Strong like a rock.

"This God--his way is perfect; the word of the Lord proves true; he is a shield for all those who take refuge in him. For who is God, but the Lord? And who is a rock, except our God?" (Psalms 18:30-31 ESV)



At one point or another in our lives, each of us faces something difficult. Something that shakes us to the core. Something that makes it hard to get out of bed each morning. Something that will drastically change your life.

And when those times come, we are given a choice. We can run and hide, not facing what's coming at us. Or we can stand up and take it, knowing that if our God is for us, nothing can be against us.

This week at girls club we learned about a young woman who was put in this exact situation. She could either sit back and not say anything, letting things get out of hand but being herself untouched, or she could stand up for what was right, even if that meant risking her life to save those she loved.

That girl was named Hadassah.

Well, at least at the beginning. She soon changed from her Jewish name to a Babylonian name you are probably more familiar with...

Esther.

This story had a lot of connection points for my girls.

Esther was an orphan; most of the girls who come to girls club are orphans. She didn't choose to be sent away from her cousin Mordecai; most of my girls didn't want to leave their families behind. She was a Jew in a time when Jews in Persia were despised; my girls are Christians in a Hindu nation that doesn't look kindly on them. She was given a challenge that required her to make a hard choice; someday my girls will face those hard decisions outside the walls of our campus.

I shared the story with my girls, pausing every now and then to remind them that Esther was a real girl. She was scared at times, angry, sad, and overwhelmed. Just like them.

At the end of the story I pointed out something that seemed a bit odd...God was never once mentioned in the book of Esther. You don't see Esther speaking to anyone, not even Mordecai about God. And the only mention of prayer is when she asked the Jews to fast and pray with her.

But God is never named. You don't read of her begging and pleading with God, asking for strength and courage to face the King.

As I did research about this, thinking that it was an interesting, maybe important, part of the story, I found a lot of different speculations on why God wasn't mentioned in this story. But I didn't agree with many of the articles I read. And the more I read through the story, the more I began to form my own speculation...

Esther didn't ask God to give her strength because she knew that He already WAS her strength.

She knew that God had raised her up and brought her to the palace to be Queen of Persia for a very, very specific reason. So when that reason came to light, she didn't question God. She didn't tell Him that she couldn't do it. She didn't petition for a different person to do the deed.

She knew it was her. All along. God had planned for HER to save her people.

And she knew that God was her strength. That the only way she would be able to face this seemingly insurmountable challenge on her own was if God was her strength.

I asked my girls what things came to mind when I said the word "strong." I got answers like a lion, a mountain, a man with muscles.

My answer was a little different.

A rock.

The Bible tells us that God is our ROCK and our salvation. That He is our mighty fortress. So I gave each girl a rock that had been washed and bleached. And I told them that, just like these rocks, each of our relationships with God is different.

Some of the rocks are big, some are small. Some are tan, some are black. Round, or dented. Striped, or speckled.

And, just like these rocks, each of our testimonies will be different. God will bring us through different trials. We will have to face different hardships.

BUT.

No matter what our rocks look like...they are still rocks. No matter what your testimony looks like...we still have the same strong God.

I encouraged the girls to paint their rocks. To put something on there that would remind them that God is our strength whenever they looked at it. Here are some of my favorites...

 Premshila wrote "My God is rock" on the front, and Psalms 18:31 on the back. "So that I won't forget this verse. So that I won't forget how strong God is."

 Saroja put "God is love", and colored it green with hearts and stars. She wanted to remember that God is strong, and He is love. Because "we need to love people strong."

Pampha decorated hers with a cross and different colored polka-dots to "remind me that God is the strength for all people."

At the end of the lesson, I wanted to make sure that my girls had understood the point. So I asked them "What do we need to remember? What will these rocks remind us of?" And collectively they all shouted "God is our strength!"

Music to my ears.

Better than a spoonful of sugar.

"If you walk in my statutes and observe my commandments and do them, then I will give you your rains in their season, and the land shall yield its increase, and the trees of the field shall yield their fruit." (Leviticus 26:3-4 ESV)


Mary Poppins has mislead me. No amount of sugar will make this last week easier to handle. Although, believe me, I tried.

This last week was full of a lot of activity. Working, planning, walking, and relationship building. But it wasn't quite enough to distract me from being homesick.

This was the first time that I've truly wanted to be home more than I've wanted to be in Kathmandu. I've missed home before, but not quite this much. God and I had a lot of time spent together talking about just this. A lot of time spent doing what I considered to be negotiation.

Although I know it wasn't really negotiating. That's not how God works. I don't get to tell him that in exchange for something, I expect him to give me something else.

