(Composed in the light of Isaiah 6 and Psalm 115,
On the morning of January 26, 2010).
Crudely carved block of wood,
Lump of blackened stone,
Sun-baked ceramic figurine,
Fragment of broken bone,
Behind museum glass they sit
Beneath fluorescent light;
Permanent exhibit they form,
Here each day and night.
Artifacts of ancient lands,
Revered as gods were they,
Now people pass, children laugh
In line for the café.
Their little ears hear no sound,
Eyes unable to see;
Their lips cannot form a word,
Nor answer an urgent plea.
Praise the Lord who hears our prayers;
He listens to our cries!
Rejoice! Jehovah sees our needs
And graciously provides!
Sing for joy all ye earth
For ours is the God who speaks,
Transforming hearts, changing lives
Of anyone who seeks!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
I joined the fight against poverty
“I joined the fight against poverty!” the white-lettered t-shirt seemed to shout from its black canvas, as I pulled it out of the box, careful not to dump the packing popcorn all over the floor. I had been waiting for this package to arrive for weeks, and it was finally here!
It all began last spring. I was looking ahead to my one year review at work, and I wanted to do something special to celebrate my first year as a college graduate. That's when it hit me--I was, for the first time in my life, financially stable, generally independent, and actually able to sponsor a child through Compassion International! I had grown up watching the commercials on TV of children in need, their empty eyes yearning for food, for hope. I had even spent a couple summers with the Continental Singers raising sponsors. I had always wished that I could do something for the poor children of the world, but I hadn’t had a steady income. Now I did! Now I could do something about it!
Excitedly, I logged onto the website, clicking through the photos. With so many children in need, how do I just pick one? Then I saw her, those brown eyes called out to me: Clemence Matano. ‘She’s perfect!’ I thought. A little seven year old girl (She’s eight now!) living in southern Kenya with her parents and two siblings, according to the little biography on the site. In her simple lavender dress and her shy smile, I couldn’t tear myself away. And she loves to sing! Bonus!
In our first correspondence I learned that her favorite subject in school is capital letters. I admitted that they are rather fun to write. “I LOVE TO WRITE IN CAPITAL LETTERS TOO!” I responded. I hoped she might giggle. After all, I don’t think email writing etiquette really applies when writing to my little Clemence. In the days that followed, she began drawing pictures of herself and her home to send to me; I continued to send photos, and not sure what to say exactly, I told her a bit about California: the geography, the scenery, the weather.
This fall I began thinking about how I could give more. I wanted to become involved in a ministry too, somewhere that I could really invest my time and try to make a difference. One afternoon when I was exploring the website, I first read about Compassion’s Advocates Network. “Become a voice for the voiceless.” I had heard the phrase before, yet it meant more to me now. I can’t change the entire world; however, Compassion is eager to show that you can make a difference in the life of one child, and that makes all the difference for her world. Shy as I can be at times, these dear children continue to live and die in silence. Rather, their cries for help are drowned out by our surround-sound home theaters and our blaring iPods.
Looking through the contents of my training material, another pair of brown eyes pierces my soul, Kabuye Sam, the first child for whom I am advocating. A little Ugandan boy, just seven years old, Sam is wearing his little tennis shoes, ready for the next soccer game. I can see him now: playing with his friends in the field, and then sitting in the school this afternoon learning to read the story of Jesus’ life. Without a sponsor this will not be possible. Without a sponsor Sam will become another sad statistic, another malnourished child, another uneducated laborer like his father, perhaps another victim of HIV/AIDS.
Won’t you consider partnering with Compassion? Join the fight! Together we can make a difference: Releasing children from poverty in Jesus’ name! One child at a time!
Sponsor a Child
It all began last spring. I was looking ahead to my one year review at work, and I wanted to do something special to celebrate my first year as a college graduate. That's when it hit me--I was, for the first time in my life, financially stable, generally independent, and actually able to sponsor a child through Compassion International! I had grown up watching the commercials on TV of children in need, their empty eyes yearning for food, for hope. I had even spent a couple summers with the Continental Singers raising sponsors. I had always wished that I could do something for the poor children of the world, but I hadn’t had a steady income. Now I did! Now I could do something about it!
Excitedly, I logged onto the website, clicking through the photos. With so many children in need, how do I just pick one? Then I saw her, those brown eyes called out to me: Clemence Matano. ‘She’s perfect!’ I thought. A little seven year old girl (She’s eight now!) living in southern Kenya with her parents and two siblings, according to the little biography on the site. In her simple lavender dress and her shy smile, I couldn’t tear myself away. And she loves to sing! Bonus!
In our first correspondence I learned that her favorite subject in school is capital letters. I admitted that they are rather fun to write. “I LOVE TO WRITE IN CAPITAL LETTERS TOO!” I responded. I hoped she might giggle. After all, I don’t think email writing etiquette really applies when writing to my little Clemence. In the days that followed, she began drawing pictures of herself and her home to send to me; I continued to send photos, and not sure what to say exactly, I told her a bit about California: the geography, the scenery, the weather.
This fall I began thinking about how I could give more. I wanted to become involved in a ministry too, somewhere that I could really invest my time and try to make a difference. One afternoon when I was exploring the website, I first read about Compassion’s Advocates Network. “Become a voice for the voiceless.” I had heard the phrase before, yet it meant more to me now. I can’t change the entire world; however, Compassion is eager to show that you can make a difference in the life of one child, and that makes all the difference for her world. Shy as I can be at times, these dear children continue to live and die in silence. Rather, their cries for help are drowned out by our surround-sound home theaters and our blaring iPods.
