The Skinny Silent Haitian Boy By Madisen Lynch

When you stare in the Haitian’s deep brown warm eyes, it’s like a winter day, but you’re inside by a
warm fire reading a good book. 

Actually, you’re in the streets of Haiti where it smells and there is garbage everywhere and it’s hot everyday.

 Haitians stare at me forever, though the car window but than your cars starts moving. 

With hands out the Haitian children leaned against our window to see into a locked car with a sad face.

“Mom, can I give this little boy some money?” I asked my mother.

“No, you can’t!”  She replied to me.

“Why not?” I whined.                                                                                                      

Because if they see you ever again they will ask you for money every single time.

Haitian money is eight to one to American money or only a few cents per dollar.

“Fine” I mumbled to myself.  

We finally started moving and he was still standing there with that same sad look on his face.

 It is hard for many children to grow up in a third world country.

 In Haiti many children beg for money on the streets.

My parents are missionaries and we lived in Haiti and have just come back to the U.S.

We are lucky, as Americans when we get something like food.   

You eat some of it and then you throw it away.

People in Haiti would love that food in their tummies.

So feel lucky for what you have.

I can’t stop remembering that boy’s face.

 It’s like a sticker on my brain.

He filled the hole in my heart! - Guest Post

The dark hole smelled of death, it was silent and sour.

It was the culmination, the final resting place of universal shame, a holding tank for failure.

For three days it was spoken of with disgust and despair

 by those whose hopes had been pulverized by a betrayal of trust.

For others who celebrated the death of the man laid to rest in the death cave, 

it was a proper memorial sight to the fraud. 

The clown.

Still for others who loved Him deeply it was a sacred place, 

for it was the bedchamber of their Lord and friend.

The unbelievers didn't know, that after three days there was a stirring.

The dead man opened His eyes and grinned.

He was alive, just as he knew he would be. 

His promise, he would keep.

He was giddy with joy as he stood up to leave the cave that could not hold him.

Jesus laughed out loud. 

I am the Resurrection, he said aloud.

The cave trembled at the sound of his voice. 

Heaven filled the hole.

The hole was now holy.

Jesus is alive! 

He filled the hole in my heart too!

Love...E

(This has been a guest post by Eileen Lynch)

Philemon

His eyes glanced upward catching mine. 
He would look just long enough, wondering, but not necessarily caring if I would scold him for playing, playing in the middle of the church service.  
Honestly, I was thankful for the distraction. 
 I have lost just enough of my religious thinking to think that this was anything more than a show. 
I hoped it wasn't for my benefit because I wasn't impressed.
My salvation is no longer found in “longer is better”.
As in many places not knowing the language makes it harder.
There is frustration in that.
Along with wanting to see the harvest, rather than trusting in the planting process.

I had already glanced over my notes for my evening message.
 I was now reading the words of Paul in Philemon.
The words in this tiny book get me every time.

“I am sending him, who is my very heart, back to you". 

I closed my eyes holding those words in my heart.
I wanted them to write themselves on my heart so I wouldn't forget this kind of love.
I glanced back at the playing boy. 
I watched him take the loose paper that had fallen from the curled pages of his paperback bible we had purchased a year ago. 
He was neatly folding the paper into three perfect paper frogs. 
Frogs that could jump if he tapped them just so with the tip of his finger.

Three dancing frogs. 
I had to smile.

My legs jumped from sitting too long, the heat made me sleepy, but I dare not sleep with half of the congregation watching my every move.
 I was the visitor, a.k.a the blond girl who can't get her clothing right to save her soul with  tattoo's on her feet now being forced to sit on stage, something I hate.
Sometimes I sit on the floor with the congregations just to prove a point.
It messes with things so I do it on purpose.

Soon the boy would take a string from the fray at the bottom of his blue jeans and tie it around a real live large beetle bug. 

Yes, the kind that make you jump when found in your room, your shower or your bed.

This beetle bug dared to walk right into the middle of the dancing frogs.

I was loving this mini circus. 

A show in a show thought my crancky self.   

He took the string, gently tied it around the beetle bug making him work like the big white bulls with the pink powder pulling the sugar cane carts on the street.

