Healer God

November

“You are right.” He says.

I look up into the shy smile I have grown to love so much. Day 178 of bandaging this wound, and it is almost gone.

Makerere is not one to strike up conversation usually, so I probe. “Right about what?”

“That thing you say. You know. About even bad things being used for our good and all of it working for God’s glory even when we can’t see it. You are right. If I hadn’t been burnt we might not be friends, you know. And If I hadn’t come to live here, I would still be drinking and mostly, I wouldn’t know about that Jesus,” he laughs, “Jesus.”

I focus my gaze back on the bandage to hide the happy tears. I am right, but sometimes, I need reminding.

****

Sometime in April, Christine pulled up in my van. “I have a patient for you,” she said as she opened the back door. I knew he was in bad shape as he tumbled out, and I could feel the vomit surge hot in my throat as I caught that first glimpse of his leg – skin burnt charcoal black, bone exposed, nothing even still alive enough to bleed.

I knew this man. At least, I thought I did. As the village drunk of Masese, he was a constant annoyance to me. I was appalled but not surprised to learn that while he was passed out in the middle of the day, some neighbors lit his house on fire. The fire caught his leg and he crawled out just in time to watch his neighbors steal all his remaining belongings from inside.

And thus began the season that I though would heal him, but instead healed me.

He moaned as I injected painkiller and mumbled a story that I couldn’t understand. I prayed over his wound and over his heart, and when he fell asleep on the porch, I didn’t make him move but draped a blanket over him instead and I didn’t realize that just this simple action would be the beginning of coming to love the newest member of our family.

The doctor at the best hospital around told me he would lose his leg if I didn’t dress and clean it daily. That probably he would lose it anyway. At this point, I don’t think he cared one way or another, but I did. Just months earlier, tragedy had struck our family. And although I had no idea at the time, Jesus was bringing about my own healing by drawing me into someone else’s. I couldn’t verbalize it then, but it is as if my heart screamed, “I lost my daughter. I lost my reality. You will not lose your leg. You will not lose yours.” And so I threw myself into becoming an expert on third degree burn care.

For hours each day I scraped the dead skin from this wound and God scraped at the dead places of my heart. Buried places that, though I would never say it, somehow doubted that God could be good, all the time, when my daughter’s bed lay empty. And I said it out loud, to him and to myself. God uses all for good. For His glory. God is using this, I said, and I smiled at new pink life showing through and though I didn’t recognize it yet, God was growing new life out of the very hardest places of my heart.

For a month he came and went. I would bandage the leg and send him home; he would return the next day and I would almost be thankful that he was drunk because even still the pain was excruciating. I would wash and scrape and scrub and dress and I cry and I would say to that wound and to anyone who would listen, “We will not lose this leg.” Others from the community stepped over our new friend asleep on the porch and they shook their heads. “You can’t save ‘em all. Not this one, Katie.” But I am stubborn. And God is relentless.

Eventually he just moved in to the little house in our back yard. This made finding him at bandaging time quite a bit easier and it allowed me to make sure he wasn’t drinking. As he began to sober up, we began to have longer conversations; he would tell me all about his life and his family before he became an alcoholic and found himself homeless in Masese and I would tell him about a Savior born as an infant in a feeding trough and nailed to a tree. He questioned everything I said about God’s goodness and sovereignty, and I know that as I was answering him, I was answering myself, too. In the darkest place of my life God had me testify each day exactly who I knew Him to be. In those hours of wound bandaging He was introducing Himself to me again. The Working All For Good God. The Still and Always Faithful God. The God who sees who we are and uses all the broken places to make us who we are becoming. I said these things out loud and I watched God make them true all over again.

And this is what I learned: the hard does not minimize His goodness but allows us to experience His goodness in a whole new way.

252 days of wrapping and talking and laughing and crying later, new skin covered this once dead area. The leg that so many thought was lost could walk and even run. And the man that so many thought was hopeless had been sober for over 6 months. A week later, this physically healed man walked into my kitchen as grinned from ear to ear. “I believe it,” he announced, “today I believe that Jesus is the Son of God.” Simple as that.

