Earwax.

If you don’t know, I used to write a daily blog. It was back in the ‘00s and ‘10s, when ye blogs were the way to stay in the know and everyone who was anyone linked their way around the internet. You probably don’t know, because I never let anyone know about it. I made it private as soon as it began picking up steam, for reasons I will hopefully someday divulge. Only seven people had access to it, and not even my mother was one on the list.
I fancied myself a young mother David Sedaris type. I only ever wanted to make someone laugh. Essays on the ridiculousness of a certain mother who cleans out a car jam-packed with old french fries and thirty tiny lost monkeys from a party favor barrel. In her vacuuming rage, said mother forgets to shut the door, allowing for two feet of snow to fill the drivers’ seat overnight.

I wanted to be a funny writer and tell goofy stories like the time I sat on my back porch one evening in Colorado and a huge monitor lizard (non-native in every way) with long toenails scooted up to my chair and I screamed in shock, clambered onto the outdoor patio table, and began banging on the window for Joe to come save my life. Word got out, and I was the new crazy lady on the block, claiming to have seen tropical reptiles scurrying through my yard. Preposterous until finally a young neighbor couple admitted their pet had escaped through their doggy door. What kind of people let reptiles run loose in their house?

This weekend was straight out of a Sedaris book, menial and absurd. It was after my shower and I was fishing in the bathroom cabinet for the Q-tip package–the kind that has 500, the kind I buy once every three years, maybe (if we haven’t drained them for a craft project)–and I blindly found it and dug my fingers in to grab a couple.
I knew as soon as I touched them, something was wrong. It felt familiarly sticky. Disgusted, I yanked several out. They were covered with orangey goo, like Bigfoot or Big Bird or some nasty giant had experienced a massive eardrum explosion and cocked his runny head over the Q-tip box. I couldn’t imagine what child of mine would have this much wax buildup in his ears unnoticed, let alone decide, unprovoked, to dig it out with a Q-tip. However, it wasn’t improbable that one of my kids would put a used Q-tip back in the box, so I had to consider this could very well be a possibility.

A quick look in the box revealed a dozen more with the tips completely saturated, the entire cottony ends bearing the weight of a thimbleful of ear wax.

A thimble-full.

Whoever did this must be bleeding out, whatever it could mean in the realm of ear wax.

It was horrific, but I felt a quick empathy, because I, too, am a prolific waxer.

My own ear wax woes began quite young, since I was an ENT’s dream patient. Tonsils out before the age of five and a burst eardrum shortly after–I knew exactly what it was like to wake up in the morning with my head glued to my pillow. The electric heating pad sandwiched in my pillow case on many a night coaxed the jelly right out through my ears like a melting candle.

Who knew there was so much goo in a person’s head? Who knew the ear itself was a faucet of some sort under certain conditions?

After the early on waxing, the most peculiar thing I became aware of was a strange gift for popping my ears. Some folks struggle, on planes, or with a cold, or at mountain altitude, to banish the pressure building in one’s ears. They chew gum and tug on their ear lobes and complain of discomfort. I’ve been able, since I was a child, to pop my ears on command. In fact, I pop them when I’m nervous or bored. It is a habit, not unlike a good knuckle cracking session. As far as I know, no one can hear me popping my ears, but throughout the years I have flexed this secret talent to every lucky physician who has ever examined me for a routine physical. When they peer into my canal with their black tipped otoscope, I get to clicking, pop pop pop. Not one doctor has ever mentioned it, to my disappointment.

At the age of twenty-three, I began doing senior care. This is where I met Bernita, a precious elderly woman with cats that ate tuna and pooped right on the carpet near my feet out of spite. The cats, I mean. They didn’t like me playing Yahtzee, and they likely knew I was in it for the monthly trip to Coldstone Creamery, when Bernita paid. Bernita had a wonderful Tuesday routine, as reliable as All-Bran. On the first Tuesday, I’d take her to K-Mart. On the second, she had her nails done and her stray hairs plucked. On the third, we went to the mall. And on the fourth Tuesday of every month, we had her hearing aids checked at the technician’s.

The first time I took Bernita to get her hearing aids serviced, I didn’t quite understand why we were going. I had no idea why she needed to leave her house to have someone change out the batteries. It turned out, the technician’s main job was to check on a patient’s ear health. This included removing wax buildup that increases as a result of pushing the hearing aid into the canal and consequently backing it up like a plugged toilet.

