thought it wise to tease me about updating my blog 3 to 4 times a day. First off, I have only updated three times in one day once (ok, maybe twice). Second, you should see some of the stuff I write and don't post! Third, blogging is the cool thing to do not having a blog and abandoning it for a month! Last yet most important, at least I didn't buy whitey tighties at Wal-mart while wearing a pink shirt...

Today's been a long day. I left my apartment 6 hours ago and haven't been back since. After this next meeting, I'll be able to run a back there for maybe an hour, leave for dinner, go back for another hour, and I have three hours of class tonight. It's been a busy day but this was perhaps my favorite fifteen minutes.

12:49
Prof, please let class out. I have to get lunch.

12:51
"Class dismissed."
Thank you! The race begins: you have nine minutes to get to the caf, find lunch, and get to the prayer room. Go!

12:54
Congratulations, you made it in the building. Six minutes. Good luck.
Please swipe cards faster, can't you tell I'm on a time limit here?

12:55
"Hi, Emily. Yes, I can do coffee tomorrow. Hi, Steven. I'm good, and you? Hola, Stephanie. Hey, Jeanie. What happened to your underwear, Quailman? Hi, Brittany. Hi, hi, hi..."
Gosh, darn it! Why do I have to be so friendly? Five minutes and an empty to-go box. Double time, Katie!

12:56
Pizza or rice? Pizza or rice? Who likes milk in a paper cup? Yuck! Do I want grape juice for breakfast and lunch? Well, milk is out, so grape juice it is. Please don't be out of grape juice. Do I want dessert? What do I want for dessert?

12:57
"Have a good day, Katie," David shouted across the caf. I looked up just long enough to wave to my normal lunch pals and give them a faint smile. Oh, how I wish I could stay to listen to Claire interpret David's argument to say married women are ugly. No time for that. Tight schedule.

12:58
Hey, Katie.
"What?" I asked aloud, my tone of voice really said, "In a rush, can't talk now." I was tripping up the back stairs of the chapel spilling grape juice up my straw and all over my face (don't ask me how that happened but it did).
I'll see be here when you get here.
Huh?

12:59
Flick off the shoes, I'm entering Holy Ground. Whew! I can breathe again! I made it: with one minute to spare.

1:01
Why'd you rush? I'm still here. Remember what we talked about in Guatemala about being late?

My campus is currently taking part in a 24/7 prayer campaign where we have someone praying for the campus and the world twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I accidentally signed up for a time during my lunch hour instead of picking a time I was free (like now in the two o'clock hour). I'd encourage you to take some time out of your schedule today, this week and pray for your world. Your campus, your town, your state, your country, your world. It doesn't have to be an hour. You don't have to shove a pizza in your mouth as you pray, "Thank You, God, that I have food." But take a minute to pray today.

With love,
<>< Katie

Él es grande

Well, I've finally finished scrapbooking Guatemala! Phew! That was job! Approximately sixty pages in a month (on top of Christmas and other bizarre family somethings :-)). Ok, minus the page with my roommates because it's going to take a lot of laughter to explain why Heather in the shower could hold hands with Caitlin in bed.

Today I was making a short list of things didn't make the cut and fit into the scrapbook.
- "Ok, let's see if my suitcase closes. I took out some socks, but I put in some chickens and a hammock." Oh, Heather. This can go on the Guate-mate page.
- "Él es grande."

When Neal was playing basketball with a Guatemalan woman she kept saying "Él es grande; él es grande." This literally translates to, "He is big; he is big."

When I wrote this I used a capital "É" since it's the beginning of a sentence but that made me stop and think.

"Él es grande."
What if we change the "Él" to mean God instead of Neal?

"Él es grande; Él es grande."
He's big; He's big.

God is big. Dios es grande.

Never forget that.

<>< Katie

PS. Spell-check doesn't like this post. Do you like it?

Crisis Averted

After almost a month of scrapbook, I'm getting close to finishing my Guatemala scrapbook. It's been wonderful to relive that week and reminisce about the silly stories, the God moments, and the tedious work.