The beetle bug was pulling one of the dancing frogs.

His face beemed, mine too.  

The boy no longer glanced my way, I no longer counted the minutes until the show would be finished. 

Not the circus of dancing frog, the one in the pulpit.

There was no longer a language barrier, I understood just fine.

Finally it was over, children dismissed and I would pray for those who needed prayer. 

The magic word "Amen" was uttered and without a nudge he was gone.
The dancing frogs, the distraction, seemed to have no value.
They didn't leave with him. 
I glanced down where the circus had been performing, he had left them just as easily as he had made them. 
I considered taking them and saving them but thought it not very spiritual to disrupt the other show taking place.

As I stood praying for them, asking Jesus to come touch them, be real to them, heal them, bring work for them, give them hope, I was thinking about Paul, Philemon, the boy, the beetle bug and dancing circus frogs.

“I am sending him who is my very heart back to you".

 The tables now turned, my words had no meaning, they didn't speak English.
Ironically, maybe I was the show?
In my heart I was there to be His hands and feet. 
Please, Jesus you will have to do the rest.
I prayed there would be no barrier, that His heart, my actions would speak in place of language.
Lord, let my words be like dancing frogs and beetle bugs, let them connect.
Let this not be a show.
Lord, let me send your heart back to them.

How It All Started

“It was a trip of firsts, so many wonderful firsts. The smell of strong black coffee brewing in a sock, sweet with sugar swirling around in a tin cup. Women who swept the red dirt making it clean, the first time I saw fabric hanging in the place of an absent door blowing in the wind.  The first time I knew poverty wasn’t just about being poor, the first time I saw people walk all night through the mountains for medical care, care that might only be worm meds, antacids and something for the pounding in their head from hunger and dehydration. The first time I saw how so little can do so very much, the first time I saw people fight for a bowl of rice and beans.  It would be the first time I would leave my heart in a place I didn’t understand. 

When it was over, there would be one less child in this world who died in our care, life had some how gotten bigger and smaller at the same time, black and white pat answers turned gray and my circle of friends got smaller.  Not intentionally, not instantly, stuff changed, what was important changed.

No, I changed.”

And that is how it all started...

One short-term mission trip to Haiti and I was on a mission to do something about what I had seen.  I wasn’t one of those people who come home, sell everything and get on a plane the next week.  It took several years for me to figure out what would work. I hated the idea of a feeding program or orphanage; they only seemed like a bandage being applied to a hemorrhage. I was looking for long-term solutions.  

All of that fell into place when we met the missionary woman in the mini skirt and the hippie who should have been driving a VW van. My idea of shipping over one treadle sewing machine at a time to them quickly turned into over forty being donated to us. Next there was a meeting with the hippie and his wife, lots of prayer, a few tears and finally after seven years of trips we would make Haiti our home. Not with the idea of a business mind you, it was just going to be a sewing program teaching a hand full of ladies a trade to find a jobs with the intention of creating ways for them to keep their children fed, in school and with a place to live.

It all seemed logical that women needed to be empowered. They didn’t need pity they needed jobs, jobs and the courage to believe for a better life. Well, as the saying goes in Haiti, it is mountain after mountain. We had our first graduation and ladies with no place to work. Our sewing school would now grow in to what is Haitian Creations.

All these years later, I am still driven by the boy who died on the boat, the ladies who had the courage to change and this one thing the hippie said to me. He said, “What if you are the one the Lord has called to push through and you don’t do it?”

Costa Rica 2013

Here is an update from Madisen as she shares her heart:

It’s me again! 

And if you don’t know who me is, it’s Madisen! 

I am so excited to say that I am going back to Costa Rica! 

I learned so much from going on this trip. 

I have the same wonderful leaders I had last time 

(Kristin Mclendon and Kenda Meeks). 

They both have invested into my life and I am completely thankful for them. 

Going to Costa Rica has given me so much courage and helped me bloom into the flower God wants me to be!

Last time you got one of these letters it said that God wanted me to go to China and work with the handicapped children. 

Well, that has changed a little bit. 

I went to Haiti last summer and saw things some people would probably want to thrown up after seeing! 

