The Wonder of Being Truly Alive.

The sun is shining as it rises over the hills and volcanoes. The birds are singing a symphony. The morning is fresh and new, full of sparkling mercy, grace and love - just waiting to be shared and experienced. I wish I could bottle this moment, for it is a perfect reminder of the wonder of our God.

We leave Eagle's Nest today to return to Guatemala City, where we will rest and prepare for our journey home. If all goes well, we will stop in Antigua to see the beautiful monasteries and cobblestone streets of the artisan community. And I will hunger to see the wrinkled faces and hold the withered hands of the elderly at Cabecitas de Algodor (the Little House of Cottontops). They, like the orphans and the poor here, have been discarded. But unlike the children who have found love on top of the mountain at Eagle's Nest, they wait for any familiar face to come. And no one comes. I will see them in October, hold them and call them Abuelita and Abuelo. I, too, know what it feels like to be alone. And I know what it feels like to be embraced by new family.

While here, we've painted classrooms, built a little library, built a bus stop, painted playground equipment, taught swimming lessons, cut hair, played with orphans, laughed with the poor, cleaned and straightened and breathed in every moment. And I've got that feeling that haunts me at the end of every journey like this - the "just one more moment, please" ache. I've come to savor it, embrace it, cherish it. For it reminds me I'm truly alive.

A story was shared with us yesterday. I thought you might like it. It's from Mike Yaconelli, founder of Youth Specialties. He passed away in 2004, but his ministry and legacy live on. I pray the wonder never ends.

It was one of those snowfalls you never forget. Millions of white flakes filled the air, quieting the earth and swallowing the sounds. The resulting silence was thick with a texture you could feel. My nephew stood in the living room at the opening to our deck, a stranger to snow. his two years of life about to be altered irrevocably. His eyes were blank, unaware; his body clueless; his mind about to be overloaded with the electricity of discovery. In the dark, Mother had maneuvered herself onto the deck’s two feet of snow to capture the event on video. Dad manned the sliding door, which had been unlatched for quick opening into the darkness. Uncle’s hands were poised on the switch to light the deck. And Aunt was ready to lift her nephew into the mysterious new world of twinkling ice and frozen softness.

The moment arrived.

In a perfectly timed instant the deck lights went on, the camera started recording, the sliding door swept open, and a two-year old was transported from the world he knew to a world he had never seen.

Wonder filled the air.

His eyes stretched wide with astonishment, as though the only way to apprehend what he was seeing was for his eyes to become big enough to contain it all. He stood motionless, paralyzed. It was too much for a two-year-old, too much for an any-year-old (too often, when a person gets older, the person’s “too-much detector” malfunctions, corroded by busyness and technology). He twitched and jerked each time a snowflake landed on his face, feeling it tingle as it was transformed from hostile cold to friendly warmth, caressing his face with tiny droplets of water. Just behind his large eyes you could see sparks flying from the crosscurrents of millions of electric stimuli overwhelming the circuit breakers of his previously small world. His mind was a confusion of strange, conflicting realities: white, cold, floating, flying, tingling, electric, landing, touching, sparkling, melting - causing an overload so great, so overwhelming, he fell backward - a slow-motion landing in the billowy whiteness, the snow tenderly embracing him. He had given up trying to understand snow and had given in to experiencing snow.

It was a moment of wonder.

The more I think about it, it was a moment of dangerous wonder. My nephew’s awe and wonder caused him to surrender to the snow by falling into it. For a few magical seconds, the danger of snow had given way to the wonder of snow. For a brief moment my nephew came face-to-face with life at its fullest. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, to be afraid or happy. My nephew experienced what it must be have been like that first moment in Eden when Adam and Eve’s eyes could not comprehend the staggering beauty of God’s new creation. He experienced what it must have been like when the scales fell from the blind man’s eyes and the explosion of color and shapes bombarded his mind for the first time; when the leper felt a surge of electricity through his body, his dead and rotting skin suddenly transformed into the fresh skin of a baby; when the bitter, hopeless prostitute looked up fully expecting judgment and death and instead heard the words of forgiveness and life.

What moments? What holy moments! To be in the presence of God, frightened and amazed at the same time! To feel as if you are in the presence of Life itself, yet with your soul shaking in both fear and gratitude.

I want a lifetime of holy moments. Every day I want to be in the dangerous proximity to Jesus. I long for a life that explodes with meaning and is filled with adventure, wonder, risk, and danger. I long for a faith that is gloriously treacherous. I want to be with Jesus, not knowing whether to cry or laugh.

Hold One Another.

“Hold one another to the highest.”

As I sit and look out onto the volcanos surrounding the stillness of Lake Atitlan, these words resonate in my heart. While this morning’s devotional was perfect for the view - Psalm 148 seems to have been written for a place such as this - I find myself caught up in a very different beauty, a very different form of praise to the Lord who loves us so much and delights in us so deeply.

“Hold one another to the highest.”

