"Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand." ~The Velveteen Rabbit
As I type up this
blog post, the most curious figure is sitting on my bed. A small, worn, almost
threadbare toy. Or perhaps I should say friend. This shabby once-playmate of
mine hardly resembles a cat anymore, having been so mauled and loved over the
years that she’s nearly entirely lost her shape. But perhaps I shouldn’t be so
harsh. She’s looking at me rather accusingly at the moment, as if to say, “And
whose fault is it that I look this way?” I always did say she had the saddest
expression of any stuffed toy I’ve ever seen. It’s as easy as anything to
imagine her stalking to the end of the bed, curling her tail around her
haunches, and purring; perhaps because I’ve been doing it for over eighteen
years.
Fur-Ears (please
remember I was only four at the time) has a couple of interesting features. She
has what I think is a ball-bearing inside her head, so whenever you move her,
she makes a realistic purring sound. He body was filled with water or gel at
one time, so she was squishy and cuddly, although she’s rather limp after all
these years.
I remember the
first time I saw her, fluffy and new with a pink ribbon around her neck, on a
store shelf. “Oh, Mommy, Mommy! I want that!”Mom looked at the kitty on the shelf,
looked at me, and questioned, “Are you really going to play with it?” “Oh yes,
Mommy! I promise I’ll play with it every day!” I begged. I kept my promise,
too, right up until I deemed myself too old for stuffed playthings. Fur-Ears
went everywhere with me. She slept in my bed, where I would make little burrows
for her under the covers until I fell asleep. She traveled from Newfoundland to
British Colombia with me, alternately sitting in my lap, “sleeping” on top of
the luggage, or sitting in the rear window of the car so she could “see” the
view. I never would have subjected her to the indignity of traveling in a
suitcase; besides, she might have smothered!
Fur-Ears was also
my schoolmate in my younger years and my mascot in later ones. Since I was
homeschooled, my treasured pet sat right beside me as I wrestled with math
problems, memorized verb endings, and studied science. My mother, who doubled
as my homeschool teacher, managed to creatively work Fur Ears into almost every
lesson. I believe it helped me learn; or at least, it made learning more fun, which
meant I was more receptive to it. (I hated school.) I received many a handmade
card or note signed, “Love, Fur-Ears”.
The first time I
read the book The Velveteen Rabbit, I
identified with it immediately. During the most poignant scene in the book, the
little Rabbit asks, “What is ‘Real’? Does it mean having things that buzz inside
you and a stick-out handle?” The old, worn-out Skin Horse replies, “Real isn’t
how you are made. It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for
a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real… but once you are Real you
can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”
I think that’s
why I keep Fur-Ears around, even after all these years. Even with her faded
pink ribbon, pink paw-pads that have turned gray over the years, thread coming
out of her ears and tail, plastic whiskers long gone (clipped off by Mom
because they poked my face in the night when I cuddled with her), and floppy
brown ears, there’s a certain wisdom in those green eyes that still shine
despite the nicks and scratches. When I was a child, Fur-Ears was as real as
any real-life playmate. And everyone knows, you don’t discard your friends just
because they’re old and lose their beauty.
I think there’s a
lesson to be learned here as well, and perhaps two: An old, familiar friend is
a wonderful thing to have, and we must always remember that no matter how
shabby or worn-out or forgotten we may feel, there is Someone Who makes us
Real, and who loves us despite the ugly and tattered parts of our lives.
“When you are Real, shabbiness doesn’t matter.”
~The Velveteen Rabbit.
Today is a really
special day! Our youth group’s sponsored child, Isimbi Divine A., hits the
double digits today! We’ve sponsored Isimbi since November 2011, when she was
eight years old.
This is the first
glimpse we had of our precious girl. She was seven years old here. Such a
beautiful, serious little face!
This is our most
recent picture of Isimbi from Compassion Canada. She almost appears to be
standing at attention here. Notice how everything she has on is orange? Even
her flip-flops! But let me assure you, this girl can smile, even though it
doesn’t show in her official pictures.
