Miracles

Now that we’re home, I feel the need to fill in some gaps of the story of our adoption journey. So much has happened in such a short time frame, that I fear I will forget the earth-shaking miracles we witnessed if I don’t write them out.

The process of getting our son home from South Africa was not an easy one. We were the first American family to obtain approval to brave the adoption process in South Africa in nearly 8 years. After leading a few church mission trips to the country, and seeing the incredible need for adoptive parents, we felt called to adopt from SA. Note that when we received permission in November, we merely received permission to try. There were no guarantees. There are lots of reasons Americans weren’t allowed to adopt from South Africa, and lots of reasons we decided to try anyway…. e-mail if you want details about adopting from South Africa. It’s a long, complicated story, and I’m still not entirely certain that we succeeded in ironing out the numerous kinks in the process for other American couples to easily adopt from South Africa. But, we tried. And, I hope our case will be catalytic in helping South Africa and the US forge a working adoption agreement. I’m seriously crossing my fingers on this one.

Since November, when we heard that the South African government would consider an American adoption, we’ve known that the process would be difficult. We understood that we’d be charting an unknown course, blazing a trail, if you will. And, our assumptions have been proven true. We had the guidelines of the Hague Convention on International Adoption to work with but, the US and South Africa did not and do not have a working adoption agreement. We’ve had to wrestle with government entities, fight hard against the negative stereotypes that precede Americans in the international community, and research our butts off.

We spent a lot of time praying and crying, filling out paperwork, and praying and crying again.

At every stage of this process, we have literally witnessed miracles. Miracles. I do not use the word “miracle” lightly. Sometimes when people use the word, they actually mean “coincidence” or “luck” – as in “It was such a miracle that I got the parking space in front of the mall” or “I got out of a speeding ticket, I’m so lucky.” These phrases are uttered flippantly and are not miracles.

The fact that I tucked my newly adopted son into his own bed tonight is a FREAKING MIRACLE, people.

Here’s one story to prove it.

Toward the end of our month long stay in South Africa, we were feeling desperate. There’s nothing quite like waiting aimlessly with three anxious children on documents in a foreign county with poor government infrastructure, that you need in order to go home. After repeated promises from our South African social worker that good news was on the horizon, we continued to hear nothing about the progress of our paperwork (new birth certificate and passport needed for US immigration), even though South African courts had already granted the adoption, for 24 long days. On Day 20, we decided to go to the US Consulate for emergency counsel. We knew that the Consulate had no control over the South African government’s policies and processes but, we didn’t know what else to do. I mean, when you’re an American citizen and you’re in trouble, you go the US Embassy, right?

We arrived at the US Consulate in Johannesburg on a Friday afternoon, all three kids in tow, looking wretched, and were able to speak with Someone In Charge. She was very sympathetic, took a surprising interest in our case and offered to “make a few phone calls.” She was clear that she couldn’t promise anything, that there wasn’t any official channel through which she could help us obtain the necessary documents. But, she said she would review our file and see if there was anything she could do.

We left feeling encouraged, if only for the fact that someone in government was nice to us. I will never know what phone calls were made, or how this supervisor helped us behind the scenes. But, by Monday afternoon, we received word that all the documents we needed would be ready within a few days.

I have never felt so patriotic.

We wept with joy and relief and incredible gratitude and made our appointment for the final Visa interview. On the date, after 3 hours at the US Consulate, when all the documents had finally been turned in, the same Awesome Woman called our name and Mike and I approached the window.

She told us that Duzi’s Visa had been officially approved, with a smile. We thanked her profusely, did a family celebration dance, and then Mike took the kids outside to play while I waited for the printed documents.

She called my name again and handed me the official sealed envelopes we needed to bring our son home to the United States and said something like, “Congratulations. I’m very happy for your family. I must say, I took a special interest in your case because well, I’m adopted.”

We talked for a while longer (I was trying very hard to repress my sobby, hicuppy, ugly-cry voice) and, if there hadn’t been a panel of bullet-proof glass separating us, I would have hugged her for a very long time. It probably would have been one of those long, socially awkward hugs.

This is just one tiny little piece of the story of the giant miracle we’ve witnessed......