At one point I even questioned if it was right for me to be here. Not in the I've-made-a-grave-mistake kind of way. More like a woe-is-me-I-want-to-go-home sort of way.

And I may have cried a little. Or a lot.

As I was having this inner warfare with myself, I asked God (well, unfortunately it was more like a demand) to give me some way to deal with all of the emotions that were raging through me. That was part of my "negotiation" with him.

And the second after I said "amen" it started.

The rain.

Not just rain. But a torrential downpour. And 50 mph wind that kicked up dust in the streets and banged my doors and windows. And thunder and lightning.

I LOVE the rain. Not like someone loves mint chocolate chip ice cream, but the way that someone loves their favorite pet. Or their first car. Or the way their mom used to play with their hair.

Rain has a calming effect on my heart like nothing else in this world. I could sit and listen to it for hours and hours and not get bored. And when I'm struggling with something, whether it's drama or work or anything, rain is the one thing that will calm me down.

As it poured, I sat curled up in my bed with hot cocoa and some worship music. And I just sat. And I prayed. And I thanked God for giving me a little bit of peace amidst the storm. Even though it was really more of a storm amidst the storm.

It reminded me so much of home. So much of everything that I left behind to come here. So much of the people I love.

And as I sat there talking with God, he reminded me of something so important. He reminded me of how his Son was like the rain.

How he washed me, and cleansed me from all of my sin and dirt. Just like this rain was washing the city of all it's gunk.

A gentle reminder that in light of the punishment I deserve, feeling down on my luck is a small price to pay. And for the lives that will be impacted through God's will, my suffering seems insignificant.

And all it took to remind me of that was a bit of a storm, and a little rain.

So I'll hold on to all of the good things God has done for me. And I'll remind myself of all the promises he has fulfilled, and the ones that I'm counting on still. And when I'm feeling down, I'll just pray for the rain.

Rain is a better cure than sugar could ever be.

Prayer and unsalted peanuts.

"Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my fathers house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also." (John 14:1-3)



This week our orphanage was blessed with a new little boy! His name is Arjun, and he has one of the most precious faces I've ever seen.

Also one of the saddest. It's not a good situation that brought Arjun to us, not a situation that can just be wiped from his memory.

Arjun's step-dad passed away, and his mom took a job as a dishwasher. But with multiple children at home, she couldn't afford to keep all of them. Arjun's mom was faced with one of the most difficult choices I can imagine...choosing which child to give away.

A child that she created, that she loved and nurtured from birth. A piece of her heart. A part of her soul.

Her baby boy.

But she made her choice and brought Arjun to the pastor of a local church and left him. This paster is connected with our ministry and knew that sending Arjun to us would be the best situation for the little boy.

He arrived on Sunday, but I didn't get a chance to meet him until Tuesday.

I walked on campus and immediately noticed the small boy wandering around aimlessly. Listlessly. I grabbed some unsalted peanuts from our kitchen and walked over to him. When Arjun saw me, he sat down right where he was at and stared at me.

A blank, dead, sobering stare.

I sat down next to him, offered him a small smile, and handed him some peanuts. I began talking to him in Nepali, asking simple questions like, "how are you" and "what's your name" and "how old are you?" To which I received no reply. Just a stare.

I imagined to myself that, in his position, I would stare silently at the strange white girl, too. So I resorted to the next thing that popped into my mind: be silly.

My kids love it when I'm silly with them. So I continued talking in Nepali, telling him that since he didn't tell me his name I would have to guess.

"Sangit? Rahul?"

No response. I put on my best silly face, armed my self with a silly voice, and made up some new names to guess.

"Atticus? Edgar? Spencer?"

Nothing.

So I switched to his age, guessing ridiculous numbers like 87 and 69 and 105. Trying to garner some response, like a twinkle in his eye or slight smirk.

Still nothing.

The peanuts were finished and I was a little disheartened by his silence. So I told him I had to go to work now, but I would come say goodbye before I left.

I walked away puzzled.

After talking with two of our widows, I came to find out that he doesn't actually speak Nepali.

All that silliness, wasted.

He is from a village in the far west of Nepal and likely only speaks his mother tongue.

Since Tuesday, I haven't been able to shake Arjun from my mind. I haven't been able to stop talking with God about him.

I'm not sure why his story has gripped me so much more than the stories of our other children. Many of theirs are the same, if not very similar, to Arjun's.

Maybe it's because he's the first child to arrive since I have been here and I've never seen a child so void of emotion. I've never felt a child's hurt right alongside him. I've never carried a child's burden so heavily.

