“Lord, remind me how brief my time on earth will be. Remind me that my days are numbered—how fleeting my life is. You have made my life no longer than the width of my hand. My entire lifetime is just a moment to you; at best, each of us is but a breath.” We are merely moving shadows, and all our busy rushing ends in nothing. We heap up wealth, not knowing who will spend it.
And so, Lord, where do I put my hope? My only hope is in you.” Psalm 39:4-7
At church today, I stared into 80 pairs of little eyes that glistened with light…that despite their lives in the slums and all they’ve seen, sung their hearts out to the Lord, thanking Him and praising Him for His blessings. I watched them dance and clap and pray and testify to the way God has provided for them…
Jered gave a message on “Living in the moment,” and I felt more alive in that moment than I have in some time. In being reminded of the fragile nature of my life, I was filled with a fervency and urgency to be thankful for the very breath I was breathing, each beat of my heart, each second I was still alive. Every single breath is a gift—not something I deserve, not something that is infinite, and not something that I have control over. Each moment is a privilege, a piece of grace, an opportunity---a chance to live and love that I will never get back again. Each second of my existence has a purpose and a reason that is far bigger than me, far more important than my desires, far more significant than my plans.
But I have a choice. I can live each moment for me, or I can live it for eternity. I can live it with my selfish ambitions, or worry and fret over what I will do tomorrow, or run around “heaping up wealth” and concerning myself with things of this world like money, education, success, or beauty…or instead of being focused on my reputation, I can be focused on the One I represent, and why He has put me here: to be completely humble and gentle, patient, bearing with one another in love, to serve wholeheartedly and with thanksgiving, to be made alive through grace (Ephesians 4:2, 2:8).
I can live my life for me, or I can live it for others. And the only time I have to live—is NOW. I am not guaranteed tomorrow. So the decision lies in my hands. The answers to the questions are up to me:
Who will I live for?
What will I live for?
When will I start LIVING?
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Saturday.
I slept until 11 oclock on Saturday, my body craving rest and sleep.
The past few nights have been full of tossing and turning—I lay in bed with my arms crossed behind my head, staring into the darkness, listening to the wind and the hum of bugs outside my window, my mind racing with words and images. Most of the images are of eyes—there is something intriguing about eyes to me, something about looking deep into people’s eyes that pulls at my heart, as if there were a magnetic attraction between my ribs and their pupils. As I stare into the faces of the men, women and children I meet, their dark brown eyes are mysterious pools that hold stories and feelings and sights untold, secret wells of unknown depths…I wonder about what lies in the thick brown waters...especially those of the children.
What horrors have their eyes seen? Have they seen their fathers stumble home drunk? Have they seen their dads beat their moms or burn them with acid? Have they seen their mothers cry and weep for mercy? Have they seen loved ones die from sickness and disease? Have they watched rabid dogs attack a baby they know? Have they seen their own blood from beatings and abuse? Have they watched their sister be raped by a neighbor or boss?
Horrifying and heartbreaking stories haunt my thoughts: women being beaten—to the point of mutilation and broken teeth, husbands having affairs—bringing home other women—kicking out their wives—but hunting them down for money each month and torturing them…children who are beaten while trying to protect their mothers—bitten and punched by their drunk fathers…brothers who pull sex-seeking neighbors off their helpless sisters…children suffering from fevers and sicknesses with no medicine at home…husbands that pour kerosene on their wives and burn them because “they are ugly”…
One pair of eyes has been seared into my mind since Saturday afternoon. They belong to a precious little Muslim woman who came over and had chapattis and cookies with Steph and I for a few hours. As she sat next to me at our table, her petite brown wrist slid out from beneath her black burha (muslim dress) that covered her from head to toe as she reached for a chocolate cookie, and she began to tell us about troubles with her fiancé and family. Her light brown eyes were captivating—standing out against her skin and dark hair—but they seemed to tiptoe around the room with caution as she unveiled some of her heart. Steph commented on what a beautiful woman she was, and embarrassed of the compliment, the precious little woman said that no Indian men thought she was pretty, and she wore a burka to cover her face from a young age, just because she didn’t think she was attractive.
My heart was so heavy for this shining little lady… that she covered her face because she didn't feel "beautiful enough" to be seen. She was without a doubt one of the most beautiful Indian women I have met, yet had no self confidence or sense of self worth. I longed for her to SEE her beauty, her value, her talents, her uniqueness, how she mattered to the God of the Universe who loved her with more compassion than she could imagine…I wanted to reach out and hug her and scoop her into my arms…for her to SEE and know that she is beautifully and wonderfully made...but my words alone could not heal her heart.