Home

We’re home. We arrived at the Seattle airport at 10pm last night and drove home. Today, we woke up in our own beds and ate breakfast, lunch and dinner at home. We played in the sprinklers, drew pictures with sidewalk chalk, played with trains, did yard work, ate dinner (thank you, Francine!), walked the dog, and started unpacking at home. Today felt completely surreal. I have imagined Duzi’s first day home ever since we started the adoption process. After my sparkling, blissful Brady Bunch daydreams about adoption, I was always careful to remind myself that the superficial world of happily-ever-after-narratives and cheesy Disney channel sitcoms in which we live is seldom accurate, that reality can often be disappointing.

Not today.

Watching Duzi play in the yard, in the playroom, and in his bedroom was just pure awesomeness. He confidently walked around the house, exploring the place he had long dreamed about. We rode bikes, brought out the Slip n’ Slide, met neighbors, and collectively basked in the security, familiarity, and promise of home. Although Duzi has been in his new home less than 24 hours, it is clear to me today that he knows what home means. After eating breakfast this morning, Duzi looked at me with a very serious expression and said,

“Mom, I just have a family.”

After swallowing a huge lump in my throat, I replied,

“You do, buddy. Duz, we have been waiting for you for a very, very long time.”

He smiled really big and then ran outside to play with Alex and Caleb.

Goodbye

Yesterday was a very emotional day. It was our goodbye day. All week, we’ve been dropping by Ithemba Lethu (Zulu for “I have a destiny”), the children’s home where Duzi lived for 3 years, immersing ourselves in his world and asking lots of questions about his life, needs and routines. We played in the garden, followed Granny Liz (Duzi’s amazing foster mom), around and spent time loving on all the other kids. At one point in the week, Caleb emphatically reported that the next child we were going to adopt was a 2 yr old little girl named Stella. He spent all his time at Ithemba Lethu taking care of her – he even helped give her a bath. I didn’t have an answer for him about whether or not we could adopt her. But, I didn’t exactly say no.

Ithemba Lethu is a joy-filled place. The children there are loved beyond comprehension. The staff members are dedicated to providing the best possible environment for orphaned children and they pray for the kids like crazy. Duzi was well loved and nurtured there. My son was prayed for every day. The staff believed in him, took him to swimming lessons, gymnastics lessons, and preschool, and poured life into him through every interaction. He was the big man on campus.

So, you can imagine why saying goodbye to Ithemba Lethu was incredibly difficult. There was happiness and celebration in the goodbye, as it meant that Duzi now had a family. There was also a tremendous amount of grief and loss in the goodbye. As painful and hard as grief can be, it is also a necessary, healthy part of any transition and we didn’t want to skip over it.

We decided to take Granny Liz, and 4 yr. old Thandeka, Duzi’s close friend and roommate, to lunch before the official goodbye. Before the lunch, Duzi and I went shopping for presents. He picked out some fancy lotion for Liz and a Princess Carriage Set for Thandeka. He gave the ladies their gifts with a proud, proud smile.

We returned from lunch to say our official goodbyes at Ithemba Lethu. Liz sat down with Duzi and gave him a gift of her own – a book about Durban that included photos of all the places she had taken him during his three years in her care. As we lingered in the garden, the Ithemba Lethu staff trickled out, one by one, to form a semi-circle around the garden gate. The Children’s Transition Home is just one arm of IL’s ministry. They also work in the local townships with primary students, educating kids about HIV/AIDS and about their incredible importance to God. All the youth workers who staff this program, and who have been quite influential in Duzi’s life, were there.

We walked out of the gate and the youth workers broke into powerful, joyful song and dance. They were singing in Zulu but my heart understood what they were saying. They were praising God for his provision and generosity and speaking blessing over Duzi. Duzi was absolutely thrilled, in his shy, quiet way, that so much attention was being lavished on him. With some gentle prodding from me, he made his way through the crowd, hugging each adult and each child, while the singing continued. All on his own, he kissed one of the babies tenderly, and I just wept.

Mike and I, and half the staff, were a soggy mess of tears. It was beautiful, painful, and holy all at once.

We eventually made our way to the car and drove away. We looked behind us, and 5 of the youth workers were following, huge grins on their faces, sprinting down the street after us - singing. Duzi exclaimed with glee, “They are chasing us!” And I replied, “You’re right! That’s how much you are loved.”

Mike and I cried the entire way back to our hotel. And then some more tonight.