I didn’t try to contain my excitement as I danced around the kitchen that day, and I still daily choke back tears as the time I once spent wrapping his leg in gauze is now spent scouring the Bible together for the answer to his every question.

The burnt area on his leg is still a few shades lighter than the skin surrounding it. “Can I look at your leg?” I ask often, and he knows why. “See what God did?” he will chuckle. And we both see so much more than new skin.

Jesus. He met us right where we were, right there on the cold hard tile of my sun room, and He took two broken people, so different and yet so much more alike and showed us the scars on His hands and said its ok if we have some too because the scars are always drawing us to Him.

over here again. humbled.

Can you imagine the stench?

Joseph has walked and Mary ridden 90 miles in the scorching sun, the wind whipping around their faces and caking them with dust from the dirt road. More sweat pours from Mary’s brow as she experiences the pains of labor for the first time. The stable is packed with all the travelers’ animals. Flies buzz around them in the heat and the air is heavy with the smells of sickly sweet hay and kmanure.

And into this, a baby enters.

I have witnessed this kind of birth before. Woman sighs and baby falls right into the dirt and in the dark of a tiny mud hut with the light of just a thin candle our eyes search for something, anything, sharp to cut the cord. Water is a luxury and too far to fetch at this hour so we wrap the baby in whatever filthy rag-scraps we can find without even wiping her off first.

Joseph, still merely a child himself, searches for anything he can find in the dim light to cut the cord and swaddle his child, probably rags carrying the afore mentioned stench and the dirt of the journey. Trembling and exhausted they wrap Him as best they can, and swatting flies away lay him in the same trough out of which these animals have been eating.

Behold, the Savior.

And in this moment God fulfils every promise and every prophecy. This, God’s perfect time. God does not wait for the world to get ready, He enters right into the mess.

He makes Himself very least, no more status or opportunity than an easily overlooked infant in the slums where I spend so many hard hours. Very least so that He can commune with the very most desperate – you and me. He doesn’t mind that I am not ready yet and He doesn’t mind the wretched condition of my heart or the stench of my sin. God’s time is now and He enters into the mess, ready or not.

His perfect timing, now. Now is where He has called us. And we are just not ready yet. We need to clean up the house a bit and pray a little more and seek more counsel and we don’t know how to do that yet and oh, we have our excuses. And God says, “I’m here now, and I am ok with the mess because I am here for the messy.”

God doesn’t need us to be ready for Him; He has been ready for us since the beginning of time and the Messiah is here calling us to commune with the Holy One, to eat at His table.

I want the house to be organized and kids to be clean and nicely dressed and I want dinner to come out of the oven on time, but at the end of the day they laundry still piles and there are still crumbs in the corner and can anyone remember if I brushed my teeth today? And it can’t be the New Year yet because I am just not ready for it to be a new year yet.

But I remember when I wasn’t ready to move to Uganda. I remember when I wasn’t ready to kiss the people I loved the most goodbye. I remember when I didn’t have enough money to start a ministry, and I remember when I wasn’t old enough to be a mother, and I remember when I didn’t know how to parent. I remember when I couldn’t cook for fifteen people and when I didn’t want to share my house and my things and my life with sick people and addicts. I remember when I was afraid of the slum community that now holds hundreds of friends and when I was terrified that my daughter would never walk and when I was scared that we would never heal after tragic loss. And I remember that never, not once, was I really as ready as I wanted to be. And I remember that God kept all His promises, every last one, in His perfect time.

This new season looms and I don’t know what is next. But He doesn’t need me to be ready for this season because He is ready. He just needs me to be clinging to His feet.

Now, God’s perfect time.

I really am going to start publicly sharing His 2011 miracles soon (you know, one day, when there is a calm season... ;) ) In the mean time, I am blessed to be guest posting here today..