I watched, fascinated, as the technician weaved a long plastic stick down into dear Bernita’s ear and fished out an impressive hunk of wax. Bernita sat quietly and patiently. She was nearly deaf without the aids, and so I stumbled into the awkward small talk that comes with routine ear wax removal. I asked the tech thoughtful questions, apparently good ones. Or maybe she had never met someone so interested in hearing aids, and something deep inside her was stirred.  At the next appointment, she asked if I loved doing senior care.
“It’s alright, I guess,” I said, non-committal. She looked me in the eye with the utmost sincerity.

“Well if you ever tire of it, I’d love to have you work for me.”

You will understand, then, that every visit thereafter was weird, so I stuck to the waiting room while Bernita had her ears freed up and batteries checked. I never tired of senior care, but I did get pregnant and we moved. Thankfully I was rescued from my potential-filled future of excavating ears.
But the ear problems were just beginning, again. Pregnancy had a sneaky little side effect on me.

At thirty-two weeks, when a woman is starting to feel huge and uncomfortable, I couldn’t get out of bed. It was like my head could not get off the pillow. I felt terrible.
Joe, filled with concern over the pregnant condition and impatient at best, whisked me to the emergency room. Vitals were taken, fluid was administered. It seemed I was just a tad under hydrated. I laid in the bed, apologizing to Joe for getting us into this situation, and he patted my arm.
“Why don’t you ask the PA about your ear while we’re here?” he prodded. I could barely hear out of one ear and mostly assumed it was one of those crazy symptoms a woman didn’t bother asking about. But Joe was right–why not ask now?

The PA looked in my ear and wordlessly left the room. When he returned, he had a long, flexible plastic stick in his hand. I remember where I had seen those before. Bernita.

He stuck it down into my ear and the relief was instant. But when he pulled it out, I was mortified. A huge plug of ear wax clung to the tool.
Joe laughed.

He laughed. I could have killed him.

When the bill from the ER arrived, I couldn’t believe it. It had been charged–itemized, even. I’d gone to the emergency room to get earwax removed. I could’ve died of embarrassment. I could just picture the PA going home that day to tell his wife about the nasty clump he’d pulled from my ear.
“And to think,” he probably said, and they’d probably howled with laughter, him probably giddily stumbling to the punch line, “she thought there was actually something wrong with her!!”

To be honest, my ears have never been the same. Each pregnancy was more miserable because of ear wax woes. I’ve spent nights pouring warmed olive oil into my ears and lying on my bed, trying to melt out my sorrow. I wear pod-style headphones every night when I walk my dog, and it makes me uneasy, because I’m confident I’m backing up my ear canal by repeatedly shoving the little speakers in. My poor ears are trash compacting ear wax.
My ears are never far from my mind, and probably even less so than yours, if your head is even comparable in size.

This is why, after my disgust, I had immediate compassion when I lifted those filthy Q-tips from their wax-encrusted box. My poor child. I’ve passed these faulty waxy genetics on. My poor, poor baby, I thought, and then I caught a whiff of a strong scent rising from the package.

I lifted an orange Q-tip to my nose and sniffed, then pulled off a clump of the wax and rubbed it between my fingers.

Soap.

It was soap. Dial, to be exact, liquid and orange. An entire bottle of hand soap had been spilled into the Q-tips. It had evaporated and solidified, the exact consistency of earwax, the usual color, the perfect storm.

I stormed into the hallway.
“Kids!” I bellowed. “Get in here!”

 

 

 

Censoring Hamilton and history

The more I see, the more I find reason for those who love this country to weep over its blindness.
Alexander Hamilton, 1782 (238 years ago)

I decided it was time to brush up on American history this summer.
My boys know more than me–they read constantly, obsessing over Harriet Tubman and her narcolepsy, Lafayette and his marriage at the age of fifteen, Lewis and Clark and their faithful dog, Seaman. When they make references to certain obscure historical figures, I do a quick google confirmation on my phone, then feel proud in a silly mom sort of way.