(Those words are a quote from Amy Carmichael, a missionary to India. She shared with friends “missionary life is a chance to die.” She devoted herself to risking reputation, status, and comfort if it meant she could save a child from suffering - going so far as to die her skin with dark coffee to immerse herself more into the culture and people. Reading about her life convicts me to the

core.)

Yesterday, as the men in our group painted metal roofing and moved piles of dirt to build a bus stop for the village school being established at Eagle’s Nest, and the women traveled into town to negotiate for produce and meat at the local open air market, eleven little faces watched and waited. Ranging in age from two to ten, the orphans at Eagle’s Nest are hungry - for time. The girls delight in playing “beauty shop” and the boys love loading rocks into the toy dump trucks. Each could spend hours swinging and spinning on the old merry-go-round. But there is something even more important to each of them. Being held. We started and ended our day with them - laughing, playing, hugging.

“Hold one another to the highest.”

Walking along the street near the market in Solola, I saw her. An older woman slowly made her way up the hilly bricked road. Dressed in

traditional garb, she carried her child in a sling on her back. He held tightly to her, his arms around her neck. His little legs were withered, his body contorted. He was her child, but he was not a child. The son she carried was a grown man.

Whether it’s holding a hand, snuggling in close on a lap, or being carried, the orphans, and the mom, understand something I think we easily forget. There is healing power in a hug - for both people. The Lord longs for us to risk our own comfort, our reputation, to care for others. We are to reach out, lift up, hold steady, lift high.

I pray today we each hold one another.

Wiggling in a Mudslide

Dirt. Diesel. Vans. Mountains. Rain.

And mudslides.

Somethings about this country never change. And some change in an instant. I’m here in Guatemala again. It’s a place that feels strangely like home to me, though I still struggle with the language and have no confidence I could safely drive myself anywhere. The sights are so familiar along the roads - the brightly colored, open-air stores filled with pastries and chips and sodas, the seafood restaurant as the road bends to the left over the patchwork mountainside, the strange looking bazaar that rests below the hills which have been sliced by machinery and storms. It’s at that very spot I met the first smiling faces selling roasted corn and old cassette tapes to frustrated drivers stuck in road construction. There’s the beautiful ivory cathedral on the left side of the road and the ever-faithful Katok restaurant that signals the halfway point between Guatemala City and Xela. The delicate cala lillies in buckets, the gazebos shading local produce. Yes, this place has my heart.

Today’s road is different, however. Traveling with my church to a place called Eagle’s Nest in Solola has “new adventure” written into every word. Eagle’s Nest was at one time a baby home, specializing in caring for infants who would be adopted. When international adoption was closed in early 2008, the owners shifted their attention to education and caring for the poor. They have helped launch several churches in the area, and continue to find ways to remain relevant servants to their community. Being so close to my sweet little friends at Cerecaif and the precious girls at Manchen pulls at my heart, but I know the Lord has me in this place for His glory and for my joy.

The joy has already shown its bright face. Yesterday, it appeared in a smile. Emma was to minister with me in Honduras last year, but our plans were thwarted due to political upheaval in the country. Now, one year later, I am blessed to serve with her. She is sixteen, with a wisdom far beyond her years and a love for orphans that inspires me to love more.

Today, joy wove its way through circumstances that were anything less than joyful. Every suitcase and duffel made its way to GuatemalaCity and into our vans - that is, every suitcase but mine. With bag tags from past mission trips adorning it, my suitcase - filled to the brim with thecomforts of home - jumped on another van with an organization I’ve served with before. We turned left, they turned right. We headed to the mountains, and they stayed in the city. I went from a very self-sufficient, very experienced traveler to a highly-dependent little girl. Knowing my bag was not lost, but in the same area as I was, made the longing to get it even stronger. And placing that longing at the feet of Christ, trusting Him to find the perfect moment for the reunion, was an intentional sacrifice of self-reliance. Though I shed a few tears, I found myself laughing more. There was freedom in utter dependence.

That same freedom - and joy - danced in the streets. Tropical storm Agatha has wreaked havoc on this country, with roads and bridges washed out because of its fury. And the rainy season continues to taunt the already wounded mountainside. At sunset, our van ride was halted by a wall of earth. The mudslide was fast and powerful, and had every intention of making the roads impassable. Our team of 16 made a decisive move - we played Ninja and Bunny Bunny in the rain. If you’re not familiar with the games, I’m not sure any explanation I could offer would begin to paint the right picture if your mind. One involves Ninja moves and hand-slapping, and the other includes rear-wiggling and yelling “cootchy-cootchy-coo.” The large circle of wiggling, slapping, yelling people in the street in the rain made the moment excellent. Then the team made another decisive move. We prayed the mountain would be moved. And it was. Minutes after we said, “amen,” we got word an earth-mover had begun its job. We thanked the men who worked tirelessly in the dark to make a way for us to continue our journey.

I listen to the distant sound of a nightclub in the village below as I slowly drift away, thankful for a friend’s pajamas and toothpaste. As I snuggle into bed, I can’t help but wiggle my hips and smile. His glory. My joy.