And I haven't been able to stop thinking about how hard it must have been for his mom to make the choice that sent him away. I'm not a mother to my kids and honestly I don't know all 63 of their names (well, now 64). But there is no way that I could look at these precious children and choose one to send away.

There's no way.

So I cannot imagine the heart wrenching prayers of that mother. The headaches from crying because she knows what she needs to do. The emptiness she will always feel as a result.

But I am thankful for her decision. I'm grateful that she gave Arjun to a pastor, and that he remembered Mercy Missions, and that he sent Arjun to us.

I'm thankful that God had already laid out the plan for Arjun's life. And that it led him here.

And I'm thankful for unsalted peanuts. Because without them, my first meeting with Arjun would not have had the same impact.

Thankful that I don't have to worry about being sent away by my Heavenly Father. I won't have to sit in anticipation, wondering whether it will be me, or one of brothers and sisters, that will be sent away.

I can rest in knowing that God has already chosen me. Not to send me away, but to draw me nearer to Himself. To use me as part of his will on earth. That He chose me as His daughter.

And I can rest knowing that God has chosen Arjun. That He brought him to us for a specific reason and that I get to play a very small part in finding out what that is.

And I'm thankful for prayer. That I can talk to God about what is burdening my heart. That I can cry with Him when I don't understand life (which is quite frequently). And that I can hear from Him and He calms my heart.

I will spend a lot of time talking with God about Arjun. Praying that unsalted peanuts would be the first step towards trust, friendship, and hope.

Rituals and revival.

"If my people who are called by my name humble themselves, and pray and seek my face and turn form their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land. Now my eyes will be open and my ears attentive to the prayer that is made in this place." (2 Chronicles 7:14-15 ESV)


Last Sunday, I took a hiatus from my blog because I had guests in town! My pastor and my boyfriend were in Kathmandu for one week visiting. My roommate and I were able to play tour guide to them for a few days and give them a good idea of what Nepal is like, and what it has to offer.

I love this place so much and I was thrilled to have the chance to show them around! We walked around some local market areas and also made a few trips a bit farther away. We visited Boudha Stuppa, The Monkey Temple at Swayambu, and Pashupatinath.

While the other things were interesting and slightly touristy, visiting Pashupatinath (known around KTM as Pashupati) will forever change my walk with Christ.

Pashupati is the place where Hindus bring their deceased family members to cremate them, and to help them pass into their next life. It's so ritualistic, so empty. So dark, distressing, and, honestly, revolting.

We sat on a ledge and watched as a family brought their deceased, father, husband, brother to be cremated. We looked on as the men prepared the body; placing him on a concrete slab that let into the Bhagmati river and washed his body with the river water. Then they poured milk over his head and walked around him in a circle three times with incense sticks in their hands. The dead man's two sons covered him in a white linen sheet, struggling against his rigor mortis.

The women, who aren't allowed to be a part of the preparation process, came and placed marigold flowers around his head, and anointed him with blessing water. Then sprinkled tikka dye over him.

My heart was torn as I watched the newly widowed women fall to her knees, wailing in grief for her husband. I choked up at the men tore her away from her love and forced her to sit back with the other women. And I almost lost it when his daughter threw herself on top of his limp body, sobbing and hitting him, trying to wake him.

Then the men moved the man on to a metal bed, and covered him with a yellow sheet decorated with religious writing. The women placed more flowers on him, and his widow broke her red bangles on top of him. Then they carried him to a wooden alter, leaving the women behind. His sons removed their shirts and walked three more circles around the alter with a flame, before lighting a bundle of kindling on their father's mouth.

Then they stepped away as a priest came and finished constructing the alter on top oft he dead man's body, completely covering him in wood and kindling before lighting several more places on the man's body. We sat and watched for several minutes as the wood burned, and the air filled with smoke and the scent of burnt flesh.

I wish that I could better describe the desolation of seeing this family throw themselves into these rituals, believing that if they mess up just one part of the proceedings, their father will not make it to his next life, and his spirit won't find rest.

I wish that I could describe the complete peace I felt knowing that I will never have to worry about that. I will never have to ritualize the death of someone I love. I can rest in the comfort of knowing that God alone is sovereign over death. That he is sovereign over our judgment day.

And I can endeavor to love these people to Christ.

I know that I can't change the world, that's not the task that God has given me. But I can share the hope that I have in Christ. The peace. The freedom.

And I can pray.

And so can you.

This country is full of people just like that family. People who try and appease their gods through rituals and good deeds. It's full of people who don't know or understand the ultimate sacrifice of Jesus on the cross.

And as Christians, we are called to pray. So I would ask that you join me in prayer. Prayer for the Hindus and Buddhists all across Nepal. God can start a revival here, and you can be a part of it.