Hamilton, the great Broadway show, will be out on Disney+ within a couple weeks. I’ve been listening to the soundtrack for over a year now, and I’m eager to match voices to faces. I’ll admit, there is more foul language than I like–I’ve skipped through some of the songs which kids don’t need to hear. I wish it were more accessible to my history buff kiddos, but Lin-Manuel Miranda was clearly more concerned about the rap vibe than tender ears. Having one modern Broadway show under my belt, I can vouch that current writers, composers, and artists aren’t interested in family friendly throwbacks, a la Oklahoma.

In fact, the more shocking, the better.

Anyway, Miranda somehow squeezed decades of complicated politics into a super catchy, ridiculously well-researched musical, and there is nothing I love more than facts put to song, nerd that I am.

Our “founding fathers”–so we call them, were not a bunch of chummy bar friends. There was more arguing than agreeing, and in hindsight, the ragged threads that held our tattered country together were incredibly strained. Pre-Constitution, the nascent nation– a massive joke to the rest of the world–was already in debt to the tune of 40 million dollars.
Shay’s Rebellion hinted at anarchy, one of several little fires which the baby government fretted over putting out. George Washington, having invested more than the average patriot, was disturbed and not inclined to patiently wait for the majority to come to their senses. Thomas Jefferson, on the other hand, blithely commented from Paris,
“I hold it that a little rebellion now and then is a good thing…The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots & tyrants. It is its natural manure.”

I know we are all for knocking Thomas Jefferson these days, but here is the truth: If you don’t blanch at the suggestion that our democratic land hinges on peace and goodwill, I will remind you of the old saying how history is inclined to repeat itself. Our past is more substantial than glittery dreams and butterfly wishes and rainbows. Our soil is bloodstained. Every person who lives here lives in the shadow of the murderer and the martyr. Every one of us is a product of “manifest destiny” and the greed that wiped out indigenous people, from purple mountains’ majesty to the fruited plains.

We are far removed from slavery, we think. We are wiser than our past, we say–we won’t make the same mistakes again. There is a call to censor our past mistakes, to rewrite classic books and “reimagine” old, tasteless films. We are righteously indignant–can you believe the blatant prejudice in Little House on the Prairie? Can you believe the old Disney movies were so derogatory? 

Not our generation, we say. Never again. Our kids will know better–they will be better. By our wit and wisdom, we will rewrite history.
Friends, I disagree. We have nothing to offer, except to pay attention–close attention–to history, and to pray to God that He will guide our future.

Isn’t it interesting how so many independent minded folks gathered together in Philadelphia to collaborate on a new constitution? Surely it was hot under those powdered wigs, sans air conditioning and cold bottles of water. I bet they wandered out of the hall in the evenings, muttering under their breath, each cursing the other for being so dang hard to get along with. I bet they missed their families and wondered why in the world they were working so diligently on something that might turn out to be a futile attempt at compromise.

Let’s not paint a prettier picture than we ought. Our determination is what we share. Our obnoxious, cantankerous resolution to let people live as they want to live and hold leaders accountable for tyrannical behavior–this is our common ground, not our political leanings, principles, and certainly not our adherence to any moral standards. Jesus may very well have said “a nation divided cannot stand” but he was referring to evil spirits, declaring his omnipotence, which many of my fellow Americans deny. (We who are Christians might choose to follow our personal convictions as an inalienable right, just as the atheist might choose to deny there is a God. This is the matter of freedom, though I often try to persuade others that my freedom is freer.)

But first, the framework had to be agreed upon. Interestingly, Ben Franklin, no Christian himself, suggested each morning assembly begin with a clergyman praying. Was not God summoned as a witness? Hamilton was against it. He asserted, annoyed, that the convention would do just fine without “the necessity of calling in foreign aid.”
George Mason questioned a proposal for officials to be elected by the general population, saying it would be as unnatural as asking a blind man to pick out colors.
With such persnickety behavior, it is a wonder any vote was passed, any government established.

Yet here we are.

I am looking forward to Hamilton, just as I greedily eat up every chance to experience art and history. I love our nation, and therefore I am fascinated by its past. I do think God must have had a hand in the pot when those disagreeable founding fathers agreed on one thing, declaring each person has inalienable rights. No one can take our choice from us. That’s how God is–he loves us, fundamentally, by letting us choose, and this is why, to this day, we declare ourselves a nation under God.

It is a miracle that this one fragile thread wove a country together over two hundred years ago. Regardless of our massive mistakes (for one, Southerners’ willful ignorance to the inalienable rights they refused their slave), we still hold this in common. We compromise by agreeing each of us has a unique voice. We complement one another by listening.