(Again, having trouble uploading photos - check out the facebook profile for pics! - Jodie Gordon Howerton)

Support Beams

We had the good fortune to travel to the balmy island of Kaua’i (notice the apostrophe – I’m pretty much a local now) last week. We try to get to Hawai’i (again, notice apostrophe) every February to escape the gray doldrums of living in the Pacific Northwest in the winter. Mid-January, our Southern California blood starts demanding we get it some Vitamin D. We use our companion tickets for airfare and my in-laws graciously cover the accommodations. So, the trip really is almost free, if we refrain from eating out too much while we’re on the island. Almost free paradise is my kind of paradise. We were in Kaua’i when we got the news that we can go pick up our son at the end of March. The news felt surreal, dream-like. We weren’t expecting this news until at least mid-summer. I e-mailed a few friends about the news but mostly just walked around in a daze induced by tropical landscape and shock. Toward the end of our trip, I was finally able to blog about it somewhat articulately to announce the news to the world (see previous post).

On the island of Kaua’i, there is this gigantic, abandoned old hotel right on the coast. The Coco Palms was the oldest hotel on the island and the world’s most famous Polynesian resort in the 50’s and 60’s. Elvis himself stayed there and scenes from his famous movie “Blue Hawaii” were filmed there. When Hurricane Iniki struck in September of ’92, the hotel was badly damaged and was closed down indefinitely. Repairs were deemed too expensive. Today, the windows are broken, the roof is rotting, and the lagoons in the coconut groves are now swamps of algae and moss. Left to rot, the building is totally uninhabitable but for tours. What fascinates me most about the Coco Palms, is that all the support beams are still intact. The building is still standing. The exterior is falling apart, but the skeleton of the building, without maintenance, has held it up stalwartly for the past 18 years.

There’s a point coming, I promise. Bear with me….

We returned from vacation this week and have set in motion all the plans to travel to Africa and re-organize our lives to transition into a family of 5. I’m not gonna lie, I’ve had a few meltdowns. I’m emotionally overwhelmed. I have also never felt so supported. My handy thesaurus gives these synonyms for “support”: hold up, bear up, prop up, keep up, brace, shore up, underpin, reinforce, buttress. This week, I’ve felt like the Coco Palms. My exterior is cracking and everything inside feels chaotic and unkempt. But, there are these incredible support beams holding me up, making sure I don’t collapse.

Support Beam #1: This week, one of my best friends went rogue on me and organized a fundraiser for our air travel to Africa. I say “rogue” because I would have said no if she asked me for permission. I have this character flaw of super-independence that prevents me from accepting help. Neely, being one of my best friends, knew this about me. So, she didn’t ask. She raised enough money to cover one whole plane ticket. People came out of the woodwork to purchase raffle tickets to support us.

Support Beam #2:

I literally can’t keep up with all the e-mails from people offering us air miles. People have also offered to paint, clean, make food…You people are incredible!

Support Beam #3: I can FEEL people’s prayers. In the midst of my little breakdowns, I have this amazing sense of peace, that everything is going to work out, that we are under the amazing umbrella of God’s grace. My breakdowns are just a normal part of the process…. I think. J

Support Beam #4: My friend, Daniele Ott, who is also a professional organizer, is going to help me get the house organized and ready for another kiddo. She came over last night, took a look at things, and reassured me that we could get everything done in 2 days. She’s going to hold my hand through the whole thing and whip my house into the most organized state it’s ever been in. You really should hire her. She’s a freaking genius. When she left, I felt a huge weight fall from my shoulders.

I am so humbled by these support beams that are shoring us up, keeping us stable and strong.

So, thank you everybody. Thank you so, so much.

Relief or Tragedy Tourism? The Church's Response in Haiti

For the past two weeks, I’ve been riveted by the stories coming out of Haiti. I’ve read stories that bring me to my knees, stories that make me shake my fist in anger, and stories that make me feel incredibly hopeful. It’s been interesting to watch different responses to the disaster. Between the Haitian government, NGO’s, foreign governments, the UN, independent churches, and missionaries in Haiti, everyone seems to have their own unique take on how to best help the Haitian people. At times, it has seemed that there is no clear leader, no clear entity ultimately in charge of the relief effort.

I think it’s crucial for us, as Christians, to evaluate the church’s response to the crisis.

In the days following the quake, the biggest needs were clearly recovery, search and rescue, and serious medical help. All the organizations mentioned above flew in almost immediately with these resources. But, the runways were clogged. Too many planes, not enough space. Our church partners with an organization called Medical Teams International. MTI immediately sent two planes filled with medical personnel and supplies to Port au Prince but, were unable to land. There was no space for them to touch down. Two planes, filled with life saving supplies and doctors, were diverted to the Dominican Republic.

