Out of the Ashes

This month my husband and I miscarried a baby. I had heard women talk of their loss and sorrow before, but I never could understand their pain and the physical hardship until this “storm” swept over me. It was like I was undone. I could barely get out of bed, speak, or function at times. The tears and weeping seemed endless. I knew these things take time, and I knew God was good and faithful. My heart had peace and yet the tears still flowed unceasingly. I remember laying in bed one day and thinking I feel like someone died.   Someone did die, and though I never met them, I felt ever so connected to them as I grieved their loss of life. It’s a strange and surreal feeling. It’s hard to explain and put into words. At times I felt my body itself was grieving even more than my mind. Like my body knew it has lost something so real, and yet never seen. I was reminded of Job’s words, “Shall we not accept both the good and the bad from G0d?” For weeks before the miscarriage happe

I sat with a friend who has become like a sister this week. Slowly over the coarse of the last 3 years she is opening up about her religious background, family, and more. She believes in G0d, but I am not sure she has a walking and talking relationship with G0d. Yesterday, she opened up about the effects of her Father’s suicide and alcohol abuse in their family line. We talked about the damage it had done to her soul and mind. Her father had told her she was not wanted, and if she stayed in the home, he will kill himself.  Shortly after, he did kill himself, and of course my friend felt to blame. He spoke things over her no person should ever hear. Her story was pieces and shambles of despair, brokenness and heartache.  There was no joy, no life in her story. She felt that if her own father couldn’t love her how could anyone else. As she shared I prayed to the H0ly $pirit for direction and words. I asked if we could give over the past to the L0rd together in prayer, and ask Him a

It’s almost 3 years here, and sometimes I find myself realizing that certain things will never become “norm” to me. I still hate the ugly Hin*du gods and the statues that you see walking down the road. I still hate the deep low ring of the prayer call for the Mu$lims. I still hate watching coolies carry heavy loads on their back, that cause them to be bent over under their load.   I always question how they survive. The loads look so heavy you would think they would die from it. I still hate finding a baby that is 8 months old when it looks 4 months old and the fact it isn’t getting enough nutrition. I still hate seeing children with no shoes and dirty faces and lack of care. I still hate the look of sunken eyes, whether spiritual or physical. I still hate hearing the stories of persecution and hardship that people endure for the sake of Chri$t. I still hate the comments that come from Indians towards me as a Westerner.   I h

The last few weeks have been quiet a challenge for my white, American, fleshy self. Manoj and I have been moving into a “new” apartment, which is actually quite old (over 100 years) and has been under months of construction and remodeling. We moved in 15 days later than expected. We moved in anticipating that most of the work had been completed only to find that the roof was still leaking; the water pipes were not working; there was no running water most days, much less warm water for showers; and 3 of the room were without electricity. When I would turn on a light switch, the bulb would burst and glass would go shattering across the room due to the high voltage and inconsistent electricity. Work men were in and out of the house throughout the day which kept me home monitoring the “work” while Manoj was at work. I found myself discontent and complaining most of the days. I was discouraged and frustrated that things were taking longer than expected, and that we couldn’t just “settl

As you know G0d always speaks to me through day to day life situations. I grow through them. I see G0d more clearly through them. Last week, I stepped out of the taxi in front of my home to find a man bleeding and unconscious behind our local garbage dumpster. “Oh L0rd”, my heart sank. I wasn’t sure if he was beaten and left or in a drunken stupor.   Either way I knew he needed help. I called for my husband to come help. Manoj determined he was drunk and was “wasting his life”. I could tell it was hard for my husband to cancel the meeting he was suppose to be starting, a meeting we had been waiting for, in order to have time to help this man.   I said the man still deserved help. Je$us wouldn’t just leave us on the roadside.   And even while we were yet sinners He died for us. No one else was willing to help a man who was a drunk and “wasting his life”.   Everyone else was passing him by. Thoughts raced though my head of the “good Samaritan”.   We could help, if we