The Bad News.

Images of youth with their lips and noses hacked off, the story of an Iraqi doctor kidnapped and tortured, and pictures of juvenile prostitutes swathed in vibrant saris tell the pervasive story of evil, abuse, and injustice unfolding in countless countries. Lately, I have been tracking more and more with the coverage of horrific realities that the majority of the world deals with day after day. In part, this is due to my new role at International Teams. On the other hand, Facebook has opened up entire new venues for staying informed. One of those venues is the day to day updates that I receive from Invisible Children.

Up until recently, I had not realized that I.C. was singularly involved with disbanding the Lord's Resistance Army and the removal of Joseph Kony as the leader of that army. Past reads leave no doubt that the terror Kony is inflicting on five countries in Eastern Africa is bolstered and fueled by the minions of hell. Witnesses recount that the eyes of Kony turn red and I have read that he is frequently posessed by a myriad of demons...where the spirit of a deceased person inhabits the man for a time in order to accomplish some heinious task. Countless thousands of children have been abducted and enlisted under atrocious duress to fight against the government in a war that is more about one man's insatiable drive for power than any viable purpose. After a failed attempt at peace in 2008, Kony reacted in appalling fashion by cutting off the lips and noses of random innocent people, massacring countless others, and abducting over a hundred orphans, sending a clear message to the international community that he is no where near relinquishing his caustic command of terror.

Terror, abductions, and torture seek to reign in communities all around the world. A couple of weeks ago, I met a new friend. Insaf Safou is the International Teams program leader for Impact Iraq. Although she has lived in Canada for a decade, her heart resides in the Middle East. After several hours and edible Iraqi delights, it became clear that this woman is driven by God to defend the helpless and build up the church in her homeland. As we sifted through hundreds of photos, she shared the stories behind the pictures. The subject of one photo was an older gentleman. With a battered face and bandaged arms, he maintained a semblance of dignity by the way he raised his chin and looked at the camera. A Christian doctor, one day he was kidnapped and stolen away by an unidentified group. For an entire month, he was strung up from the ceiling with his hands tied behind his back. Not once was he set free to go the washroom or shower and only on occasion was he given a table to stand on to release the strain of being hung by his arms. Upon payment of a ransom, the abductors released him to his wife and family.

Release from prostitution is the hope of multitudes of abducted girls in India. Abducted or bought to be placed in the sex trade, girl after girl finds herself trapped in brothels at their physical expense and to the benefit of sleazy pimps. These children and young ladies endure endless abuses at the hands of 10 to 20 men every night. Even on their death beds, they are forced to perform. The brilliance of fabrics and paint that frame the entrances to these perverted dens downplay the severity and add to the repulsiveness of the atrocities happening inside. International Justice Mission along with local lawyers and police are working tirelessly to free the unwilling prostitutes and bring their abductors to justice.

Justice is required. Along with kindness and a humble walk with God, the pursuit of justice is what I long for. The three examples of depravity above are not meant to numb us into inaction but stir us into activity. Reading the truth about how the majority of the world lives should not depress us but drive us to defend and protest these wrongs. In this brief article, I have mentioned three agencies who are actively opposing corruption and steadfastly advocating on behalf of the suffering. Look them up on-line. Get involved. Do something. At the very least, be informed and aware that not everyone lives snug as a bug in their home sweet home.

Redefining Me.

The snow is coming. A few flakes fluttered down this past Thursday. Besides the dread of bad roads and cold that bites the skin, I am relishing the brusque air and the way it leaves the trees radiating the hues of autumn. Slippers grace my feet and the woodstove glows every evening. The smell of apples cooking in pies, cakes, and muffins is synonymous with the season and my mom's efforts to meet my dad's not-so-subtle hints for apple treats. All the sights and smells bleed familiarity and entice me with their sweetness. There is no shortage of goodness in my life.

Life is good but my bleeding heart still grieves. I miss Bolivia.

In Bolivia, I know who I am. I'm Marge. Marge, the master of pizza on Tuesday nights and queen of Shepherd's pie for Friday lunch, who brought groups of girls to Hotel Flamingo and taught them about Jesus, prayer, and how to play a game of Hearts. Marge baked and hosted anyone and everyone who wanted to come for a visit, share a meal, or use the Internet for awhile. Marge would whip up to the airport to pick up a team, lead them through the sights and work of Santa Cruz, and send the group back home with a desire to come back for more. Marge plucked out silly songs with her limited guitar skills and longed to show love to children who were more familiar with the back of a hand than a stroke of affection on the face.