Yet, on the runway, sat helicopters and planes of many non-essential personnel. Reporters. Spectators. Even some pastors from the United States. The reporters were there to break news, to show the world what was happening and, I’m sure, to boost their network’s ratings. The pastors, who possessed neither medical skill nor any knowledge of Kreole, were there to…pray? Some teams of pastors were there with their own personal film crews. Award winning film crews. Taking up precious space on the runway.

Since the quake, I’ve been following the blogs of several missionaries in Haiti, and, time and again, they’ve clearly stated that people should not journey to Haiti to “help” if they did not possess immediate, practical skills that could be used in a catastrophe. They urged people to give money to the organization of their choice and to Pray. Everyday they beg for prayer. One missionary family has a hospital in their living room. In the midst of their hectic efforts to save lives, they’ve made a few snarky comments about the reporters who never leave the airport…..

The question I’m raising is this: How should the church respond in the crucial days following a disaster? The team of pastors and their film crew did capture some very poignant images of the suffering and, using the footage in their churches, were able to raise hundreds of thousands of dollars for their own relief efforts in Haiti. Seeing images of their own pastor standing with victims next to the rubble really brought the tragedy home for people.

The other question I’m asking is : When are the church’s efforts to help really just tragedy tourism?

I’m not clear on the answer to this. I’m obviously leaning toward the conclusion that pastors should have waited to get their footage….but, on the other hand, because they struck while the crisis was still on the front page, they were able to stir the generosity of their congregation.

I’m interested in your thoughts….

Four Hamburgers

(Durban, South Africa)

At first glance, the Zulu children we met on the bus en route to Ithemba Lethu’s leadership camp were just like any other seventh graders we had ever met. They boarded the bus with tremendous enthusiasm. They were full of life and noise and a certain pre-teen angst. They were excited to be with their friends, armed with bits of junk food, slightly insecure and were chatting about celebrities and rappers. If one didn’t already know that the children were from one of Durban’s poorest townships, that most lived in tin shacks, or that many were being raised by siblings just a few years older than them, it wouldn’t have been immediately obvious that these kids differed from suburban American youth.

As the weekend progressed, we began learning more details about their lives. One child’s parents had just died. Her mother died of AIDS and her father was murdered by human hands. She was now living with an aunt who didn’t want her. Several of the children were being physically abused on a regular basis. School was not a safe place for the kids because teachers hit them with pipes.

As we sat down together for meals, I began to notice that the kids were consuming food in massive quantities. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were provided at the camp and to our American team, it was typical camp food. Palatable but, far from gourmet. I ate enough to sustain me but wasn’t interested in going back for seconds. As I pushed food around my plate, the kids were inhaling every morsel of food on their plates. They went back for seconds, thirds, and fourths. They had an astounding affinity for ketchup. A 65 pound boy sitting next to me consumed four hamburgers in a row.

We were keeping the kids incredibly busy with soccer games, jump rope, swimming, late nights, and obstacle courses. “They have really worked up an appetite,” I rationalized. “They are almost teenagers, after all.”

As the weekend continued so did the pace of the eating and I began to wonder how children could possibly consume so much food without becoming ill. I mentioned the spectacle of food consumption to one of the youth workers and she replied, “When they get home, they will only have pap and sweet water. They’re eating as much as they can here because there’s little food at home.”

Her words felt like a sucker punch to the gut. The food I was turning my nose up at was an incredible, luxurious, excessive feast for the children. They were eating like mad because they didn’t know when they would get to eat again.

I’m still not sure what to do with this or about it. It’s an injustice I feel overwhelmed by and powerless to correct. All I know is that God called me to this place at this time to interact with these children. So, I interacted and I encouraged. I prayed for them and tried to love them.

In the midst of their dire circumstances, thanks to the efforts of the Ithemba Lethu team, the kids are learning to become leaders, learning to make different choices than their parents. I cannot for one second label these children as victims. The term connotates powerlessness.

And these children are not powerless. They are survivors and heroes.

I can't wrap this post up in neat bow. I have no clue how to end a post like this. Sometimes we need to live in the tension....