See? This is our
girl with her little brother, Dilani, and her grandmother, Felicite. This was
taken when my friends visited her last November.
Isimbi gave our
team a special gift that she picked out herself: a picture of a woman holding a
peace basket (also known as a friendship basket). The picture is made of banana leaves. Look at the hearts on the
gift bag and the hearts on Isimbi’s dress… this girl is all heart! Isimbi is
sitting with my friend Sherry here.
For her birthday,
I sent Isimbi some paper goodies to help her celebrate. I also wrote her this
letter:
To our special Isimbi,
I wanted to tell you
how excited I am that you will soon be turning 10 years old! I hope this letter
arrives in time for your birthday and does not arrive too early or too late!
Since it is almost your birthday, I want to tell you a very special story. It
is the story of how you became our sponsored child.
Myself, and my two
best friends Sherry and he husband David , lead a weekly meeting
for young people. Every week, we gather together to learn about the Bible,
sing, pray, and play games. The young people that come are from ages 12 to ages
19. We call ourselves, “Open Door youth group.”
One day, we prayed and
decided that we wanted to sponsor a child. We knew God would lead us to one
very special child. After a while, David and Sherry brought a picture to our
meeting, and said that God had led them to a little girl in Rwanda, whose name
was “Isimbi.” That little girl was you! Even though we didn’t know you, we
loved you already.
After a long time,
David and Sherry decided to go to Rwanda to visit you and your family. I was
sad because I wanted to go as well, but I was happy for my friends who did go.
Sherry and David were so happy to meet you, and your brother Dilani, and your
grandma. They enjoyed it so much, and they also liked the gift you gave us, of
the picture made with banana leaves. Thank you so much for choosing such a
beautiful gift! When David and Sherry came back to Canada, where we live, they
told us all about you and brought back some pictures of your family. We were so
happy to see the pictures!
So that is the story
of how you became our sponsored child. We love you so much! All of the young
people from Open Door youth group think of you as their little sister, and me
and my friends David and Sherry, we think of you as our daughter. So we are all
praying that you have a very happy birthday, and that you know how special you
are to us. We pray that God blesses you and your family, and keeps you all safe
and healthy. We all wanted to send you a card for your birthday, and all of us
wrote our names. I am also sending you some little things and stickers for your
birthday. I hope you like them. May Jesus Christ be with you every day! We love
you so much.
I want to dedicate a song to my precious girl on her
birthday. So here’s “1,000 Miles” by Mark Schultz.
Lastly, in honor of Isimbi, I want to show you two children
from Compassion International who need sponsors.
The first picture is Cheni Paulo John. He is a six-year-old boy in
Tanzania, and he shares Isimbi’s birthday, August 8. Click here to Sponsor Cheni
And your eye upon the rail." ~Life's Railway to Heaven
Have you ever heard the expression “growing up on the wrong
side of the tracks”? I never could make sense of that saying. To me, there is
no such thing as the wrong side of the tracks; both sides are equally wonderful.
Tracks leading to White River
I grew up in northern Ontario; in a tiny, whistle-stop town
called White River, where life was simple and everyone knew everyone else. We
spent thirteen years in the “big gray house” on the corner of Winnipeg and Monck,
which means the greater part of my childhood was spent living “on the tracks.” Our
house was directly across the road from approximately 9 tracks and just up the
street from the station. Trains were perhaps the most faithful things in my
childhood; winter or summer, rain or shine, snow or fog, you could always count
on those big engines roaring by.
As a child, I spent hours in my parents’ bedroom with its
two big windows that overlooked the tracks. The steady routine of the railway
does become part of you after a few years, and I soon learned to recognize the
various trains, trucks, and signals like the back of my hand.
This photo was taken from my parents' bedroom window; you can see how close we were!
The train always blew
its horn for the Road 500 crossing just behind the sawmill, about two miles
from our house. Those lonely whistles were both my lullaby and my alarm clock,
the first thing I heard in the morning and the last thing I heard at night. I
remember one evening, though, when something went wrong with one of the train
horns. When the engineer sounded the horn before the crossing, I believe the
switch must have gotten stuck in the “on” position, because it kept sounding
one long, continuous blast for the entire time it took for the train to travel
the two miles from the sawmill until it passed our house, and up until the
engine came to a stop at the far end of town. Needless to say, we were nearly
deafened!