There is no Marge in Canada.

But there is an Auntie 'M'. There is a daughter blessed by parents who care for and provide for her. There is a sister who's brothers and their wives show undeserved admiration and support. There is a friend, although she be changed, who appreciates and savours the laughs and memories of years past. Sara Groves sings,"I've been painting pictures of Egypt, leaving out what it lacked, the future feels so hard and I want to go back. But the places that used to fit me can not hold the things I've learned." A return to Bolivia would be fabulous. It would also be an escape from the difficulties that face me here. I just want to fit better in this present place.

Lord, make me a servant. Take me as you find me, all my fears and failures. Lord, fill my life again.

Drop the Wood.

Sophie and Nikki saw me coming around the corner of the driveway and ran toward me. Nikki was in the lead but kept checking behind her to make sure Sophie wouldn't pass her unexpectantly. Along the way, Sophie paused long enough to pick up a piece of wood. Both girls had joined me when Nikki decided that she wanted the timber. A vicious tug-of-war began and I opted to walk on instead of getting caught in the middle of a fight. As I reached the door, the pulling was at a stand still but neither girl would admit defeat by letting go of the wood. I turned into the house and thought, "Stupid dogs."

"Stupid is right!" That's what my dad would say. Ten minutes later the two ladies maintained their stiff postures, staring each other down, and fiercely gripping the log by their teeth. That piece of wood represented a game of toss and Nikki wasn't willing to lose ground nor my attention to Sophie. Her jealous behaviour lost my consideration anyway. They chose bleeding gums and splinters in the tongue over belly rubs and ear scratching. All they had to do was drop the wood and I would have blessed them with the affection they were both so desperate to receive.

Quarrels, discord, jealousy, in-fighting, petty grudges and misguided thinking leave us raw and wounded, trapped in a showdown of wits and pride. Stupid is right. Drop the wood. Receive the blessing.

Right Residence.

Life in a mud-hut village sounds incredibly attractive to me right now. Poza Verde is a relatively remote cluster of adobe dwellings with a simple, but adequate, cement house set in the furthest corner of the village. The house, occupied by Chiquitano missionaries, Mierta and Cesar, has an empty bedroom with an unfinished, private bathroom. I can envision myself living in that space. In some ways, it is an appealing and exotic image.

Imagine what people would say if I chose to exist along side squatter conditions and took on the task of learning a tribal language. Some would shake their heads with incomprehension and confusion. Others would speak with admiration while emphatically stating that they could never do such a thing. The tranquility and isolation of such a setting is both alluring and terrifying. A commitment to such a place would be long-term and daunting.

Searching the vast and complex regions of my heart calls into question the motive and intent behind the appeal. Honestly, the idea of learning another language is more than a little overwhelming and I'm not so sure that I am ready to devote the next large portion of my life to the Ayore ministry. At the same time, I will take on the task if it be the best place for service in the kingdom. Serving with the Ayoreo means that I could still visit the Cristo Viene girls. Or could it be a mere escape of a life in Canada and the tough decisions that choice would entail?

Staying in Canada means personal reinvention and discovering a new niche in the familiar but poorly fitting attire of my home and native land. It's wardrobe is excessive and there aren't enough hangars in the world to hold the extent of it's extravagance. It is bothersome to know that we camp more comfortably than the majority of the world lives. It makes me want to inflict myself with inconveniences and deprive myself of comforts.

Frustration over conveniences and abundance is not a just reason for returning to Bolivia. To use the Ayore people as a way to spite wealth is wrong. The Ayore people can not be my excuse to stay in connection with the Cristo Viene girl's home. Last of all, they should not be my escape from considering the options before me here or the possibility that perhaps, life in the city of steel is where I need to reside for now.

Lifespan

Bugs gross me out. Mass groupings of insects send waves of repulsion through my body. For this reason, my nose was more than a little itchy when I saw two strange creatures mating on the back tire of my bike. They were large and seemed too drastically different to be engaging in reproductive activity. The one on top was vividly green, vibrant, and winged while the one on the bottom was the colour of dirt, dreary, and wingless. I grabbed a near-by stick, half-closed my eyes, knocked the mounted pair of my wheel and pedalled off to the camp bathroom.