Looking through the contents of my training material, another pair of brown eyes pierces my soul, Kabuye Sam, the first child for whom I am advocating. A little Ugandan boy, just seven years old, Sam is wearing his little tennis shoes, ready for the next soccer game. I can see him now: playing with his friends in the field, and then sitting in the school this afternoon learning to read the story of Jesus’ life. Without a sponsor this will not be possible. Without a sponsor Sam will become another sad statistic, another malnourished child, another uneducated laborer like his father, perhaps another victim of HIV/AIDS.
Won’t you consider partnering with Compassion? Join the fight! Together we can make a difference: Releasing children from poverty in Jesus’ name! One child at a time!
Thursday, January 14, 2010
"Immobile"
(Written on the evening of January 14, 2010,
Remembering where I was last Thursday night).
The battery light flashes on my dashboard.
I cringe as the radio turns off seconds later.
Gliding to a stop at the light, I restart the car,
Praying I will just make it to the repair shop.
The engine shakes, but starts, so I rev the gas,
Shifting into drive as the light turns green.
Rolling forward I push the pedal to the floor.
"Come on, baby! You can do it!" I coax.
The lights go out. The engine stops.
Panic.
Desperately I try to restart the car.
The key turns without a sound.
In fact, nothing happens. What now?
Timidly stepping out, my eyes searching;
Cars swerve around me left and right,
Filled with staring, disgruntled eyes,
Their turning signals flashing as they pass,
Avoiding the bothersome hindrance,
The irritating inconvenience--ME!
Mind racing amidst the honks, stranded,
Lost in the endless waves of car after car,
A stranger approaches and offers a hand.
Another comes, stopping the ceaseless flow,
Then pushing my immobile automobile
Off the crowded, bustling road.
My car is fine now; it all worked out,
Yet I cannot help but wonder if I,
Seeing another stuck, would stop,
Get out of the car, and break a sweat,
All to help someone I'd never met,
Someone I would never see again.
I think of the thousands in Haiti,
Perhaps even millions by now,
Shaken, desperate, in need.
I have never met one of them
(I probably never will)
Yet I cannot help, but seek to help.
I may not lift the rubble with this hand,
Yet I will give to those who can;
For even a weak and weary hand,
When united with his brother's,
Can meet an urgent need,
Can move the immobile.
Remembering where I was last Thursday night).
The battery light flashes on my dashboard.
I cringe as the radio turns off seconds later.
Gliding to a stop at the light, I restart the car,
Praying I will just make it to the repair shop.
The engine shakes, but starts, so I rev the gas,
Shifting into drive as the light turns green.
Rolling forward I push the pedal to the floor.
"Come on, baby! You can do it!" I coax.
The lights go out. The engine stops.
Panic.
Desperately I try to restart the car.
The key turns without a sound.
In fact, nothing happens. What now?
Timidly stepping out, my eyes searching;
Cars swerve around me left and right,
Filled with staring, disgruntled eyes,
Their turning signals flashing as they pass,
Avoiding the bothersome hindrance,
The irritating inconvenience--ME!
Mind racing amidst the honks, stranded,
Lost in the endless waves of car after car,
A stranger approaches and offers a hand.
Another comes, stopping the ceaseless flow,
Then pushing my immobile automobile
Off the crowded, bustling road.
My car is fine now; it all worked out,
Yet I cannot help but wonder if I,
Seeing another stuck, would stop,
Get out of the car, and break a sweat,
All to help someone I'd never met,
Someone I would never see again.
I think of the thousands in Haiti,
Perhaps even millions by now,
Shaken, desperate, in need.
I have never met one of them
(I probably never will)
Yet I cannot help, but seek to help.
I may not lift the rubble with this hand,
Yet I will give to those who can;
For even a weak and weary hand,
When united with his brother's,
Can meet an urgent need,
Can move the immobile.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
"To a new year"
(Composed the first week of January 2010).
Some new years feel like a new blouse,
Purchased from the boutique rack,
Colors bright, completely unworn,
Blooming with great expectations,
Long awaited and at a high price.
Others are more like digging through a gym bag
Trying to locate a not so smelly sock,
Filled with more of the same old troubles.
This year, however, like a familiar friend,
Having begun and ended in the same spot,
Is most like pulling a newly laundered
Pair of blue jeans out of the dryer,
Fresh and warm, yet snug and comfy.
Thus, this year begins like the last,
Toasting my plastic cup to a new year,
Bundled on the rosiest street of Pasadena.
Some new years feel like a new blouse,
Purchased from the boutique rack,
Colors bright, completely unworn,
Blooming with great expectations,
Long awaited and at a high price.
Others are more like digging through a gym bag
Trying to locate a not so smelly sock,
Filled with more of the same old troubles.
This year, however, like a familiar friend,
Having begun and ended in the same spot,
Is most like pulling a newly laundered
Pair of blue jeans out of the dryer,
Fresh and warm, yet snug and comfy.
Thus, this year begins like the last,
Toasting my plastic cup to a new year,
Bundled on the rosiest street of Pasadena.
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