Presence

I'm spending the first half of December in Durban, South Africa, leading a team of incredibly wonderful people from our church on a missions trip. I was here last December, with another amazing team. After a flight cancellation, three airplanes, layovers across the globe, and 4 solid days of ministry with school age Zulu children, I'm finally sitting down to reflect, process and, well, blog.

Our mission here is to support a local organization called Ithemba Lethu. Ithemba Lethu means "I have a Destiny" in Zulu. In truth, the wonderful staff of IL could survive without our help. We are not here to save the day in typical American, independent cowboy fashion. Quite simply, after seeing the incredibly way they are changing the world, we begged them to let us participate, to literally ride their coattails. We wanted to get in on what they're already doing and thankfully, they said they could use us.

Ithemba Lethu works in the public schools in the townships, educating school children (beginning in grade 5) about the risks of HIV/AIDS and about each child's immeasurable value to God. They believe you can't do one without the other. The kids have grown up in poverty with little to eat and little to hope for. They do not actually know their infinite worth to God when they start the program.

42% of pregnant mothers in Cato Manor are HIV positive. Forty-two percent. This means that 42% of infants are at risk of contracting the virus in -utero or during birth. If the children living in Cato Manor do not contract the disease in infancy, there is a very large chance they will contract it later in life. The townships in South Africa have one of the highest rates of child rape in the world. These children are in danger every day, all the time, of contracting the disease that has spread like wildfire in their midst. The children know all about HIV/AIDS. They see it everyday, lurking in the shacks of their makeshift community. They have lost parents, aunts,uncles, friends to the disease.

We went away to camp with 140 school age leaders from the local township schools and the incredible Ithemba Lethu staff youth workers. The kids spoke Zulu and a little English and the Americans spoke English and absolutely no Zulu. The goal of the weekend was to hang out with the kids, teach them that they matter, and introduce them to the love of Jesus. We had all kinds of plans. Crafts, beads, balls, jump ropes.... But, when it came down to it, we ended up sitting around a lot, trying to break through the language barrier. We sat with them during meal times, we sat with them during activities. We sat at the piano, teaching them basic notes. We sat and smiled. We had a few significant conversations and we cheered like insane fans during their outside competitions. We walked with them on the beach and showed them how to make bracelets. Then, we sat with them some more. By nature, I'm a task master. I like having to-do lists and outlines. I began to wonder what we were accomplishing. Admittedly, I'm not very good at sitting, resting or just being present.

It just seems terribly inefficient.

Turns out, the sitting around was the best possible gift we could have given these kids. Our very presence, our unrelenting efforts to sit next to them and turn jump ropes for them communicated the very thing we had hoped. That they matter, that they are worth the time of a few crazy Americans. And that God loves them. We gave them the gift of presence. We showed up and stayed. Much like God shows up and stays with all of us. Presence is not something one can quantify or measure. You cannot represent it through statistics or pie charts.

We'd appreciate your prayers as we head off to another camp today.

I can't wait to spend some quality time just sitting around.

Baby Steps

I love-hate the old 90's film, "What About Bob." Every time I watch it, I laugh out loud, mostly in a nervous, really uncomfortable, I'm-not-sure-what-else-to-do, kind of way. The character, "Bob," is horrifically neurotic. He has OCD to the nth degree. He won't touch anything without cleaning it and his fears and hang-ups outnumber even the most terrified cartoon character. His only salvation, his only pathway through the bog of his own psychosis, is a pop psychologist who has penned a trite self-help book called "Baby Steps." Bob, like a desperate leech, latches on to the concept and begins to see improvement. He can suddenly take elevators by taking one baby step at a time. He can walk out of his living room because all he has to do is take one step, and then another step. Bob's obsession with the book leads to more uncomfortable, neurotic humor and the audience can chuckle because the scenario is just too absurd to be real. WE are not that crazy. WE obviously have better boundaries. We don't need to take baby steps. Right? RIGHT????

This week, I am identifying with Bob on a whole new level. I'm not about to stalk anyone, don't worry. But, as of late, I have wondered if Bob-like neurosis was in my immediate future. We have made some huge, gargantuan life decisions that initially sent me into a spiral of pure bona fide nuttiness. In an economy that isn't any one's friend, we have decided to embark on two separate but, strangely connected adventures. First, we are pursuing an international adoption that we aren't at liberty to discuss in detail but, is likely going to cost a whole heck of a lot of money, and second, we are going to seriously increase our giving to our church, which is completely, literally committed to making a dent in global injustice in the next 3 years... I'm not writing about this to brag. I'm not writing about this so I can gain some kind of saintly favor from God.