One of my very favorite things about gazing out at my backyard is our sunflowers. Seeds brought from dry Karamoja and planted in the fertileJinja soil grow at least ten feet tall and radiant, heads lifted to the sun.

Much to my dismay though the time we get to enjoy the flowers’ bloom always seems brief in comparison to the time we have been waiting – days of pulling seeds from the dead heads and drying them in the sun before carefully pushing the back into the soft red dirt. Weeks of waiting and finally some tiny green shoots. Weeks of watching as the shoots become thick stalks and climb into the sky. Weeks of wonder as small buds open into something glorious and beautiful.

And then so soon, they bend their heads and begin to die. And something in me is so sad as I watch the flowers seemingly loose their splendor. But my children are nothing but excited. They rush to the backyard and I cringe as they hack the stalks down and pull off the flowers that are now bigger then their faces. I look at the bare garden and feel loss, but they feel only eager anticipation. Because they remember: next time, there will be more.

Always, the shoots spring up and reach for the sky. Always they bloom beautiful and then always they bow, bending low to the earth and waiting for my children to run wide-eyed in wonder to the harvest. And always, we plant the seeds and next time there is a bigger harvest, more flowers. Many more. They remember: beauty from ashes.

I see beauty in the outcome and sadness in the death, but they know beauty in the process.

This is what my loving Father was teaching me every day of the last year, this beauty in the process. That while a healed and whole family is a marvelous thing to behold, the process that got us there is where He was most glorified and where He drew us to Himself. That a wound al healed and covered with smooth new skin is not nearly as wonderful as the relationship that was built while I bandaged that wound everyday for 8 months and cried tears and laughed stories of my Savior. That dreams die and plans change and seasons end, but He is not dome yet. He sees the seeds that come with al the endings and He is faithful to turn them into harvest, into beauty.

Sometimes we look out at our lives and it seems the garden is empty – plans dead as withered leaves, dreams laid waste. Could we rejoice in the season of waiting, believing that God who brought Jesus out of the black tomb and brings green shoots out of hard earth will bring new life out of all dark seasons too? Could we know that beauty is in this whole process, the waiting part too, not just the end result?

This year, I have beheld exquisite flowers, glorious outcomes that could have only been designed by God himself. I have watched Him make family out of strangers. I have watched Him sell a book that I never intended to write. I have watched my little girl walk with her foot flat on the ground for the first time in all five years of her life. I have watched alcoholics become moms who work hard to provide for their families. I have watched my 16 year old walk through processing the abuse in her past and learn to jump rope and have her childhood finally restored to her after nearly 4 years of living in a family. I have watched God answer prayers that I hadn’t even spoken yet.

As I gaze in wonder, I remember how He brought us out of the dark and the hard. I remember how He protected us from the pounding rain and the scorching sun, baby green shoots clinging to Him for dear life. I remember that as we reached high to the Son, He came down and pulled us closer. We turn out heads up in awe and we know what is around the corner, but we look expectantly to the bowing and the bending and the death of all we had planned because we know – in Him, there will always be more. Glorious hope.

“I just want to remember,” she says matter-of-factly, and she pulls the covers right back up over her head.

It is well after our 8 o’clock bed time. I have been sunk deep in the couch and in the Word knowing that 13 pairs of feet were tucked snugly in 13 beds. But as I make my way from the couch to my room, something catches my eye and I peek my head in the girls’ bedroom.

There flat on the cold, hard tile floor is my 11 year old with her blanket pulled tightly around herself. It doesn’t look as if she has rolled out of bed; it looks intentional. I nudge her awake. “Honey, what are you doing on the floor?” Why would anyone ever choose to sleep on this, the hardest of surfaces, with a comfortable bed just inches away?

“Remember,” she mumbles sleepily, “I just want to remember. Some people don’t have a bed,mom. I didn’t have a bed, mom. God gave me a bed. And I wanted to remember what it was like to not have one.”

We have to remember. Because how can we ever move forward if we don’t look back? This God, He makes promises and in remembering we see the truth: this God, He keeps promises.