I write this because I think we are losing history by entertaining false notions that a divided nation is merely democracy. “Let the people want what they want”–as if being at odds with the very template of our government will change people’s hearts and blot out oppression. Justice and order are some pretty good standards–it is people who are corrupt, which is the point of the story of Jesus declaring that a nation divided against itself cannot stand. If you want Jesus to come into your life and rearrange it, He will do it, and you will only ever benefit from it.

Thanks to those crotchety men in 1787, we actually have a pretty solid foundation, as far as governments go. I think the prayers invoked by old Ben Franklin went straight to the ears of Heaven on the wings of tiny mustard seeds of faith.
History stands. We have options moving forward, if we keep an eye on the rearview mirror. Censorship is not one of them–though you can be sure I’ll be fast forwarding through parts of Hamilton when it comes out (like the part where he has an affair).

Sorry, Lin-Manuel.

 

seeing past duplicity

IKEA. Smartwool. REI. Michael’s. Groupon. The local library. What do these things have in common? They are blasting emails into my inbox with subject lines vowing to support Covid measures, LGBTQ and Black Lives Matter causes. Who knew my socks had something to say about health, politics, or equality.

I am staying home with my kids this summer. We are safer, the governor says, to stay at home, at least until July. I am complying. There are two boxes of face masks in my car. If anyone cares, I swear it is me. I want to cry at the state of the world. I am upset that I cannot explain to my children in clear terms why they cannot swim or play. Why adults must wear face masks everywhere and gather only in small groups, while protesting en mass is perfectly fine. Why some people cannot work, but the thrift stores remain open “for the shopping needs of the lower income population” (are they not allowed to shop anywhere else?).

I want to shake the whole world real hard until a foot falls from everyone’s mouth.

Governor Polis urged us over the television, “if you are a runner, try to run at a different time of day. If you, say, usually go at 7am, go at 5am instead.”
My eyes were rolling, but they nearly fell out of my head when he assured us all that animals could not contract the disease, so it would be the perfect time to adopt a shelter pet.

Meanwhile, our dog parks are shut down, because as our local media Problem Solvers deduced: “they must stay closed until we are sure of how the disease affects animals”.

In May we took a minor vacation, you could call it, to another state. We ate inside a restaurant. Fried chicken, no masks. One of the kids accidentally blew the paper wrapping off his straw and it flew right onto another diner’s saucer of gravy. I was mortified. She laughed and leaned over.
“I had three boys myself. They never grow up!” she cackled, and brushed the litter aside.

We went to a couple music shows and sat in rows carefully spaced, but because of the lack of audience, still front-row seating. The performers hovered over us, their forms larger than life. We could see the sweat on their foreheads and almost feel their breath.

“Well,” Joe said as we left, “if they had anything, we caught it.”

We drove ten hours home and I listened to a podcast on the way. The host was bemoaning the fact that in her own state of Alabama, not everyone was wearing masks to Walmart.

“People!” she berated her silent audience, “this is a pandemic! Wear. Your. Masks!” Then she and her co-host playfully debated who spent more time on their phone per day.
“My phone says I averaged nine hours and thirty-six minutes this week,” she said, and he poked fun at her.
“Per day? You mean you spend almost ten hours on your phone per day?”
“I have to!” she retorted. “Social media is part of the job!”

There are more germs on that phone and more trash emanating from it than any damage a pandemic could cause. Still, we came back to Colorado and pretended once more that the world was shut down, that the most dangerous germs come from breathing fresh air in the open.
I stuck new masks in my purse for the inevitable Costco trip.

There’s an interesting, tiny little remark in my Bible in the story where spies come to Jesus and try to trap Him. First they complimented Him on his way of teaching, but then they asked him pointedly if it was “right” for them to have to pay taxes to Caesar.
The Bible says Jesus saw through their duplicity (Luke 20:23).

“Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and to God what is God’s,” He said. The spies were stunned at his answer.

When the emails started rolling in–the indoor trampoline park seemed especially concerned we had abandoned them due to Covid (I assure you, we had)–I really couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Everyone has an opinion; everyone wants me to think they care, even though I never asked for them to care. We care about your health, your rights, your equality. Love and sincerely, the fine makers of your cheap, junky pressed-wood bookcase.