But, I helped with delivering a baby, cut the umbilical cord, and examine the placenta. 

I know what you are thinking, it is probably something like 

“Your mother is crazy” or “ Why in the heck is her mother letting her do this”!  

Trust me, I’m thinking the same thing, but God has called me to be a midwife.  

I’m still getting used to saying that! 

Most 15 year olds don’t say that kind of stuff!

I will be traveling with my church, Riverstone and my youth group. 

We will be returning to The Abraham Project working with Jonathan and Amy Griffith and their children. 

We will be teaching the kids bible stories, working in the children’s homes, doing construction project, some outreach to the community, and giving the Griffith and the parents for the children’s homes a date night. 

I will be returning to Costa Rica on June 3^rd to June 11^th. 

The approximated amount is $1,500.  

I know it is a bit bigger then last year, but that is airfare for you.

I feel like I am called to missions and this is preparing me towards my work in China.

 I am asking you to pray for and with me, as I get ready to leave. 

Happy Valentine's Day!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Love cares more for others than for self.

Love doesn’t want what it doesn’t have.

Love doesn’t strut,

Doesn’t have a swelled head,

Doesn’t force itself on others,

Isn’t always “me first,”

Doesn’t fly off the handle,

Doesn’t keep score of the sins of others,

Doesn’t revel when others grovel,

Takes pleasure in the flowering of truth,

Puts up with anything,

Trusts God always,

Always looks for the best,

Never looks back,

But keeps going to the end.

1 Corinthians 13:4-10

India - I had forgotten the joy

My mind races past their traditions only to fall back on mine. 
I try to harness my thoughts that they would be full of the grace given to me. 
My mind races in so many directions thinking of what I could be doing to be productive. 
Fighting the irritation over and over, I pray for the Lord to give me what I needed not to yell.
Yell at all of this....stuff.  
None of this stuff matters to me and I would never consider spending the time or money of such things. 
I take another deep breath.

 I see the excitement, the gathering of flowers for freshly washed hair. 
New shoe boxes arriving in the auto rickshaws with children's names written on them. 
Minutes ticking past too slowly before the shoes will find their owner's feet.  
Final touches are being made on sound, lights, songs and dance moves. 
Signs are being hung in town, more auto-rickshaws loaded with amps and speakers carry only the voice of the hopeful pastor inviting everyone to come.
It is a celebration.  
I could kick myself for not asking the Hindu people who taught me to make Kalamkari fabric to come celebrate Semi-Christmas with us, me always not wanting to offend. 
Yet, when Santa showed up at the birth of Jesus I was maybe glad I didn't invite them to come.
There seemed to have been a disconnect in the translation here.

It is like being but in a box with your arms tied, being required to make this calling we call ministry happen while you learn a new culture.
Always second guessing tradition, culture and common sense.

I had forgotten the joy that would come in getting a new pair of shoes only once a year.
I had forgotten the joy.
Oh my goodness their faces.
The hugs, the kisses. 
I was feeling less irritated with this whole "show thing" knowing the kids got new shoes. 
This, I liked.

It was Christmas, I was thinking dinner, shoes, songs candy.
I even asked, what will we be doing?
Answer, Oh, a meeting with the Pastors.
No where was it mentioned - the entire town, a stage, video camera or public speaking.

To this day I break out in hives just at the thought of speaking in public. 

As a child my little brother was my shield always going first, mostly against his will.

Well, because I pushed him. 

Yet, while in India I had the ability to speak in front of about three hundred people without butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach for hours of torment. 

Finding something outside of myself seems to be the only cure for the fear that could cripple me.  

I have also learned I would rather put my words on paper, but this isn't always what is asked of me. 

Finding my way through another culture feels clumsy and messy.

Without honoring culture I think we miss the heart of God.

Even in our mistakes.

There is a time for taking responsibility for things taught years ago, undoing good ideas gone wrong.

Like ties in one hundred and fifteen degree weather no matter what.

I believe it is time to rethink missions and aide.

Understanding what it needs to look like today.

Not being offended because it looks different and acts different. 

Giving grace when it is needed, growing when it is needed.

Not forgetting the joy.

It is after all, the Good News.