A new year is such a perfect invitation to remember. I look out over this vast blankness, yet to be filled with His promises and fulfillments, yet to be riddled with hard and splashed with joy. It threatens to be overwhelming. For a moment, pondering the how's and the why's and the what-if's seems much more alluring than meditating on these promises printed on thin paper. In knowing who I am not, I forget who He is always: powerful, able, faithful. But then I think back over the hard and the joy of last year, the faithfulness of God in each one of those moments and I know that I can move forward with this Father holding my hands.

I peek my head back in a she’s sound asleep, her chest rising and falling against the tile. I kneel there for a moment and think hard about all He has done, how far He has brought us. I am completely overwhelmed by His goodness and His faithfulness. We can do tomorrow. We can do this year, with all of its unknown and all of its hard and all of its joy because we trust in this God who has given us so much to remember.

Will you join me this month in remembering? I have spent the last month of quiet pondering all that God has done this year. Allowing myself to be completely overwhelmed by the beauty of life with this Savior friend by my side and in awe of the miracles He has performed, big and small, on our behalf. I had to ponder and cry and laugh and lay prostrate on the bathroom floor in gratitude for all that He has done. And now He is whispering, "It is time to share. Tell my people what I have done for you."

So with no fancy writing and no eloquent words and no worrying about punctuation (because His works are too perfect to be embellished), I am going to spend this month remembering out loud His goodness, taking a cue from my 11 year old daughter and remembering all He has given and knowing that in Him there in only more to come.

Thank you for praying us through 2011. Please rejoice with us at all He has done!

Shout for joy to God all the earth!

Sing the glory of His name; give Him glorious praise!

Say to God, "How awesome are our deeds!

So great is our power hat your enemies come cringing to you.

All the ends of the earth worship you and sing praises to you;

they sing praise to your name."

Come and see what God has done:

He is awesome in His deeds toward the children of man.

He turned the sea into dry land;

they passed through the river on foot.

There did we rejoice in Him who rules by His might forever,

whose eyes keep watch on all the nations -

let not the rebellious exalt themselves.

Bless our God, O people;

let the sound of His praise be heard,

who has kept our soul among the living, who has not let our feet slip.

For you, Oh God have tested us; you have tired us as silver is tried.

You have brought us into the net; you have laid a crushing burden on our backs; you let men ride over our heads.

We wnt through fire and water, yet you have brought us into a place of abundance.

Come and listen, all you who fear God;

let me tell you what He has done for me.

Psalm 66:1-12,18

Merry Christmas!

Praising our Wonderful Counselor, Almighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace!

incredible photos by Mandie Joy

Tonight, I rock a baby who is not mine.

For the fifth time this year, we have a foster-baby.

I snuggle her close and gaze into her eyes as I feed her a bottle and sing Jesus over her. I kiss her forehead and pat her back just as if she were mine. I swaddle her tight and I tuck her in beside my pillow as if she were mine. But Jesus said, “Not this one.”

When we offer to foster a baby in the midst of our craziness, and when people learn that we are fostering another baby, they make the “you’re crazy” face. (come to think of it, people make that face at me a lot ;) ) “Don’t you already have your hands full?”

Yes. My hands are full. My heart is full. My life is full. And that is why I do it. Because faith is a verb. Faith does. Love does.

And because someone, somewhere did it for me.

My babies grew in someone else’s womb and someone else did the hard labor of bringing them into this world. Whether they remember the person or not and whether we know the person or not, my children did not survive the first years of their lives on their own. Even though for most of them the early years were not ideal, and even though I was the one chosen to teach them about consistent meals and bear hugs and pajamas, someone, somewhere carried. Someone, somewhere held. Someone, somewhere fed.

And with great hope I believe that one day in Heaven I will know who these people were and I will be able to embrace them. To these people, wherever they are, I am incredibly grateful. I feel so privileged to be able to do the same for a Momma who can’t right now.

We say “Yes.” Our hands are full. And we believe we have been filled to spill out.

Today we are thankful to love in the gap.