Check out this video of a great train horn!
As a child, the trains fascinated me. If I was out playing
in the yard, I stopped everything to wave at the engineer when those engines
rolled through town. Often, I was rewarded by a hand fluttering in greeting
from the cab, and often a short blast of the horn. Then, I would lean on the
fence and watch those railcars lazily rocking through town, heading west or
east to all sorts of places. Apparently I also became a familiar sight to the
men who made their living driving the big locomotives. I’ll never forget
walking with my parents alongside the tracks one day when we stopped to wave to
a VIA passenger train going by. To our astonishment, the two-car train slowed
down and came to a halt right in front of us. The engineer poked his head out
the doorway and hollered to me, “Are you the little girl who always waves to
the trains?” When I replied in the affirmative, he shouted back, “Come on down
to the station sometime when we’re there, and we’d be happy to take you for a
ride!” Sadly, we never took him up on that offer. I’ve regretted that ever
since.
Watching the trains was always an interesting pastime; you
just never knew what would go by. Besides the ordinary mix of grain cars,
tankers, flatbeds, boxcars, vehicle decks, and loads of hydro poles (like those
above), some trains consisted entirely of loads of metal rails, stretching from
car to car the entire length of the train. One day an old-fashioned steam
engine passed through, on its way to a museum somewhere out west. Another day a
circus train went by. I always liked to see the “army trains”; trains carrying
army equipment. Flatbeds were filled with tanks, army jeeps, and lorries of all
shapes and sizes.
Of course, the most fun part of daily rail life was watching
the “machines” go by. All sorts of yellow equipment for doing everything one
could imagine to the tracks; building, repairing, maintaining, and plenty more
that I know nothing about. They came rolling quickly, heading from one worksite
to another and making various hums, roars, and funny honks as they passed by.
Sometimes a crew would set up in front of the house and stay there for a while;
they could have a track practically taken apart and pieced back together in a
matter of hours.
Some of the sights were pretty odd, like this smiling
outhouse going for a ride! I guess he was a welcome sight wherever he went,
hence the smiley face!
Sometimes when a snowstorm blew up, the machines had to be
shoveled out before they could leave. It wasn’t unusual to see an army of
workers wielding shovels walking along the tracks to free some piece of
equipment or another.
I spent a lot of time at this station. I remember as a
little girl, walking hand-in-hand with my father down that very platform to
watch the trains come in. We could always hear the grumble of the engine long
before we saw it. We would keep watching, and finally a cloud of black smoke
would roll above the trees and the engine (or engines, sometimes as many as
nine or more) would come huffing into view. The ground would shudder, and the
noise of the train would increase to a deafening pitch. We’d have to scream to
be heard as the airbrakes were applied with an ear-splitting shriek. Then the
locomotive would glide by mere feet away, shaking the ground until I didn’t
know what was vibrating more, the ground or my legs! Finally, the train would
slow down and come to a rumbling, snorting stop.
Since our house was just opposite the railway, we became
accustomed to noise at all hours. It was especially difficult during the
sweltering summer nights when all the windows were thrown open, and a freighter
would snarl past at 4:00 a.m. Or sometimes, a train that was parked quietly
would suddenly start off with a crash and a clang loud enough to wake the dead.
I remember one time when a freighter, for some reason, got delayed and parked
its engine directly in front of our house. I’m not sure why it was necessary for
the motor to keep running the entire time it was parked, but needless, to say,
after three days of hissing and clicking we were nearly insane!
On a typical day, upwards of twenty trains could go by.
Sometimes there were more and sometimes less, depending on circumstances. If
there happened to be a derailment somewhere along the line, we might have seven
or eight trains parked on the sidings, only keeping the main line clear. I can
only remember a few times when the trains stopped running; for instance, during
the forest fire of ’99 when half the town was evacuated. The trains didn’t run
for more than a week, but the town was miraculously saved by a wind that blew
steadily from the south for a full week, keeping the flames away from the
community. (A real miracle, considering that our winds almost always blew from
the north!) I can also remember a few blizzards that stopped the lines for a couple
of days. Other than that, they stayed on schedule.
