In the Likeness of the Creator

Genesis 5:1 

When God created mankind, he made them in the likeness of God.

Why is it so easy to forget that I was lovingly made in God's likeness?

My human frailty, the thorns in my flesh, the insecurities that fall around me like ashes - they all try to detract from the Creator of all who made us and said it was good.

I run and work and toil to be the image of something that will still be in the likeness of my God.

I ignore and beat down and overwork (and overfeed) this body that was created in His image.

He knows every name within long genealogies of people in the Old Testament - generations of humanity. He cherished them and knew the years of their lives. And He knows me. He cherishes me.

When I wordlessly insult me, I insult His likeness, His creation. He made me and it was good. 

Good.

Genesis 1:31 

God saw all that he had made, and it was very good.

It was good.

I have recently been caught up in loss and chaos and the little parts of my days that cause concern. My thoughts have moved to the rushing waters and tearing winds of hurricanes - first Harvey, which stole the breath from my own states and now Irma, which threatens to snuff further hopes of children in small, impoverished nations. The Kenyan re-election looms overhead. A drowned CRF child who tried to teach himself how to swim in an active river. Disastrous wildfires. 

In this world there is trouble. But the Creator formed it with His Words. His hands, His breath. Even when we try our best to break this place, it is good. 

It is His. 

It will always be made by Him, held by Him, cherished by Him. He is good. It is good. There is no need for fear. 

When Foster Care Isn't Needed

Sometimes foster care isn't what is needed.

Don't get me wrong. There is a tremendous lack of foster parents and respite caregivers in the United States. So many children in our country do not have a stable home environment because there aren't enough foster parents willing to take them.

However, sometimes there are children who need a place to stay who aren't in foster care.

In some cities, you can find Safe Families - an organization that contains members who are willing to take children into their homes for limited periods of times as their parents work through homelessness, addiction, or other difficult problems that make raising children almost impossible. Government intervention does not take place. They do not remove the children.

It takes a courageous parent to have the strength and the awareness to say, "I can't do this right now. I need help."

Before a home situation becomes too dangerous or complicated, before CPS becomes involved, and before true foster parents are needed, imagine if biological parents felt like they could ask for help without being judged or criticized or blown off entirely. Imagine if the church had families that would say, "Yes, I will take your child or your children for a short period of time while you adjust your life to fit them back. For a day, for a week, for a month, I am here to support you as a parent." Imagine how foster care would look different. Imagine helping a child to adjust and attach and develop in light of his best interest, on a biological parent's terms.

Safe families aren't present in every city. I wish the organization was established in mine. However, I am asking the Lord to allow me to be a safe family when one is needed, for a few hours or a few days or as long as is needed.

Not long ago, a single mother in my city approached me and confessed just how hard parenting alone has been for her. She was overwhelmed beyond words and had not slept in days. She felt like a terrible mother; but all what needed was rest. An evening, a night, and a morning of crawling babies in my house was a source of joy for me and a much-needed time of sleep and alone time for this brave young mama.

Sometimes being a safe family means spending a little of yourself to refill someone else. Sometimes it means sacrificing time or energy or even some money. But it means making a government issue a church issue and a family issue. It means intervening before anyone else has to intervene. And it means shining Christ to someone who is feeling more overwhelmed than I can imagine.

Will you consider becoming a safe family? You can learn more here.

His Schedule

Every year I lead a team of both first-time and seasoned travelers on a trip to Kenya. Before we go, I give everyone a packet with preparations for the trips: packing lists, tentative itineraries, cultural tips, and more. It can be difficult for a first-time traveler to accept that the daily itinerary is always tentative and it will always look different than what I first planned.

The American culture is one of control. When I look at my upcoming work week on Sunday night, I know what to expect. I'll be working from nine to five, sitting in the same room, in the same chair, at the same desk. On Wednesdays I eat lunch with my grandparents. On Friday evenings, I meet up with my boyfriend. I plan my weekends days in advance. There are certainly unexpected emergencies that might come up, but for the most part, Americans plan things and things go how we plan them.

This is not the case in Africa.

When I make an itinerary for a mission trip to Kenya, it must be flexible. And the happiness of a group depends on the team's own flexibility when things change up to the very last moment.

We might be waiting for our bus driver, who overslept by three hours, and drastically miss our tea-time with a friend in another village.

We might be driving down a dirt road when our matatu gets stuck in the mud and suddenly we are faced with a mile walk... with a blind girl who can't maneuver her way across the uneven roads now carried on my brother's back.