It seems duplicitous. Doesn’t it drip, heavy and unwanted, sweet and sticky? We care, they assure us. But it is almost trap-like, daring us to disagree.

I have been writing a manuscript for six months now, forcing myself to stay up late to type. For three of these months, the kids have been home, and I have to put them first on my daily schedule. They have no concern for my worky ways, and I do respect their need for a mother. I try to jot notes down in a book until I have more time to put it in a document.
I debate sending in proposals, though I have written up several. I’ve been fed (and have eaten) this lie that says in order for me to be successful, I need to peddle it just so. The pitch must be perfect. I must put it in the right hands. I must promote what I’m selling. For it to work, I might think about streamlining my platform and message, so it is palatable and fits nicely in the scheme of a greater marketing plan. My product, my words, only have sway if they are monetized and shared with the powers that dictate the market.

(So then it’s very humbling to be hollered at to wipe someone’s butt when I am in the middle of such important endeavors.)

Here I wonder: who, exactly, is being unfair? Who, exactly, is really “listening and learning”? It makes everything seem so negotiable and ebullient, falsely hopeful.
Why  must I still follow the rules of this world if I am aiming for success–even me, a lowly, hopeful writer? I cannot wax poetic on the goodness of mankind like Smartwool and REI, even if I see more glimpses of it in my world than they can in the cubicle from which they write their sorry emails. My hope isn’t in the human race, because they’ve only ever let one another down. It is to a company’s advantage to promote humanistic ideology in this age. It reinforces the majority, ensures their sales. “We support PRIDE/BLACK LIVES”–it reeks of compliance, not compassion. In fact, it is the habit of the whole world to distance itself from ideology that finds it at fault–which is precisely what Truth does. Truth that says “Give to God what is God’s.” It doesn’t say “keep smoothing the edges out till you’ve convinced us you care.”

I open my email, I send my proposal, and this is what I think: We can all see through the duplicity.

And this is what believers who can spot it are coming to realize:

The world is not interested in Truth nor Truth Telling.

It is a very good thing the world is not our home.

We don’t jump on bandwagons or sign away the farm over things on which we have no control. We know Who is in control, and this is our only Hope.

We love people not out of self-advancement, indignation, hot flashes, or civic duty.

We love people because He first loved us, and because He sent Jesus to wipe out everything that ever marked us as duplicitous in the first place. (1 John 4:19)

Let the socks keep talking. This is our only confession.

CJ looked around as he stepped off the bus.
Crumbling sidewalks and broken-down doors,
Graffiti-tagged windows and boarded-up stores.
He reached for his Nana’s hand.
“How come it’s always so dirty over here?”
She smiled and pointed to the sky.
“Sometimes when you’re surrounded by dirt, CJ,
You’re a better witness for what’s beautiful.”

Last Stop on Market Street, Matt De La Pena

How can you give to God what is God’s? How can you focus your eyes on seeing past the duplicity in this world? One tangible way is simply by seeing people as Jesus did. He was the first to elevate the lowly, the first to point out our human tendencies to miss the big picture. 
If you’d like to start laying treasure up in heaven (instead of, say, nice socks and cheap furniture, outdoor equipment, or any thing that tempts you), may I recommend child sponsorship?
Drop me a message for details, or go to Compassion International.

 

Fighting injustice the no-knee-jerk way

We’re colored people, and we live in a tainted place

We’re colored people, and they call us the human race.

We’ve got a history so full of mistakes 

We’re colored people who depend on a Holy Grace

DC Talk

I took my dog and ten year old for a walk, the same route we take every night.
“Hey, look,” Jubal pointed as we rounded the park path.
“There’s new graffiti on that park bench.”
We paused to take a closer look. Our city is, one park bench at a time, becoming a billboard for disrespect and insubordination.

I sort of get it; I sort of don’t. Why are we at such a tipping point, why is the level of emotional response so high? Why did it take a video of a man stepping on another’s neck, crushing his windpipe, for people to be awakened to awfulness in the world?

What were you doing if you weren’t loving people?

How were you spending your time if it wasn’t loving people?

Why were you distracted by lesser things, when loving people was the main thing?

Did you always assume it was perfectly fine to live in a bubble and not make eye contact with people who don’t look and talk like you? Were your main concerns always for your own politics, people, and your comfort level? Was it the “quality” of schooling for your own children, the “safety” of certain neighborhoods? What caused you to be discriminating in your own self pursuits but neutral and uncaring when other people were involved? Why did you ever think it was okay to look out for your own needs but never the needs of others?