During the summer, the air would be filled with the scent of
melting tar and rust from the rails and ties baking in the heat. Shimmering
heat waves would dance over the tracks, and you could see wildflowers poking up
between the ties. Crows and ravens would hop along the lines, eating grain that
was spilled from the grain cars. Occasionally, a grain car would develop a “leak”
of sorts, and then you could see the tracks dotted with small golden heaps of
wheat. I remember my father bringing home a bucketful of barley grains he had
collected while walking home from work (A rail worker gave him permission,
since the grain would have rotted anyway). I liked nothing better than to slip
into my fathers’ dark shed and run my fingers through those icy-cold, dusty
grains. We planted some that year, and my mother made dried-flower arrangements
with the stalks that grew.
Check out this video of a rail grinder like the ones that passed in front of our house!
My favorite summer occurrence was the passing of the “grinder
train” (Rail Grinder). I could always hear it approaching, not only because of
its higher-pitched “nasal” horn, but also because of the buzz-saw-like sound of
the grinders. I always loved to watch the smoke-enveloped rail grinder go back
and forth in front of the house, with sparks shooting from below and a steady
stream of water pouring over the rails to prevent fires. Even in the evening,
when it was too dark to see, the grinder would continue to work with the orange
sparks lighting up the night.
Canadian Pacific Holiday Train
In the winter, you could always count on the snowplows
running through, flinging plumes of snow (and often rocks) in the air. We were
always thankful that no rocks ever came through our windows; some of them came
pretty close!
And then, of course there was the “Big Event”: the Canadian Pacific
Railway Holiday Train. We just called it the “Christmas Train.” It came every
year around Christmastime, raising money for the local food banks. The whole
town would gather near the station, bundled up against the 30-below weather.
The air would be filled with talking and laughing, then someone would shout, “Here
it comes!” and the Holiday Train would come sweeping through the darkness,
ablaze with over 100,000 lights. As a young child, it was usually too cold to
stay for the entire outdoor concert performed from one of the boxcars, but the
best was yet to come anyway… when the concert was over and the crowds had gone
home, the train would slowly pull a little ways away from the station and park
directly in front of our house for the night. Mom and I would scurry upstairs
and poke our heads through the window into the breathlessly cold air and admire
the train sitting silently on the tracks, with its lights twinkling and
flashing and soft Christmas music coming from its speakers. If you squinted
through the whirling snowflakes, you could sometimes see Santa Clause walking
through one of the antique cars, on his way to bed.
Check out this video of the Christmas Train passing through Illinois!
There are lot of things I miss about my childhood; growing
up in a time of innocence, in a safe little town where a kid could be kid, and
where life was slow and as lazy as the freighters that rumbled by. I’m still
young by most people’s standards, but sometimes I feel like the years are
flying past like a passenger train on the run, and I miss the “old days.” Now
that I live in Newfoundland, where there isn’t a train on the island, I find
myself longing to be woken up by one of those loud diesel engines once again.
Every so often I imagine that I hear that lonely, far-off whistle, and then I
get a little lost in nostalgia and promise myself, “One day, I’ll be back.” And
until then, I’ll say a prayer for the folks that ride the rails from coast to
coast. Drive safely, rail warriors, and when you see a little child standing
alongside the tracks, wave and blow your horn, because you might give wings (or
wheels) to a dream.
"If you wanna sit, you can sit or you can stand...
It's the Open Door, come and find yourself a helping hand!" ~Jim Vaughan-Evans
If someone were
to ask me to describe my church in a few words, I would probably reply, “Three
pairs of shoes.”
Let me explain. On
a typical Sunday morning, you’ll find me hanging out with an unusual group of
people in an unusual spot, doing something (you guessed it) unusual. More specifically,
you’ll find me playing an instrument called a Cajon in a rented building with a
group of self-proclaimed misfits. We call ourselves, “Open Door.”