So her eyes burn in my mind, reminding me of the need for love, and the importance of treating every human being like what they are: a masterpiece, created by the hands of God, formed beautifully and especially for a divine plan.
The past few nights have been full of tossing and turning—I lay in bed with my arms crossed behind my head, staring into the darkness, listening to the wind and the hum of bugs outside my window, my mind racing with words and images. Most of the images are of eyes—there is something intriguing about eyes to me, something about looking deep into people’s eyes that pulls at my heart, as if there were a magnetic attraction between my ribs and their pupils. As I stare into the faces of the men, women and children I meet, their dark brown eyes are mysterious pools that hold stories and feelings and sights untold, secret wells of unknown depths…I wonder about what lies in the thick brown waters...especially those of the children.
What horrors have their eyes seen? Have they seen their fathers stumble home drunk? Have they seen their dads beat their moms or burn them with acid? Have they seen their mothers cry and weep for mercy? Have they seen loved ones die from sickness and disease? Have they watched rabid dogs attack a baby they know? Have they seen their own blood from beatings and abuse? Have they watched their sister be raped by a neighbor or boss?
Horrifying and heartbreaking stories haunt my thoughts: women being beaten—to the point of mutilation and broken teeth, husbands having affairs—bringing home other women—kicking out their wives—but hunting them down for money each month and torturing them…children who are beaten while trying to protect their mothers—bitten and punched by their drunk fathers…brothers who pull sex-seeking neighbors off their helpless sisters…children suffering from fevers and sicknesses with no medicine at home…husbands that pour kerosene on their wives and burn them because “they are ugly”…
One pair of eyes has been seared into my mind since Saturday afternoon. They belong to a precious little Muslim woman who came over and had chapattis and cookies with Steph and I for a few hours. As she sat next to me at our table, her petite brown wrist slid out from beneath her black burha (muslim dress) that covered her from head to toe as she reached for a chocolate cookie, and she began to tell us about troubles with her fiancé and family. Her light brown eyes were captivating—standing out against her skin and dark hair—but they seemed to tiptoe around the room with caution as she unveiled some of her heart. Steph commented on what a beautiful woman she was, and embarrassed of the compliment, the precious little woman said that no Indian men thought she was pretty, and she wore a burka to cover her face from a young age, just because she didn’t think she was attractive.
My heart was so heavy for this shining little lady… that she covered her face because she didn't feel "beautiful enough" to be seen. She was without a doubt one of the most beautiful Indian women I have met, yet had no self confidence or sense of self worth. I longed for her to SEE her beauty, her value, her talents, her uniqueness, how she mattered to the God of the Universe who loved her with more compassion than she could imagine…I wanted to reach out and hug her and scoop her into my arms…for her to SEE and know that she is beautifully and wonderfully made...but my words alone could not heal her heart.
So her eyes burn in my mind, reminding me of the need for love, and the importance of treating every human being like what they are: a masterpiece, created by the hands of God, formed beautifully and especially for a divine plan.
Friday, June 4, 2010
I let her go from my arms, but not from my heart.
Her name is Palovi (pronounced "paul-oh-vee"), and her mother, Mary, came to the Rahab’s Rope center a few years ago to seek refuge. She had been gang raped—and gave birth to Palovi 9 months later. Mary came with Palovi to the center just after she was born, and they lived there for about four years (until last January). At the center, David told me that Palovi was attached to her mother, refusing to let anyone else touch or hold her, and even ended up sitting in her mother’s lap during sewing classes.
Tonight, Mary brough Palovi to Anatalie’s house where about 12 of the women who lived at the old Rahab’s Rope center gathered to ride to Pushpa’s wedding. As we stood in the street trying to wave down three rickshaws, I felt something brush against my thigh, and looked down to see Palovi leaning against my leg. I knelt down next to her, gathering my yellow sari in my left hand to keep it from dragging in the dirt, and looked in her eyes. “You can be my girl, tonight,” I whispered softly, and held out my right hand. She put her tiny brown fingers in my palm and smiled back at me, and together we walked over to the rickshaws that the other girls had waved down. I ducked to step inside the middle one, lifting my little princess onto my lap, expecting her mother to sit beside me on the three person bench… “My motha,” Palovi said calmly as her mother climbed into the rickshaw in front of us and drove off. The little angel leaned back against my chest, stretched her legs just beyond my knees, grabbed my hand on her leg…and I gently rested my chin in her black hair as two others climbed in next to me, and the rickshaw driver took off down the street. We swerved and turned and shook and bumped and rode for an hour and 15 mins, and I noticed Palovi limp in my arms just 20 minutes into the drive, so I moved my left hand to hold her sleeping head still against my chest, my right hand fingers still clutched in her palm.