One day, we went to Lago Atilan and took a boat ride to a market on the other side of the lake. The bus ride to the boat was about three hours and at one point we hit construction traffic so bad that our driver turned off the bus. The peddlers loved this as they swarmed our bus like bees on a piece of fruit. I can just imagine them saying to each other, "Look at that bus of rich American tourists! Let's go sell some stuff!" First of all, college students are not rich. Secondly, we wanted to buy our souvenirs at our final destination not on the road to the market.

Neal had a short list of items he wanted to take home to his kids, and he knew he wanted to get his son a slingshot. The peddlers had a cute slingshot with a man on the handle. Neal opted against passing up this opportunity and purchased a slingshot through the window.


Evan, one of our team members, had a sunhat he'd been wearing all week. Not very diligently, I might add, or he would not have been burnt to a crisp. Well, while we were on the boat, his hat blew off. We continued out journey leaving Evan's beloved hat in the distance. We teased about the Guatemalan kayaker who would enjoy Evan's hat and cherish it like a prized possession.

As we were about to disembark, our host warned us about an idol worshiped in Guatemala. Since we were indeed a Christian mission team, it would not be good for us to buy this idol but rather use that moment as a witnessing opportunity and scream "SOLO JESÚS CHRISTO" as we fled. :-)

"What does the idol look like so we don't buy it by mistake?"


"It's a man with a cigar and a sun hat," Neal explained.

"Sort of like Evan's that just blew away?"

"Yes! God took care of that one for us," Neal said with a smile.


"Hey, Neal," I asked, "what's the difference between this idol and the little man on the slingshot you bought for your son?"

Oops. The slingshot didn't actually have the idol on it but rather a similar knock-off, but either way Neal could not give this gift to his son.

Be careful what you buy and don't fret if you lose something, maybe God was just taking care of the situation for you.

In Christ,
<>< Katie

What is Worship

I'm scrapbooking my Guatemala trip right now, and I realized I never blogged much about it (see March and April for the few stories I shared). This is an excerpt of my journal from March regarding a lesson I learned again in July and again last week. I guess we could call this my theme for the year since apparently I haven't fully grasped it yet. This was our last night in Guatemala after we'd said good-bye to the children:

"In group devotion, we read Psalm 139. It was perfect for our saddened hearts after saying 'Good-bye.' We also sang a few songs (in English). I did sing for awhile* otherwise I didn't focus. I always feel weird not singing. I feel like I'm not focused/ unenthusiastic, etc. I think that's because I judge those who aren't singing. Another thing I've learned on this trip: it's ok to be silent and listen. That sounds like something I've been taught again and again, but it was reinforced today. Singing your heart out and praising God with your hands is not the only way to worship. It is just as much worship if you sit still and allow Him to move. It's worship by looking at His beautiful creation. Worship is painting a building. Worship is tediously cleaning a paint tray... twice. Worship is everything you do if you do it for God and to the best of your ability. Worship is sitting around a cement table with a few friends, freezing cold, looking at the starts, being amazed by the city/ mountain views, and reminiscing about the week."

<>< Katie

*This was during the time when I was forbidden to sing and sign. Click here for the full story.

Tuve un sueño

Whenever I'm cold at night, I have bizarre dreams. The first night on my trip to Guatemala was COLD! Of course, I had a strange dream that doesn't make much sense. My mission team was in a large two-story room with a staircase in the middle (mall? airport? I don't know). I was being chased, so I was running down the stairs to where most of the team had gathered. I don't know where Neal was, but he was shouting, telling me to stop running because whoever was chasing me couldn't chase me anymore if I stopped running. I heard him and agreed, but it's easier to run down stairs than it is to walk, so I kept running, and Neal kept yelling. He wasn't necessarily angry, but he wasn't happy either. Eventually I did stop and walk the rest of the way down the stairs. When I got to the bottom, he make me go talk to one of my professors I was arguing with. In reality, I've never had this professor muchless had a problem with her, but in my dream we were fueding, and I woke up before I could figure out why. (It's a dream... it doesn't make sense).