Shortly after, I searched for the two lovebugs so that I could show my Dad. My Dad is a walking Wikipedia and despite my aversion to insects, curiosity trumped my disgust. I wanted to know what class of gross I was dealing with. Dad readily handled the pair of bugs and quickly pronounced them not two but one...one bug, a cicada. Cicadas emerge from their own bodies as a completely new creature. There is no spinning of a cocoon. It's not even a shedding of skin as a snake would do. Their actual body cracks open and they crawl out with a brand new one.


I know cicada bugs. Cicadas were my constant companion during the dozen years that I worked at a tree nursery. They are those irritating singers in the tops of trees who trill loudly when it's hot...as if we needed reminding. However, last week was the first time that I heard the story of the cicada bug. Dad told me that a cicada lives 11 years underground, tunnels above ground, mates, and dies. No wonder they're so obnoxious, I would be too if I lived such a brief life. The majority of their lifespan is spent beneath the earth. They burst forth from the dank dirt and are released from their drab, grub-like form as a fresh, green creature with the power of flight. That's exciting. That's incredible. All that fanfare happens just so they can mate and die.

With my eyebrow raised, I asked my Dad,"That's it? What's the point?" Both of us shrugged and shook our heads as Dad tried to give the bug a fighting chance on the trunk of a pinetree.

The point is that I am a new creature too. I am new. The old is gone. The span of my life is not long. I want to do more than just tick off a few people with a shrill song. Finding a mate is one of multiple longings stored in my heart, but not the most essential nor urgent. I lived 22 years in darkness. I will spend eternity in the light.

Bike with Me.

Bikes are the best. Pulling the pedal back with balls of my feet and hopping onto the seat sends me back in time. I drew out a bike from the caverns of the shed and made my way down the swerving drive. The house I grew up in passed on my left, but it isn't the home I remember. The present people have neglected the finer points, like cutting the grass and cleaning up garbage.

Once I hit the road, it was a straight line to Concession four. I opted for the least hilly terrain since it has been a few years and these knees have experienced little of such activity. A bug smacked my forehead and I closed my mouth to prevent potential consumption. The ride was surreal and nostalgic. All my senses told me that I was back home, but my desire to greet two old men on porches with "Buenas tardes!" reminded me that home was two places. So much was the same and so much was different. The masses of stables along the way boast of the success of the near-by racetracks and their accompanying slots. Old man Larry's place is boarded up with plywood and the drunk has probably passed out for his last time. The ditches are still hemmed with Queen Anne's lace and the fragrance of ragweed and honey thistles still sweeten the air. A bloated diaper expands on the gravel side, a common sight in Bolivia, but the seven Tim Horton coffee cups tell me where I really am.
I know where I am but, I don't know where I'm going. A bike ride can be a random diversion through country blocks without a real destination. The point is the ride. The idea isn't to get anywhere but only to absorb the passing beauty and enjoy the exertion of muscles long laid fallow.
I will absorb this blessed life, enjoy the surrounding beauty, and I will find my way home again.

Road Trip

The first time I left to live in Bolivia was a sobbing, blubbering affair. I was bawling as I hugged my nephews and nieces good-bye for a year and they were crying because it was time for bed. At the airport, Mom weeped, Dad had tears streaking his cheeks, and I hugged my parents longer than I ever had in my life. That first term was almost a year. Initially, it loomed before me like an interminable stretch of Prairie road, but time flies and that first term turned into a five year trip.

From the plains, one sees the foothills long before they are within reach. Although visible, it can take hours for a car to enter the mountain range. A bored passenger will glimpse the mighty precipices on the horizon and be re-energized for the journey...only to have the excitement fade as the clock continues to drag and the scenery remains monotonous.

At times, this is how I feel about going home and about whatever is coming next. Since March, I have had the inner knowledge that I was going home in August. With a ton of teams and the regular routine, the thought of leaving was not at the forefront of my mind. Everyday was filled with the familiar and there was a lot of comfort in "more of the same". Today, the mountains are in sight and the straight, smooth road is about to swerve...almost. The last team has come and gone, the normal activities are tapering off, and I'm booked to fly in a week and a half.

The confusing part is that I don't know where I'm flying to. I'm not sure if I'm leaving home or going home. I have said 'welcome' and 'farewell' so often that my own seems void of meaning. We say the same things to different people over and over again. So much so that I just don't want to hear them said to me nor repeat them to others. Can I infuse "I will miss you" with new energy and meaning or has it become as dull as an endless Saskatchewan plain?

The first time I leave to live in Canada will happen next week Saturday. The next phase in my life is yet to be defined. The road yawns before me and begs me to persevere. I just hope the 'getting-there' hasn't dried up my tears.