As I held the precious angel in my lap, I felt my wet tears dampen her beautiful black hair beneath my chin. The rape of her mother, the horror of her conception, the pain she represented… the beauty of her little body cradled in my arms…I shuddered to think of girls her age—just 5 years of age—that are chained in brothels and sold for thousands of dollars at this very moment. As the buildings flew by outside the rickshaw, I wondered what happened behind some of those walls, what the darkness of the rooms held, what the groups of men who sat on the road and stared at me holding this baby were thinking as they pointed and grunted my way—I held the little angel tighter and prayed that God would never let her go. Who would protect her? Who would provide for her? Would she become just like her mother—raped and forever shunned by her family and community?
I cringed as we arrived at the wedding the precious little girl was lifted from my arms, longing to hold her forever and protect her from the world she lives in—that I live in—that we live in.
I don’t know why Palovi felt so comfortable with me, why she trusted me so much, why she curled up and fell asleep in my lap and let me love her and hold her for just an hour tonight, but I am certain that I held part of the heart of God in my arms tonight-- the part that breaks, aches, hurts, and pains for His oppressed, suffering, and helpless children. I am also certain that He placed Palovi in my arms for a purpose, to show me His love for His children, and to break my heart for the little girls in this country in a irreparable way. Each day I am here, I am more aware of my own shortcomings, weaknesses, inabilities, and helplessness... more aware of how much I need grace and how much I don't deserve it, all the while forced to rely on God in ways I never have before. The more He reveals my own weaknesses, the more He reveals His own strength and love to me, reminding me that He holds each of us in His arms every second of every day--He never leaves us, nor forsakes us, and He loves us more than we can even fathom...
Tonight, Mary brough Palovi to Anatalie’s house where about 12 of the women who lived at the old Rahab’s Rope center gathered to ride to Pushpa’s wedding. As we stood in the street trying to wave down three rickshaws, I felt something brush against my thigh, and looked down to see Palovi leaning against my leg. I knelt down next to her, gathering my yellow sari in my left hand to keep it from dragging in the dirt, and looked in her eyes. “You can be my girl, tonight,” I whispered softly, and held out my right hand. She put her tiny brown fingers in my palm and smiled back at me, and together we walked over to the rickshaws that the other girls had waved down. I ducked to step inside the middle one, lifting my little princess onto my lap, expecting her mother to sit beside me on the three person bench… “My motha,” Palovi said calmly as her mother climbed into the rickshaw in front of us and drove off. The little angel leaned back against my chest, stretched her legs just beyond my knees, grabbed my hand on her leg…and I gently rested my chin in her black hair as two others climbed in next to me, and the rickshaw driver took off down the street. We swerved and turned and shook and bumped and rode for an hour and 15 mins, and I noticed Palovi limp in my arms just 20 minutes into the drive, so I moved my left hand to hold her sleeping head still against my chest, my right hand fingers still clutched in her palm.
As I held the precious angel in my lap, I felt my wet tears dampen her beautiful black hair beneath my chin. The rape of her mother, the horror of her conception, the pain she represented… the beauty of her little body cradled in my arms…I shuddered to think of girls her age—just 5 years of age—that are chained in brothels and sold for thousands of dollars at this very moment. As the buildings flew by outside the rickshaw, I wondered what happened behind some of those walls, what the darkness of the rooms held, what the groups of men who sat on the road and stared at me holding this baby were thinking as they pointed and grunted my way—I held the little angel tighter and prayed that God would never let her go. Who would protect her? Who would provide for her? Would she become just like her mother—raped and forever shunned by her family and community?
I cringed as we arrived at the wedding the precious little girl was lifted from my arms, longing to hold her forever and protect her from the world she lives in—that I live in—that we live in.
I don’t know why Palovi felt so comfortable with me, why she trusted me so much, why she curled up and fell asleep in my lap and let me love her and hold her for just an hour tonight, but I am certain that I held part of the heart of God in my arms tonight-- the part that breaks, aches, hurts, and pains for His oppressed, suffering, and helpless children. I am also certain that He placed Palovi in my arms for a purpose, to show me His love for His children, and to break my heart for the little girls in this country in a irreparable way. Each day I am here, I am more aware of my own shortcomings, weaknesses, inabilities, and helplessness... more aware of how much I need grace and how much I don't deserve it, all the while forced to rely on God in ways I never have before. The more He reveals my own weaknesses, the more He reveals His own strength and love to me, reminding me that He holds each of us in His arms every second of every day--He never leaves us, nor forsakes us, and He loves us more than we can even fathom...