I'm writing about this because deciding to commit to both was really HARD. We came to the commitment by taking teensy little baby steps and by crying and negotiating with God a lot.

And then, after safely jumping from lily pad to lily pad, we just dove in head first, right in to the pond. Faith is, after all, being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. (Hebrews 11) I guess you could say we've done a big, joyful belly flop.

Committing to 2 very pricey endeavors on a pastor's salary is just plain scary. Scary but, exciting. Invigorating, actually. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, I know that we are risking to affect change on a global scale, that our sacrifice means something in the grand scheme of things.

So, I guess I'm writing to encourage you to do your own belly flop. You get extra points if it makes a loud smacking sound when you hit the water. :) It stings but, you know you're alive.

Godmobile

This past weekend we went to the fair. There’s always a salt of the earth kind of quality to state fairs. They draw a colorful crowd to say the very least. My favorite part is the food (actually that’s the only reason I agree to go): fried twinkies, hot scones, grilled corn on the cob, kettle corn, elephant ears, giant turkey legs, and the latest creation, chocolate covered bacon. I didn’t make that last one up.

We walked around taking in the sights, deciding which neon carnival ride would make us feel brave and daring but the least ill, and avoiding a few seedy characters I’m pretty sure I saw on America’s Most Wanted. Does anyone else wonder how safe rides operated by toothless meth users are? We toured the livestock barns, got to pet some piglets, and decided that of all the barns, the swine barn smelled the absolute worst.

Toward the end of the night, we happened upon a little trailer called the “Godmobile.” In big read letters, it read “Are you going to Heaven? Free two question test reveals the answer!” I immediately felt irritated with the Godmobile. Before I begin the rant, let me say that I’m sure that the intentions of the Godmobile creators and its staff were good. They want people to know God. I also want people to know God.

But, I have to question the basic methodology. The Godmobile isn’t coming at evangelism from a place of love or grace or relationship. It begins with a gimmicky scare tactic and a not so subtle threat of eternal condemnation. What on earth is attractive about that? I watched people walking by pointing, laughing, and shaking their heads. I could almost read their thoughts. “Another nut job Christian.” I wanted to chase after them and shout, “Not all of us are like that! Not all Christians want to judge you and condemn you! Come to my house for coffee! Let’s have a beer!” I continued to watch the Godmobile for the next 10 minutes and no one, I mean no one, got in line to take the free test.

I really believe that HOW we represent Christ matters. I’m sure the Godmobile staff entered into a few good conversations with people at the fair. But, I wonder how many more people were turned off to the idea of following Christ. How much damage was done?

Many of you who read this blog know that I’m a Christian, a pastor’s wife even. I follow Christ, not out of fear, obligation, or intimidation. I follow him because I have been profoundly changed by the grace and love I have found in my relationship with him.

So, I’m curious to know your thoughts on the Godmobile…….

Discuss…..

I don't want to gossip but,

Nothing like conviction on a Tuesday night....

Sometimes Justice is Hard to Calculate.....

Last week in Phoenix, an eight year old girl was brutally gang raped. The perpetrators had no elaborate scheme or meticulous cover up. No real plan. They simply decided one day to lure their little neighbor into a shed by offering her gum, hold her down and rape her for 10-15 minutes. They were immediately arrested at the scene of the crime, after another neighbor heard hysterical screaming and called the police.

The “gang” consisted of young boys, ages 9. 10, 13, and 14.

The victim and the perpetrators were all Liberian refugees. You can read the full story here.

After learning that their innocent daughter had been sexually assaulted, her family did the unthinkable. They disowned her. Instead of outrage at the perpetrators or a fierce desire to see justice done, the family embraced a cultural relic still present in many African and Middle Eastern countries that pronounces female rape victims Guilty, responsible for the violence they were powerless to fend off or flee from.

The father told a case worker and a policemen in her presence to “take her,” that he “didn’t want her back.” His daughter, bloodied, bruised, and severely traumatized had become, however implausible to most Americans, a symbol of cultural shame. Thankfully, the Phoenix Police Department is committed to seeking justice for this little girl, even while her family chooses to blame her.