So, on most
Sunday mornings, I find myself seated behind the rest of the band, banging on a
box, and at the same time doing what I do best: people-watching. While part of
my mind is totally engaged with playing, the other part might be thinking of
just about anything. And most days, my eyes travel downwards (a result of the
shyness that sometimes often overwhelms me) and I find myself focusing
on three pairs of shoes.
Larry Baldwin
Directly to my
left is a pair of always-pristine, white running shoes belonging to worship
leader Larry Baldwin. I’ll interrupt myself here with a funny fact: when I
first met Larry, I was actually very intimidated by him. I could never tell
when he was joking or when he was serious, and I never knew quite how to
respond. But I’ll tell you, behind the seemingly-stern exterior is a
down-to-earth guy with a real sense of humor, an Elvis sound-alike voice, and a
true worshipper’s heart. He’s a good boss and I’m proud to call him my buddy.
Jim Vaughan-Evans
Right in front of
me is a pair of scuffed work boots belonging to Jim Vaughan-Evans. Tall,
curly-headed Jim is probably our band’s quietest member, next to me. He’s our
resident Bob Dylan fan, and brings out Driftwood Cross’s soulful side with
songs like, “I Still Can’t Find What I’m Looking For” and Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”
He’s also a gentle, sweet-spirited person.
Bob Tetford
To my immediate
right is a pair of black dress shoes. That would be Bob Tetford. Bob, or Bobby
as we sometimes call him, is our “rock ’n’ roll man.” He can make a guitar do
anything except talk, and I believe he can even do that in his own way. Bob
wears a look of intense concentration when he plays, and his fingers literally
fly. I don’t know how in the world he manages to improvise these great solos
when he may have only learned a song that same morning, but he does, somehow. Bob’s
specialties are old classics like “When Love Came Down,” and “Long May You Run.”
Dave Hammond
Of course, I have
to mention a fourth pair of shoes that sometimes joins us. Dave Hammond lives in a different community
but joins us as often as he can, which is when we add his motorcycle boots to
the mix. Dave is a bearded, “gentle giant” type of fellow, who rides a
tough-looking Harley and plays a sweet saxophone. He’s also a member of the Tribe
of Judah, a motorcycle ministry that focuses on reaching outlaw bikers. He’s
also the man who gave me my first motorcycle ride, which you can read about here .
For me, those
three (and sometimes four) pairs of shoes represent the wide diversity of
people that we minister to on a regular basis. The high-heel crowd. The flip-flop
folks. The Ugg wearers. The sneakered and the sandaled, the booted and
barefooted. No matter who you are, you’ll always fit in at Open Door.
But I can’t stop
by just talking about a few people, can I? Because Open Door is full of
amazing, real-life heroes whose stories deserve to be told.
Take these two,
for instance. They couldn’t be more opposite! The one on the left is Jeff. He
was an addict. The one on the right is Jesse. He was a black-robed clergy. But
they have two big things in common: they’re best friends, and they’re both
ministers of Jesus Christ and his love.
Jeff and his
wife, Tammy, run the U-Turn Addiction Drop-in Center. They see ordinary miracles every day, helping people find
freedom from addictions of all sorts. Jeff is a friend and “big brother” as he
puts it, to everyone he meets. He’s a tough guy with a compassionate heart the
size of Newfoundland, and he genuinely accepts people for who they are. He’s
always going out of his way to help someone. You’re sure to be welcomed with a
handshake or a hug when Jeff’s around.
Jesse is Open Door’s pastor. You can call him Rev. Jesse, Pastor Jesse, or just Jesse. Your
first impression of Jesse will probably be a soft-spoken man who exudes a sort
of quiet confidence. He enjoys having fun and joking with his congregation, but
he’s a good listener who tends to be a bit contemplative. If you ask him a
question, he’s liable to respond with another one; and in answering his
question, you find that you’ve answered your own. Pastor Jesse is also an intelligent,
well-learned man, which shows in his sermons, but he also possesses the ability
to make complicated concepts easy to understand. He doesn’t mind sharing openly
and honestly about his struggles, either.