According to my hugenormous trip journal, this dream haunted me for days. To this day Neal gets after me for being mad at him for something he did in a dream. Eventually, I wrote, "I'm not mad at Neal for my dream anymore. I don't think. He was confronting me about an issue and making me take care of it. He was upset (but he wasn't livid) and he was holding me accountable for my actions. We all need people like that, even in our dreams, even when we don't have a clue what we did. I really hope I don't have any more weird dreams."

Fast forward to Thursday. We needed to paint the top corner of the exterior of a building except it was hard to reach with the ladder and there was a huge birds nest and thus an angry momma bird. We girls decided against painting it ourselves and sent a guy up there.

Neal was our lucky victim. He perched himself precariously on an incredibly unsafe ladder contraption (involving a brick, a peice of plywood, a rock, and a sloped sidewalk), and I held the ladder.

Three or four songs from my sign choir played on the radio (ok, iPod), but I couldn't sign them because Neal's life was in my hands.

"God's trying to teach you to listen," he told me.
Eventually, he handed me the paint buck and climbed off the ladder.  I signed with my one free hand.

"Stop it, Katie," he told me again.

I didn't stop instantly because it was my favorite part of the song, but I did stop a few signs later. I was moderately annoyed, but I figured he was probably right. After all, I'm not very good at listening.
For the rest of the work day, I didn't sign and I didn't sing. Under any other circumstances, I probably wouldn't have even considered not singing/signing. Yet I'm so glad I did because while cleaning the bucket that day, I had one of the best conversations with God that I've had in a long time.

In Christ,
<>< Katie

"Rejoice evermore. Pray without ceasing. In every thing give thanks: for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus concerning you."
1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

Dead Skin

Most embarrassing moment of the week, ready? Along with a promised mission trip story! (Yes, it's long, but it's two stories for the price of one).

On Tuesday, after worship I went to get some snacks. Every week I get whales (goldfish but better); in fact, the snacks folks always know I get whales. Some days I have to ask, but they always have whales even if they're just for me. I'm waiting for the day when there's a cup of whales on the table waiting for me. :-) Last week, they were out of whales and it made me very sad. This week, I was a little over-excited about getting whales...

I galloped to the snacks table, and when I reached across if for an empty cup, I accidental hit some cookies onto the floor. Three valuable cookies fell to their death on the nasty concourse floor. I picked them up right away, and held them in my greasy hand while I talked for a few seconds. Neal picked up the now-empty package and put it under my hand with broken cookies. I took the broken cookies and empty wrappers to the garbage.

"What are you doing with those cookies?" Neal shouted across the concourse to me.
"Throwing them away. Why? You want them?" I asked, realizing that was a dumb question. He's a guy; he's probably going to eat them. I was not going to give him cookies off the floor. Even if the answer was yes, they were going in the garbage.
"Not after they've been mushed in your sweaty hand," he snickered and I pitched them.
"My hand is cleaner than that floor," I informed him.
"Would you bet your salvation on it?" Is my campus minister asking me to bet my salvation on germs?
"No, but God and I both know how often I wash my hands."

Every conversation I have with Neal involves skin cells... I don't talk to anyone else about skin cells, but every time I talk to Neal they come up and he doesn't even know I'm a germophobe. How weird is that? Of course, this conversation morphed to talk about germs, Neal's nurse-wife whose hands bleed every winter because of how often their washed (mine, too), Neal's germophobe son (me, too), and how I once took a shower in Neal dead skin cells.

On our mission trip, Neal sat down next to me and said, "My face is peeling." How do you respond to that? What a great conversation starter!
I said the only logical thing, "Yucky."
"It's not yucky!"
"Well, I don't want your peely skin on me," I told him. What does he proceed to do? Rub his hands over my leg and taunt me with the number of skin cells falling onto me. When he's finished with that, he scoops them up and throws them in my face. Dead Neal cells in my eyes! Yucky!

On Tuesday, he rubbed some more dead skin cells on me, and I told him how hard that was for germophobe me not to freak out. I excepted this confession to result in laughter and more dead skin cells on me.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know it bothered you," he said. Wow. I wasn't expecting that.

Throw someone a curve ball today. Apology when they expect you to laugh.

<>< Katie