We might have someone ill... or stop to pray for a widowed mother... or take a random trip to a new village where none of us has ever been before, simply because someone we trust asked us to go.

Mission trips aren't predictable. When the schedule suddenly changes, I see two kinds of people on my team. One has accepted the reality of being in another country with a totally different culture (that does not value timeliness in the same way that ours does). When things change, they laugh and see the joy in the spontaneity. The other type of person struggles desperately to maintain the control they thought they had back in the United States. When things change, stress tightens their faces and widens their eyes. Tensely, they examine and re-examine what was changed instead of enjoying what is new and unexpected.

Every year I tell my team to be willing to embrace change or else the third world will be a truly stressful experience.

When I am on the international mission field, my perspective on time and schedules change. Our car breaks down? I laugh and prepare for a hike. We pick up three people to fit in an already over-crowded vehicle? This is Africa. We visit five schools instead of three? The more the merrier.

But in Texas, when my schedule changes very radically, my heart can seize in my chest. The other day, I became lost on the way to visit a new church in a new city where I'll be moving soon. We ended up fifteen minutes late and I hated that. My blood pressure rose, my pulse raced, and my hands shook with nerves as we had to walk into a new building and feel curious eyes on us as we stepped into the building a few minutes after the songs began.

See, as much as I tell my summer teams to focus on the Lord's plans instead of their own plans, I like my control too.

I want my time to be the Lord's time. If I don't allow him to make changes in my carefully organized day-to-day, then I am not leaving room for him to work in my life.

Recently a single mom contacted me and told me how overwhelmed she was feeling. With three kids under the age of four, she was running on almost no sleep and she felt like she couldn't parent in the state she was in. It was a work night for me. The control part of me screamed, "They are her kids, you have work, you need to pack to go to Kenya, you have your own plans," but the Spirit in me whispered, "You have the ability to take some of her hurt and stress and fears. What's holding you back?" That night, I kept the youngest children to give this single mama a break. With two babies crawling around my living room floor, my week looked drastically different than how I had planned on Sunday night. But it was beautiful.

When I let the Lord take control of my schedule, my life is more joyful, more selfless, and more purposeful than what I ever could plan on my own.

Yellow Water Jugs

The yellow water jug

holds just a little in its bottom

in the early morning

so I can splash my

dark dark cheeks.

Uniform stretched out on my bed,

I wear a faded dress instead.

I stand up tall - upon my head

is the empty

yellow water jug.

The path is long and stretches far.

One way students walk to class;

this way we walk for water.

Dust is stirred by bare

dark, dark feet

like mine and all the other girls',

careful braids and short-cropped curls

and teeth like baby pearls. 

All carrying, just the same,

yellow water jugs.

The men watch us, 

taking tea with big, rough hands,

winking at us with 

dark, dark thoughts 

but we do not meet their eyes. 

The hairs on my arms rise.

Strength in numbers, walking by sunrise. 

I grow thirsty under the sun

but as barren as the dusty path

is my yellow water jug. 

The thorn bush catches my foot

and like a river, up wells

dark, dark blood

but still I smile because I've arrived 

at the end of the long queue. 

Women young and old and thin 

with weary faces, weathered skin 

stand at this daily chore again,

all carrying empty

yellow water jugs. 

The heat is thick and still I wait, 

jug at my feet, skin damp with sweat.

My head bows, casting

dark, dark shadows. 

When the sun is high it's my turn,

so I pump until my muscles burn 

and my dry, dry throat yearns, 

but others are waiting too, so 

I rush to fill my 

yellow water jug.  

The jug balanced on my head, I hurry. 

I don't want to be trapped in the

dark dark night

with the men who always watch.

I make it home, aching, tired.

Grandmother cooks bent over the fire. 

Brother walks in with stick and tire,

looking so smart in his school uniform.  

Grandmother cooks and empties most of 

the yellow water jug. 

It's hard to see through the

dark, dark smoke

but we eat and tonight there is enough. 

Brother talks about all I missed

in class. I ball my fists,

but through sleepy thoughts I listen. 

No need for tears. When the rains come, 

perhaps I'll go back to class again. 

But tomorrow I'll be walking 

with other girls, barefoot, balancing

our yellow water jugs.

Lavin's Story

When I was 15, I chose Lavin’s photograph from a stack that represented children waiting to be sponsored. 

Lavin was her name. She was 9 years old and her smile was captivating. She was the only daughter of a poor widow named Ruth who sold wooden spoons on the roadside and earned less than a dollar per day. We wrote letters back and forth for a year before I visited Kenya for the first time at age 16. 