Sunday morning set-up
There are so many
others that I could talk about: Gentle, sensitive Vic, who runs the WOW program
for people in need; shy and soft-spoken Trudy, Jesse’s wife with a servant’s
heart, who faithfully works in the background; spunky Tammy, Jeff’s wife, who
makes everyone feel welcome at U-Turn; good-natured David, friend to all and
sundry and who’s always ready to lend a hand; bouncy Sherry, David’s wife, who
flits from person to person like a butterfly making sure that no one is
overlooked; upbeat Scott, who’s always ready with a grin and a “How’s ya, me
darlin’?”; feisty Nan, also known as “Trouble,” who’s 92 years young and has
more energy than the rest of us put together; jolly Wayne B., who serves as our
announcer and brunt of many good-natured jokes; and many, many more.
I could go on for
hours about the great group of people we have. You can bet that I’ll elaborate
much more in later blog posts, keeping you up-to-date with the latest great
stories from the Open door. Because they are great stories. And they are great
people. From triathlons to barbecues to concerts to sleeping out-of-doors,
there’s always something going on. So if you’re looking for a church home that’s
a perfect fit…
“Welcome, everybody… to the Open Door!” ~ song
written by Jim Vaughan-Evans. *NOTE: All photographs belong to the respective photographers. I have no intent of claiming them!
I’m so glad that my
precious Isimbi is on the every-two-month writing schedule. Through the
Compassion Canada office, we get word that our letters are on the way as soon
as they reach Canada, so we always have an exciting wait before the letters arrive!
Here is the
translator’s version of what Isimbi has to say:
Isimbi and brother Dilani
Dear Hannah,
Beloved! I first greet you in the name of Jesus
Christ. Praise King Jesus. How are you doing?School is going on well, I am in my Primary grade
4 and I recently got the 14th performance position with an average
mark of 58. (I think. The translation
was a little hard to read here.) I love playing tennis. What is your best sport?May the peace of the Lord and his blessings be
with you and your family. Thank you for the letter that you sent me previously.
With my family, we were happy to hear from you. May the Lord bless you and increase you in
whatever you are doing.
Isimbi Aurore Divine
I’ve since found
out, however, that the translation of Isimbi’s letter has a lot of
discrepancies. The translator may have been new or inexperienced, but whatever
the case, I’ve let Compassion know about the errors. Anyway, a friend of mine
offered to have her husband look at the letter, since he speaks fluent
Kinyarwanda. So here is the real translation
of Isimbi’s letter!
My dear beloved, first of all I
greet you in the name of Jesus Christ... (There
is a sentence here that was hard to translate, it was something about
happiness, family and children; the sentence is not well written). Now I am
in primary school fourth grade, I was 14 out of 58. I like to play soccer, how
about you, how are you doing? Us we are well, I like to help my parents by fetching
water, sweeping and so and so. I finish by wishing you a good day, thank you.
I am thankful for the letter and the
photos you sent to me it was happiness for me and my whole family. Did it also
please you? Thank you.
I’m so glad that I was able to get Isimbi’s letter
correctly translated! I thought something was odd with the translation, since I
read just enough Kinyarwanda to know that something was off. I was happy, however, that she calls me "beloved" in both versions! Now to start
writing a reply letter!
“And now, my Compassion Family is finally
complete… until God says otherwise!”
I wrote these
words on my blog a little over a month ago. I had just introduced handsome
Mbula to my correspondence family, and I figured
that three was enough. However, there’s one thing that I have learned over the
years. Actually two things. The first is, when God says yes, don’t say no. And
the second is something that Heidi Baker has proven many times… There is always enough. Always room for
one more.
As most of you
know, I do a lot of advocating for Shelter Them, a ministry in Rwanda that
cares for orphaned and abandoned children, among other things. I recently had a
brainwave that turned into the first of what will be a series of posts entitled
“Sponsorship Sunday.” Each week, I’ll feature one of our kids who needs a
sponsor. But as I was getting yesterdays post ready, I ran into a snag while
choosing my “featured child.”
