You Bring - Love.

This is the story of a little man and his sweet corazoncito – and the power of returning.

Once upon a time in the year 2008, a love story was born. In the corner of a sun-drenched courtyard at a little nursing home called Cabacitas de Algodon (Little House of CottonTops), a little man had set up his small “studio.” He carefully drew a house, his feeble hands holding well-worn colored pencils. This wasn’t any house, mind you. It was an elevation – the type of sketch used by homebuilders. Meticulous and mindful, he focused on his work, oblivious to the team of North Americans who had walked through the gates with guitars and new shoes. His art was his passion.

And it was someone else’s passion too.

Cake and Cole Porter

When you get real old, honey, you realize there are certain things that just don't matter anymore. You lay it all on the table. There's a saying: Only little children and old folks tell the truth. ~ Sarah Louise Delany

“Stand up in the presence of the elderly, and show respect for the aged. Fear your God. I am the LORD. ~Leviticus 19:32

We were quite a threesome – Courtney and Amber and I – as we carried a large cake and bags of lap blankets up the sidewalk to Buckner Villas. Visiting nursing homes in foreign lands seems natural to me, because for some reason in my mind I can reconcile the “widows and orphans” connection so clearly there. But there’s a sadness what washes over me every time I pass one here in the US, and I get caught in the trap of feeling incapable of being able to offer anything valuable to those inside. This trip was a special request - the Christgiving wish of a dear friend, Libby York. She has a special passion for the elderly, and knows my heart well. She said the journey would be a rich one.

There was music playing as we entered the room where a small group of cotton-topped faces were being entertained by a woman strumming a guitar and singing standards. Some were sleeping, others were listening intently, and a few were singing along. Most were in wheelchairs. The cake was cut and passed around by staff members as eager to enjoy the dessert as they were to share it with their precious residents. We looked around at the faces in the room – so many stories in those eyes, so many memories etched in each wrinkle. Each face - a voice just waiting to be heard.

It was hard not to be mesmerized by Thelma. She sat in the center of the room, tapping her shiny gold-shoed feet in rhythm to the music. It was her birthday – she was 101. And she was happy about it. She was alert and well-dressed, with lovely red nails and hair in a bun. Meeting her was magical. “Do you love to dance too?” she asked in a New York accent that hadn’t faded over the years. “You know, you have to work hard to get to dance on stage.” We talked about ballroom dancing, and she recommended I wear a green gown because it would complement my blonde hair. “It will make an impression on the audience.” Her son, she said, was a dancer, and had traveled from New York to California to pursue his dream. She said she hadn’t heard from him in a while, likely because he was busy with his budding career. “How old is he?” I asked. “Twenty,” she smiled. “I’m here on vacation, you know. But there are so many old people here at this resort.” She asked where my friends and I were from, and when we said Texas, she was shocked. “You traveled all the way from Texas to Baltimore? Why?” One of the nurses gently corrected her, but Thelma rolled her eyes and laughed. “I lived in New York for years. My father bought a house in the suburbs – I could never live in the city in one of those apartments. But I’ve come to Baltimore. This resort is nice, but I don’t socialize with the older people much. I’m here on business.” Her business was dancing, and she believed it should be everyone’s business. She told me I looked like a flapper - quite lovely for 19.

I think that, if I was a dancer in that green ball gown, I would have a perfect partner in Mr. Hoover. Reclining in a custom wheelchair that was heavily padded to make his twisted body more comfortable, he strained to sing every lyric of the Cole Porter songs the guitarist played. “He’s one of our favorites,” a nurse whispered. “He can’t talk, but he can sing.” Most words were difficult to understand, but three were clear and crisp. “Delightful. Delicious. De-Lovely!” He reached for my hand as I sat next to him and Ron, a precious man who loved to laugh, and then he sang for me. There was no sound, yet I felt every note.

Someone else felt every note of the music that day. Idra, a petite woman with lovely curled hair, sat in her wheelchair in the corner. I immediately noticed her hands, clapping in perfect time to the strums of the guitar. At first she was distant, and I was told she had a reputation for being a bit cantankerous. But one question changed everything. “Did you play piano?” She beamed, and introduced herself. She talked about the music, and how she liked her “home.” I offered her a lap blanket, and she began to cry. “This is the nicest thing – that you would bring something for me. It’s really for me?” She then asked about my friends, and the tears came again. “I had a friend. We were friends from kindergarten on. But she died. She was my very best friend. And she’s gone. I miss her so much.” She said she had made some friends at the nursing home, and she really loved her nurse, but there was no one like her best friend. Then she smiled. “I’m sorry I cry. But I cry because I’m happy. You’ve made me happy.”

I watched as Amber embraced Woody, a well-dressed man celebrating his 91st birthday. She held his hand, and he stroked her long, blonde hair as they enjoyed the music, and laughed as they tried to remember the words. Amber had wished for a grandpa – and in that moment, her wish had come true. I couldn’t help but think that, for Woody, holding hands with a pretty lady was one of the best birthday gifts he had had on a long time.

Courtney snuggled next to Jo, a spitfire in a wheelchair who loved to move around. But she calmed down when she saw that smiling face and heard her name. She grabbed Courtney’s face and kissed her forehead. And the happy tears flowed again.

The faces. The voices. The stories. And the wash of sadness happens again – not because I don’t feel I have anything of value to give, but because I’ve waited so long to embrace the moment. I was told that day, “It costs nothing to reach out and hold someone.” Oh, but the riches received in that touch – in those smiles, in those tears. I pray I sing, even when the words don’t come. I pray I am never afraid to cry happy tears. I pray that I’ll always love birthdays. I pray that, if my mind slips a bit, I see myself at a resort. And I pray I always want to dance. Thank you, Thelma, Idra, Woody, Jo, Ron. And you, Mr. Hoover, are absolutely “de-Lovely.”