Meeting your sponsored child for the first time is truly life-changing. This was the girl I had thought about and written to and prayed over and sacrificed for over the last 18 months. And she was worth that and so much more. 

Lavin is 17 now. She is in high school. She is intelligent and beautiful and godly. One day she would like to be a nurse. 

When Lavin and I see each other, we no longer interact as strangers—we run to each other like sisters long-separated. 

Lavin was one of the reasons why I quickly fell in love with Ringroad Orphan’s Day School 7 years ago. She has been raised up by people who love Jesus and it shows in her. I love the teachers there, the children, the campus, the church, the neighborhood. And I absolutely love Lavin.

Dorcas's Story

“Are you proud of me?” Dorcas asked. In truth, my heart was bursting with pride for the girl standing before me in a crisp blue and white high school uniform. 

I met Dorcas for the first time in 2013. She was a partial orphan, slightly delayed in school due to a difficult background, and she was used to the feeling of hunger. I was captivated by Dorcas’s joyful spirit. She was a leader among her peers; when she spoke, they fell silent and listened. 

“Your name is in the Bible,” I told her, and Dorcas responded quickly.

“Acts 9:36. ‘Dorcas was always doing good and helping the poor.’ This is what I want to do when I grow up too.” 

Dorcas was the most gracious young woman I had ever met. With my hand gripped tightly in hers, she took me from building to building at the Eruli orphans school. 

“This is my dormitory. Aren’t I the most blessed girl in the world to have a bed to sleep in? Did you notice my mosquito net? Did you see that my sponsor gave me shoes? Have you seen our water well? I think we’re the most blessed of children to have clean water. Come to the dining hall—isn’t it nice? Have a bowl of rice. I want you to taste how good and nutritious our food is. My sponsor gives me this food.” 

I was awed by Dorcas’s attitude. “I’m going to pass my exams and make it into high school. Will you be proud of me then?” she asked. I was already proud of her… but to see her reach her goals was my new prayer. 

Two years later I climbed out of the matatu onto the Eruli High School campus. The first person to approach me was Dorcas, her smile lighting up her face. “Emily,” she said, embracing me, “are you proud of me? I did it.” 

Indescribably proud of her.

Caroline

Caroline was one of the sickest people I had ever seen. Her bones pressed against her skin and her hair was white from malnutrition. She didn’t walk and barely spoke, but tears streamed down her cheeks. 

At 20 years old, Caroline had been married and given birth to a daughter, she contracted HIV from an unfaithful husband, was divorced by that same husband when he discovered she had AIDS, was abandoned by her parents when they discovered she had the virus, and she moved to her grandmother’s house to die. 

Caroline had a four year old daughter: a wide-eyed little girl named Eunice who clung to her mother like Caroline might sift through her fingers like sand at any moment. 

The ARVs weren’t working. The end of Caroline’s life seemed devastatingly near and she was aware of this. Her eyes were clouded by hopelessness. “What is your family’s biggest need?” I asked the grandmother. 

“Food,” she replied. The family survived on one plastic bag of rice per week. No wonder Caroline’s medicine was failing her when her frail body had no nutrition to help her fight. 

When I looked at little Eunice, I saw Caroline. A partial orphan who would receive no education, who would probably marry young and give birth to children she couldn’t afford to feed. Eunice seemed doomed to follow in the footsteps of her mother into a generational cycle of extreme poverty that neither of them could control. 

CRF impacts lives and empowers the poor. Eunice is sponsored now and among the top of her preschool class. Education will reduce her chance of teenage pregnancy by almost 80%. Caroline is receiving daily food. She can walk again—and perhaps soon she will be strong enough to learn a trade and start a business of her own. 

This family is full of strong women, and in their future is nothing but healing hope. 

Locusts

“I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten… You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied and praise the name of the Lord your God.” -Joel 2:25-26

In Kenya last year I met a girl a few years younger than me. She repeated this verse many times when she talked about how God had transformed her life through CRF sponsorship. Once she was a street child, barefoot and hungry with no education. Now she’s in medical school. She has planted churches and shared the Gospel throughout the Rift Valley. 

In the slums in Kenya, many orphans have had years of their lives devoured by the swarming locusts of poverty. Childhoods are snatched away by these locusts. Years of innocence and joy are lost. 

The Lord walks through sponsorship to create stories of redemption and restoration. He restores the years that the swarming locust has eaten. He gives in abundance. 

Sponsorship offers orphans the chance to experience the childhood that was taken from them. These precious children become as overflowing with hope as an abundant harvest, no longer a locust-eaten field.