The last few weeks have been so full of God’s blessings and extravagant surprises. Every day another gift, beautiful and unexpected. I feel spoiled rotten by the God of the universe, His love just too good and too perfect for little, broken me.

I shared this with a close friend recently, giggling with surprise and awe like a little girl who just received a marvelous present from her Daddy. His response was perfect. “He loves you, Katie. You’re one of His favorites.” He laughed and I laughed but it stuck.

One of His favorites. That is what I have felt like this last two weeks. Lavished with love. But isn’t that what He wants every one of His children to feel, all the time? Each and every one of us created perfectly in His image. Each one cherished. Each one “one of His favorites”. How would life change if we thought of each other as such? If each person that approached us we treated as beloved of God, cherished by God, one of God’s favorite people?

I carried it with me today. As I bought beads from women in a slum I thought of them as His favorite people. As I counseled a mother struggling with alcoholism I wept that one of God’s favorite people was struggling like this. I rejoiced with a grandmother who for the first time proclaimed Jesus after watching Him heal her granddaughter miraculously last week. And I smiled at the Joy that I knew God found in her – one of His favorites.

The God of the Universe delights, DELIGHTS in you. In me. In them. Could we rest in that? Could we live like that?

In a horribly atrocious accident, a traditional healer in Masese mutilated a sweet little boy’s throat and mouth. Believing it to be beyond repair I took him to the main government hospital where we spent the next 12 hours.

Most of the time I just breeze in and out of this place – drop someone off, bring someone food, welcome a new baby into the world. But today we just sat. One operating room and 12 patients ahead of us – we sat and sat. And it was as if I had been given new eyes. I looked at the cold hard cement floor and the cold hard faces of the people who work there. Glimpses of things I had just experienced at Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital a few weeks earlier with my own daughter flashed in my brain in a horrible contrast to this place I was now seated.

Ward 9 is the accident ward. A little girl came in with her ear cut off. A mother carried a baby that had fallen into a pot of boiling water. A man came in with his hand mangled, ripped to shreds by a piece of machinery, in need of amputation. Someone’s wife died. Someone’s mother died. Someone’s baby died. All those people right there in that cold cement building and all of their lives drastically altered in just a moment. In just an instant their realities changed – forever. I couldn’t stop thinking as I sat there about how the next days weeks and months would play out for each one of them with their new, different realities. And I looked at all off them. All of that pain and all of that suffering and all of that sorrow and all I could think as I looked at each of those faces was “You. You are one of His favorite people.” And I prayed they would know it. I prayed they would know that God was holding all this chaos in the palm of His hand, even this pain having purpose.

A year ago today, I was one of them. I sat in a small cement room in a village hours away and life as I knew it fell apart. Ceased to exist. A little girl that had been mine for 2 years went back to live with the mother God has given her at birth. And thus began a journey, even that pain had a purpose.

Months later Jane and her birth mom, Nancy showed up at my doorstep. Nancy had lost her job and they had been evicted from their house. They were both sick and now they were homeless. So they moved in. After lots of loving and lots of encouraging and lots of days when I felt my heart would just be ripped out of my chest as I watched my baby girl learn to call Nancy “Mom” they moved out again. We had found Nancy a job translating and cooking for Amazima, we had enrolled Jane in Kindergarten, and it was time for Jane and Nancy to be their own family – still good friends with, but separate from ours.

I just longed to tell all those people in that hospital that a year later, I can say, “Yes. This is the hardest year I have ever done.” But I can also say, “I would do it again if He asked me.” Because Faithful God did not let go of our hands. This new life has been hard to learn. But we have learnt it. Life changes in an instant and God sees all of it, redeems all of it, uses all of it for His good.

And as I look back over this year I realize something. Such purpose in the pain. Our beautiful, spoiling, extravagant Daddy didn’t want to just give Jane a family. He wanted to give Nancy one too. This wonderful Father of ours, He didn’t want just Jane to come to know Him, He wants Nancy to come to know Him too.

Because Nancy, she is one of His favorites.