Worthy of Tears

Tears press hard against my eyes as I try to accept the fact that Milenka and Daniela are being taken away.

While I was home for Christmas, two sweet waifs weaved their way into the girls home. They came with hair that looked as if their locks had been chopped by the wrong end of the scissors. Their tummies protruded above the waistline of pants that required more of waist to keep them up. Their ability to identify objects and speak Spanish were not more advanced then that of an infant. A toilet was a tank of water to play in rather then a place to pee...that was done wherever the urge hit. Dad's drug habit gets worse everyday as he eeks out a so-called life on the street and Mom finds relief from life on the road as she slowly dies in a hospital from AIDs, complicated by tuberculosis. Their arrival at the home meant departure from a downward spiral into more of the same.

As their hair begins to be slightly longer then a buzz cut, the municipal government will snatch them out of our hands and move them to another home. Not because they have not done well with us, they have. In four months, their stomachs have retracted to a normal child-like bulge and for the most part, their pants remain up. Their vocabulary as developed at a dramatic rate, being able to identify colours, call the right person by their right name, and tattle tale as every toddler tends to do. Squatting has been replaced by urgent cries of "Pee! Pee!" and "Caca! Caca!" as the nearest capable person sweeps them up and rushes them to the nearest facility. Flushing the toilet remains entertaining with or without the unmentionables. Sadly, Dad and Mom have not gone through the same monumental changes as their lovely children.

Milenka and Danila will be taken from us because the authorities do not see our home as a place for young children. It exists for older children and teenagers who have been abused and/or abandoned. They may be right, but Milenka and Daniela, you are still worthy of my tears.

Drink or Die

Deep thirst is dreadful. When the need to drink is so intense, one is tempted to throw back any type of liquid that may refresh. Sailors, stranded at sea, often sooth their parched throats with salt water, only to find the substance that was to bring them relief, brought them insanity instead. I can relate. Once a week, we head out to the country to do some work with the boy's homes. I have been told by various doctors, including Bolivian ones, not to drink the water out there. It contains an ulcer-causing bacteria, of such that I've already received the effects of this invisible bug. Still, when a naive boy comes beaming up to me, bearing a cup of sloshing water, I have a hard time not drinking it. They are so eager to quench my thirst and I don't want to offend. Plus, the water is so clear and cool and my head is usually pounding from dehydration. The liquid practically screams,"Take! Drink!"

Jill Pole was a girl who found herself lost and thirsty in the land of Narnia. Alone in a forest, left stranded because of an act of pride, she hears the rippling of a stream and follows the noise. Upon arrival, she found a lion resting at the side of the water. Her thirst was so bad and becoming worse with every passing moment, but her fear and dread of the creature paralyzed her so that she went no further. The lion stared at her for what seemed like eons and finally spoke to her in a voice different from a man's. It was "deeper, wilder, and stronger; a sort of heavy, golden voice",

"Are you not thirsty?"
"I'm dying of thirst," said Jill
"Then drink," said the lion.

Jill hemmed and hawwed, wondering if the lion might go away while she drank and whether or not he might eat her if he stayed. At the same time, she found herself drawn to the magnificent beast and stepping closer to what she desired. Finally Jill said,

"I daren't come and drink"
"Then you will die of thirst," said the Lion.
"Oh dear!" said Jill, coming another step nearer, "I suppose I must go and look for another stream then."
"There is no other stream," said the Lion.

People everywhere are dying of thirst but do not dare drink from the only stream that can drench the dryness within their depths. If they only knew the One who speaks to them, he would give them living water. Instead they cup water from other streams as their knuckles bleed and scrape the bottom of dry river beds. They sip from other sources, but find themselves fooled, partaking of libations that honour other gods and rob them of their senses. There is no other stream. Drink the water that Jesus gives and it will become in you a spring of water welling up to eternal life.

(references taken from The Silver Chair, C.S. Lewis, and John 4)