What were you avoiding while you waited for the tidal wave to come crashing down on your shore? How is it that the reality of hate in this world never darkened your door until now?

Moreover, why can we not see that this injustice stretches the entire world and not just the part covered in red, white, and blue? For the awakened, why haven’t you considered the other corners of your neighborhood? The elderly who are ignored in nursing homes. Children who are neglected to the point of child protective services stepping in. The illiterate immigrant, working her tail off to make ends meet while wading through laws and stipulations no one takes the time to explain. The rest of the world, the ones who die of hunger at an alarming rate of 25,000 souls a day. Orphans, folks who have fled guerilla warfare, families living in poverty. To be woke, to be impartial, to live a life that demands justice–it cannot spring up and die like a weed in the ground each time the media brings something terrible to our attention.
No– a noble life is a tree that bears fruit and bends and sways through the seasons.

When we moved away from our mountain life two years ago, our main goal was to expose our children to the real world, not one conjured up as an “American dream”, complete with toys and hobbies only accessible to the wealthiest. We pulled our kids from ski school and privilege and plugged them into a public school where they made up the ten percent with white skin.

It was intentional. It was sometimes uncomfortable. At our neighborhood park, my kids still ask their playmates innocent questions: What language are you speaking? Where are you from?

It could, after all, be one of several dozen. With my limited Spanish, I’m sometimes able to engage in pleasantries, but mostly we just smile and nod fervently, urging our kids to go up the steps and down the slide, together in this weird world where we cannot understand each other perfectly, but know the simple rules for getting along.

Our kids have only benefited from the experience, our conversations have only ever been open doors. God has erased our worries and expanded our love for people.

We have not saved the world. I am not saying we intend to, but we have learned to love our neighbor because we have learned who our neighbor is. We have learned there are people outside of our made-up “safe” zones that are worth getting to know.

There are still people who wield weapons unnecessarily. There are still people who wave flags that should be retired. There is still hate and oppression.
But we have chosen to not be stirred up by hate.

The world right now is begging us to engage and react–it tells us if we are silent, we are part of the problem. I disagree. My own family has been moving in a direction that is anything but passive. Quiet obedience to God is not inaction, even if that’s the vibe our world puts off. It wants us to toss in our two cents to play the game. A shouting match on Twitter, hackles raised, like two dogs ready to tear into each other. The world doesn’t want to wait for revenge; God says it is His and not ours to pursue. He promises justice for the poor and oppressed, but it will not always come in this lifetime.

Because of Jesus, because of His love that keeps growing inside us, our eyes have been opened to the ways we can act instead of our flesh instinct to react.

Our actions are definitive arrows of faith. This is also what we intend our kids to see as they grow up in a world that is so reactive: move in obedience to God rather than recoil in horror. Advance before there is pressure to retreat. Be bold examples of love, wade into the uncertainty, maintain a stance of offense, not defense. Stop looking to the left or right for clues on how to live, who is picking up rocks and where we all ought to throw them; instead, look up at the perfect Savior and follow His lead.

So what exactly can you do? How can a person bend their ear to all injustice, to follow the way of Jesus in a practical, non-hell-bent, knee-jerk way? Does it take scrapping the farm and moving to the city, learning a new language, immersing oneself in another culture, enrolling the kids in a minority school?

No, but you might end up there. The first step is truly valuing the life of someone who looks, thinks, and lives completely different than you. Ten years ago, we came to love a little twelve year old boy from Haiti through a child sponsorship program. For around forty dollars a month we invested in his future. We put our money–tight at the time–where our mouth was. Then as we were able, we did it again. And again. And again. God kept showing us what, and who, was precious to Him, and we walked in that direction.

That little boy, Fainelson, is now a man. He sent me a video a few weeks ago. He was singing me a song. He sang in Creole, and I couldn’t understand all the words, but it had my name in it. This black man, this precious child of God. My friend, my dear sponsored son, the bridge that prompted me to follow Love down every turn in the path.

Reconciling all the injustice in the world–Jesus can do it, to the glory of the Father. How wonderful when we get to play a tiny part in the story of redemption.

 

Could child sponsorship be your first practical step? Go to World Vision or Compassion to find out more.