Aching tummy, aching heart.
Last night, I tossed and turned from hot flashes and chills for a few hours, but ultimately ended up hunching over the toilet until there was nothing left in my stomach. As I laid awake, sipping on cold water and trying to eat saltines, my mind kept wandering to the images of little Indian girls I met on the street yesterday. While walking down to Anatalie’s apartment to meet up with the women in the sewing program, I turned the street corner and was confronted with a chorus of “Hello sister! How are you?!” There were about 6 ten year old girls, dressed in maroon school uniforms and pigtail braids, giggling to each other as they waved at me. Smiling I replied, “Why hello sisters! I am fine, thank you! How was your school today?”
“Fine, sister. See you!” Their shining faces and swaying backpacks continued down the road, and as I watched the group wander along, my heart was warm from their happy greeting and thoughtful as well…
The average age a girl is sold into prostitution in India is 12 years old. Where would that precious bunch of girls be in two years? Images of commercial sex workers standing on the road at night flashed in my mind, but I became distracted by a man with a cart of bright yellow mangos who was beckoning me to purchase 100g with a “special discount,” and let the thought slip away.
I pulled the sheet up over my shoulder and stared at the wall of our bedroom, praying for the aching in my tummy to ease, but asking for the aching in my heart to grow. I want to love these girls as much as Jesus loves them… I want my heart to ache for them as His does. I prayed for my spirit to break into irreparable pieces, so that I would never forget the suffering of the women and the future of millions of little girls if no one intervenes in the sex trade in this country.
I read a statistic today that said “At the current rate of growth by 2025 one out of every five Indian girl children will be a child prostitute.” While this statement is concerning and shocking and sickening, I struggled to understand just exactly what that meant—the numbers and percentages all become a blur after awhile, until you have a face to put with them….
That face, that child, that little girl, sat in my lap on the way to a wedding tonight.
“Fine, sister. See you!” Their shining faces and swaying backpacks continued down the road, and as I watched the group wander along, my heart was warm from their happy greeting and thoughtful as well…
The average age a girl is sold into prostitution in India is 12 years old. Where would that precious bunch of girls be in two years? Images of commercial sex workers standing on the road at night flashed in my mind, but I became distracted by a man with a cart of bright yellow mangos who was beckoning me to purchase 100g with a “special discount,” and let the thought slip away.
I pulled the sheet up over my shoulder and stared at the wall of our bedroom, praying for the aching in my tummy to ease, but asking for the aching in my heart to grow. I want to love these girls as much as Jesus loves them… I want my heart to ache for them as His does. I prayed for my spirit to break into irreparable pieces, so that I would never forget the suffering of the women and the future of millions of little girls if no one intervenes in the sex trade in this country.
I read a statistic today that said “At the current rate of growth by 2025 one out of every five Indian girl children will be a child prostitute.” While this statement is concerning and shocking and sickening, I struggled to understand just exactly what that meant—the numbers and percentages all become a blur after awhile, until you have a face to put with them….
That face, that child, that little girl, sat in my lap on the way to a wedding tonight.
Wedding.
Pic #1: My Indian nighty and henna tatoos.
Pic #2: Steph and I in saris (pronounced "sawry"), our Indian wedding attire.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Statistics on Human Trafficking.
www.Stopthetraffik.org
- "Human Trafficking is the fastest growing crime worldwide."
- "At least one person is trafficked across an international border every minute."
- The human trafficking industry incurs over $29.4 billion dollars annually.
- OVER 80% of people trafficked are women.
- 50% of people trafficked are under the age of 18.
The Protection Project Review:(www.protectionproject.org)
-"Trafficking for the purpose of commercial sexual exploitation is the most widespread form of trafficking."
-The Trafficking in Persons Report found:
--over 173 countries affected by sex-trafficking
--88 of those countries had reported cases of child sex tourism.
--20 of those countries with forced marriage and bride trafficking
- "Human Trafficking is the fastest growing crime worldwide."
- "At least one person is trafficked across an international border every minute."
- The human trafficking industry incurs over $29.4 billion dollars annually.
- OVER 80% of people trafficked are women.
- 50% of people trafficked are under the age of 18.
The Protection Project Review:(www.protectionproject.org)
-"Trafficking for the purpose of commercial sexual exploitation is the most widespread form of trafficking."
-The Trafficking in Persons Report found:
--over 173 countries affected by sex-trafficking
--88 of those countries had reported cases of child sex tourism.