Lifted up and thankful. A postscript on Christmas.

I explained to a friend just a few weeks ago that it feels as if I am being lifted up by the Lord right now - possibly by the scruff of the neck - as my feet continue to run in place. It's been a time of "live right now in this moment - and listen to what happens" as opposed to my "Scooby Doo" lifestyle (a play off the words "go.be.do" - and one of many nicknames my hubby uses to describe me).

What has living in this moment looked like so far? Of course, it's included food - cooking and baking for others in the midst of celebration and pain. It's included sitting in the backseat of my own car so someone else can enjoy the best view of the Christmas lights in heated seat comfort on a cold Oklahoma night. It's included redefining birthday celebrations to ensure amazing people aren't forgotten. It's included coffee with someone who won my heart before she ever knew my name. It's included finding lap blankets in just the right colors to make wrinkled faces light up. It's included weeping with a stranger who longs to adopt children abandoned and alone, and holding a friend who feels as though she's the abandonded one. It's included smiling more and laughing more and being a little more quiet. It's included praying - because there's always time to pray.

What have I heard in the midst of the moments? "You would have missed this had your feet been touching the ground."

The go.be.do. list is still full. And should the Lord allow, there are some very exciting things in store for 2010. There's much writing to do. There's a language to learn. There's design magic ready to happen. There's school to attend. There's a business to launch. There are orphans to help. There are friends to love. There's a family to cherish. And there's skydiving mixed in there somewhere. Whatever gives Him glory...

Perhaps the best quote of the season this year came from my "cup of coffee" moment. Posted on her blog, http://thesimplypeachy.com/, it cuts to the core of my heart. I'm thankful for a God who so passionately loves me. I'm thankful for a the grace of a Saviour, the hope of the Christ, the peace of our Lord. He is life in my veins.

“I’m tired of being a skeptic, I’m irritated by spiritual prudence and I feel bored and parched by empirical debate. I don’t want to hear it anymore. I couldn’t care less about evidence and proof and assurances. I just want God. I want God inside me. I want God to play in my bloodstream the way sunlight amuses itself on water." -Elizabeth Gilbert

Precious Pain

It’s Tuesday night – or to be perfectly honest, it’s very early Wednesday morning. Though I should be asleep, my head and heart are full as I reflect on a painfully precious day. It’s Independence Day here in Guatemala, and in every city, town, and village, the celebrations have been taking place for days. Concerts, fireworks, torch runs, marathons, festivals, dances, parades – it seems the entire country joins in the festivities. That liberty, however, wasn’t celebrated in the places we served.

We returned to Cerecaif, our van filled with bags of supplies. A small army of boys ran to our van, and then carefully carried the duffel bags and sacks into the orphanage – one smiling and singing “Leche! Leche” when he saw large bags of powdered milk. Part of our team completed a painting project we began on Monday (see “Beauty for Ashes”) while others distributed humanitarian aid, school supplies and groceries.

The heartfelt gratitude of the workers was precious. Saying “goodbye” to the children was painful.

We travelled to Antigua, where we visited the Hogar de Ancianos– or the Cabecitas de Algodor , loosely translated as The House of Cottontops.” Three of us had been to the home for the elderly before, and each had special memories of residents there. For Courtney, it was a former architect, disabled after a construction accident, who loved to draw. For Stacey, it was a wheelchair-bound gentleman with a passion for good conversation. And for me, it was a 102-year old woman who loved Jesus and loved to tell everyone she met about it.

The heavy wooden door opened into the entry of the home, and we stumbled over two beds that had been set up where plants and a bench had once been. Large piles of clothing, old mattresses, and wheelchairs dotted the walkway around the small center courtyard. Something had changed.

Courtney immediately saw her “boyfriend,” who greeted every woman on the team with a sweet kiss on the cheek. She presented him with a portfolio of draftsman tools, and his eyes filled with tears of joy. Stacey’s gentleman quickly engaged in a deep conversation about history with Jim, himself a history buff. And Ryan was introduced to the now 103-year old woman was sitting outside her room. Other familiar faces sat in chairs or shuffled across the courtyard as we gave away the slippers and caps. Many shared stories of days gone by, of careers and families and life in other places.

As we neared the rooms, the stench of urine and feces was overwhelming. Rooms that once held two or three people now were filled with six or seven beds. Most residents were in those beds, many unable to walk or care for themselves at all. Some beds had sheets and blankets ; many had nothing to cover the bare mattress. We learned that two other homes had been closed, and residents from those homes had been transported to the Hogar des Ancianos. Some newer residents had simply been “left” by family members. With little to no financial assistance, the House of Cottontops has been struggling to keep its residents fed.

Holding the withered hand of a sweet grandma was precious. Knowing that grandma has no family visiting her was painful.

So, I lay here – my heart aching for the fatherless, no matter their age. Knowing the Lord God Almighty says “I’ll be your daddy,” and wanting desperately to comfort each and every one. I’m so thankful for those who are here in Guatemala, caring for the fatherless day in and day out. I’m thankful for the amazing team here with me this week, living out their faith. And though it’s sometimes difficult to say, I’m thankful for the painfully precious days – it’s through them I am centered, refined – and focused on Christ alone. And it’s through them I’m reminded He is Lord, He is Healer, He is Comforter.