You see, I had a
post all planned out, with pictures and everything, all ready to go. Sweet,
smiling fifteen-year-old Shakira would be the first child. The only problem was… I fell in love
with this beautiful girl’s smile and wanted to sponsor her myself!
Can you blame
me?! Unfortunately, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. I’ve been pinching
pennies a lot lately, and I certainly didn’t want to take a child on for a few
months and then have to drop her. It wouldn’t be fair. But, there was that
pull… I couldn’t help gushing to my parents about this wonderful girl. My Dad
looked at me and said with blunt honesty, “Why don’t you sponsor her?” For a
second, my hopes rose, but I tamped down my rising excitement and answered,
“Dad, I don’t know… I’m not sure if I can afford it.” And my wonderful father,
(who faithfully puts up with my rants about the three correspondent kiddos I
already have), pulled out his wallet, handed me some bills, and said two words.
“Sponsor her.”
And so, a
partnership began. Imagine my shock when I realized what Shakira’s full name
is… Uwimana Shakira! The same as mine (Uwimana Hannah)! It had to be a God-thing… I think His
smile was even bigger than Shakira’s when He pulled THIS together!
And Shakira is always smiling. Jules, who works in the Rwanda office and knows Shakira quite well, told me this morning, "This child is so special. Her mother died when Shakira was very young (five). Her father, according to the stories she had from her mom when she tries to recall her past, is in Kigali prison for his role in the genocide. But what amazed me this child has always a shining face, always smiling and her smile is real, it comes from the bottom of her heart." Of course, I have to show you some more pictures of my precious Uwimana Shakira! You'll notice in every picture, how that sweet smile of hers just lights up her face!
Shakira, age 13. I cropped this picture to focus on her beautiful face.
Shakira is in the black-and-white blouse, second from the back. She lives in a home with the other three girls shown here.
Shakira and David, a good friend of mine. It was face-painting day. Isn't Shakira a beautiful (smiley) butterfly?
Shakira is holding the green gift bag. From left to right: Kevine Uwumuhoza, Kevine Uwimbabazi, Sherry, Shakira, Kevine Ikirezi, and David. The four girls live in a home together, and Sherry and David run the Newfoundland branch of the Shelter Them office. (Yes, there are three Kevine's and Shakira!)
Shakira was provided with a new mattress through Shelter Them, along with the other girls.
I love this picture of the kids in traditional clothing. Shakira is holding little Joshua in her arms. From the looks of things, I'd say that Shakira is a well-loved member of the Shelter Them family!
So, Shakira ended
up not being my featured child (I chose Kevine Ikirezi, pictured above in a couple of photos)
but God had it planned all along! I’m not even going to say that my family is
complete this time… who knows what tomorrow holds! But one thing is for sure…
There will ALWAYS be enough!
Above video is of Shakira and my featured child, Kevine Ikirezi, doing a traditional Rwandan dance. Aren't they both beautiful?
You are mine.
Why? Not because you grew inside me, joined to me physically. I have never felt
your feet kicking just below my heart, nor thrilled to the knowledge that you
were growing inside me. Nor have I given you your eyes, your hair, your laugh,
or your skin. But you are mine.
Because when I
close my eyes and think of you, and when you close your eyes and think of me;
when our hands stretch across an ocean and beyond, our lives somehow
inexplicably collide in a way that makes you not flesh of my flesh, nor bone of
my bone, but heart of my heart.
Because when God
moved Heaven and earth to bring us together, nothing can change the fact that
you are mine. And you are also HIS. And He gave you to me. And He gave me to
you. Because we needed each other. Because somehow, through the eons of
eternity, we were destined to be here. And “here” isn’t Canada. It isn’t
Africa. It’s somewhere in our hearts; where every language is the same. And
where we never have to say goodbye, because you are mine. I can’t lose you… not
when I’ve already found you.
You are mine. And
that means I would run through fire to find you. It means I would give every
last breath to make sure you are okay. To make sure you know you are loved. It
means that words like “me” and “you” don’t exist anymore. There is only “we”
and “us.”