--20 of those countries with forced marriage and bride trafficking
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
"The Sinful Injection."
The past few days have been a whirlwind of plans, ideas, meetings, relationships, and more, as I have been learning to balance the incredible potential, the heartwrenching suffering, the need for Hope, the fleeting spottings of joy, the beauty of this place, and the strange paradoxical feelings i have towards it. Today marks the third week I have been in India, and I am noticing a clashing in my spirit--I feel a deep sense of compassion for the people I meet and see, a genuine sense of amazement at the beauty of the land of this country, yet an inner anger and frustration and nauseau for the bondage and oppression that is forced upon women and children.
One of our last nights in Goa, Steph and I were eating dinner watching the evening news, and a special on "The Sinful Injection" ran across the bottom of the screen. Taken aback yet interested, we watched on.
A group of people raided a village called Alwar and discovered a horrifying reality. Young girls that had been stolen from Dehli were taken to Alwar, a small village a few hours away, where they were injected with Oxytocin, a growth hormone meant for vegetables and animals. The injection made the girls hit puberty faster, so they could be forced into prostitution. Oxytocin has other aspects, affecting the central nervous system and potentially causing seizures, affecting the thyroid gland which causes a hormone imbalance, increasing sexual appetite, and more. The drug is usually meant to increase milk production in cattle.
Girls as young as 6 years old are being pumped with growth hormones, forced into puberty and prostitution. As I stared at the screen, my stomach lurched in my throat, my eyes burned with tears, my fists clenched my chair with fury, and my mind glared in utter disbelief, especially at the state government's claim that "they had no idea" this has been happening. What sick person had the gall to inject girls with dangerous drugs so that they could sell them into prostitution FASTER??? And an ENTIRE VILLAGE literally being used as a breeding ground for sex-trafficking???? WHAT???? And who knows how long this has been going on--years maybe, and there is no doubt in my mind that there are likely other villages with the same industry and purpose.
The image of these young girls who are kidnapped, imprisoned, drugged, traded, and sold into the sex industry has been plaguing my mind and my heart for the past several days... I have shed many tears and struggled to understand how and why and what can be done to stop injustices like this. Will we as a world just sit and watch as girls are sold for sex across the globe? Will feelings of anger and frustration just disappear into nothing but passing thoughts? When will we take action and stand up for those who are helpless and hopeless?
Read more at : http://indiatoday.intoday.in/site/Story/99132/120/Drugged+into+puberty,+sold+for+sex.html
http://www.bukisa.com/articles/296084_converting-baby-girls-into-adult-women-with-oxytocin
One of our last nights in Goa, Steph and I were eating dinner watching the evening news, and a special on "The Sinful Injection" ran across the bottom of the screen. Taken aback yet interested, we watched on.
A group of people raided a village called Alwar and discovered a horrifying reality. Young girls that had been stolen from Dehli were taken to Alwar, a small village a few hours away, where they were injected with Oxytocin, a growth hormone meant for vegetables and animals. The injection made the girls hit puberty faster, so they could be forced into prostitution. Oxytocin has other aspects, affecting the central nervous system and potentially causing seizures, affecting the thyroid gland which causes a hormone imbalance, increasing sexual appetite, and more. The drug is usually meant to increase milk production in cattle.
Girls as young as 6 years old are being pumped with growth hormones, forced into puberty and prostitution. As I stared at the screen, my stomach lurched in my throat, my eyes burned with tears, my fists clenched my chair with fury, and my mind glared in utter disbelief, especially at the state government's claim that "they had no idea" this has been happening. What sick person had the gall to inject girls with dangerous drugs so that they could sell them into prostitution FASTER??? And an ENTIRE VILLAGE literally being used as a breeding ground for sex-trafficking???? WHAT???? And who knows how long this has been going on--years maybe, and there is no doubt in my mind that there are likely other villages with the same industry and purpose.
The image of these young girls who are kidnapped, imprisoned, drugged, traded, and sold into the sex industry has been plaguing my mind and my heart for the past several days... I have shed many tears and struggled to understand how and why and what can be done to stop injustices like this. Will we as a world just sit and watch as girls are sold for sex across the globe? Will feelings of anger and frustration just disappear into nothing but passing thoughts? When will we take action and stand up for those who are helpless and hopeless?
Read more at : http://indiatoday.intoday.in/site/Story/99132/120/Drugged+into+puberty,+sold+for+sex.html
http://www.bukisa.com/articles/296084_converting-baby-girls-into-adult-women-with-oxytocin
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)