The President of Liberia, Ellen Johnson Sirleaf, involved herself personally upon hearing of the crime. She chided the girl’s family, beseeched them to seek counseling, and assured the world that Liberia is moving in a cultural direction that values women and decries sexual assault. She then asserted that the perpetrators, the young boys, have to pay the penalty, but we also want to make sure that they are counseled ... that they will have an opportunity to change and become useful citizens, not only in the United States but when they return home."

The 14 year old boy is being charged as an adult. The 9, 10 and 13 year olds are being charged as juveniles. Being charged as an adult means that the sentence will be harsher, longer, and the record permanent.

Delivering justice seems fairly straightforward at first glance. The perpetrators should pay. They should absolutely pay for their crimes. They should be harshly sentenced and given the maximum penalty. The victim was only 8 years old, after all. Then, one remembers something crucial and even more horrific; They are only little boys. Boys only a few years older than my own son. Boys, refugees, that were likely exposed to rape and sexual violence before arriving in the United States. It is highly likely that their childhoods were not filled with Sponge Bob, Toys R Us, good parenting, and sound moral teaching. As refugees, it is likely that these boys all but raised themselves. It is entirely possible that the boys were recruited as Liberian rebel soldiers.

These little boys, the perpetrators, are victims in their own rite. It is easy to imagine that the boys are suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Most refugees could be easily diagnosed with PTSD.

So, what’s a justice system to do? Should the goal be punishment, or rehabilitation? Sentencing or counseling? A combination of both?

Obviously, the little girl needs counseling and a family that will love her and introduce her to the Creator who restores all things broken. She has been wounded physically and emotionally in the most horrific way possible. I basically think she should come live with me. In all honesty, I’ve been having dreams about telling this little girl how valuable she is, how perfect, how pure. I OBVIOUSLY believe in adoption. More to follow on that….

Don’t these boys need the same thing? Wouldn’t the best thing be for their innocence to be restored? Shouldn't some one inform them of how valuable they are to the Creator?

The more important and pressing question is this: What is the Church to do? With the 8 year old rape victim, the little boy perpetrators, and Injustice everywhere?

I know this. Churches are EVERYWHERE. How does the Church mobilize to prevent this tragic story from enfolding in the FIRST PLACE?

I’m not offering any answers. Not just yet.

I’m extremely curious about what YOU have to say…….

Consequence Free Adultery?

I have a huge bone to pick.

Yesterday, while reading the latest TIME Magazine, I happened upon an article highlighting the latest trend in dating/ matchmaking sites. Wait for it....SITES THAT INTENTIONALLY FACILITATE EXTRA-MARITAL AFFAIRS. Sites that overtly CAPITALIZE on troubled marriages and tantalizingly advertise that "...humans were not made to be monogamous" and "your secret is safe with us." They lure married men and women to their site promising to find them the perfect adulterous liason, even charging their clients' credit cards under a neutral, unsuspicious name. Adultery on the internet is not a new concept but, the brazen unapologetic nature of this new brand of internet cheating has me shocked to the core.

Thankfully, the tone of the TIME article was a condemning one. The author was nearly as incredulous and angry as I in his treatment of the topic. Upon reading about these sites, a strong, metallic taste filled my mouth and my stomach turned instantly queasy.

Marriage is hard enough without sites like these, falsely promising consequence free infidelity. The promise, however, is a false one. Adultery is never consequence free. Affairs are messy, explosive, volatile things that leave shards of glass and shrapnel everywhere. Just ask anyone who has cheated or been cheated on. Just ask the kids of the cheaters. Co-workers, friends, family, and neighbors also find themselves picking shrapnel out of their skin in the aftermath of an affair.

My husband and I have been in ministry for 15 years together the most painful things, besides death, that we have counseled people through is extra-marital affairs (both the online and flesh and blood kind). They are painful when exposed and painful when they are secret. There are always far reaching consequences and devastating casualties. And, the secret never lasts long.

While touting the amazing features of his site, the CEO of one of these companies was asked by the TIME reporter, "How would you feel if your wife used this site?" He answered, "I would be devastated."

She's a Pastor

Last night, one my closest friends officially became a pastor.

The elders, pastors, and leaders of our church were on hand to ordain Lynne and testify in public that she had gone above and beyond all the requirements necessary to earn the title. She has faithfully run our missions programs for 7 years, mentored countless people, taught classes and Bible studies, and, oh yeah, she just completed her Doctorate degree.

In truth, Lynne has been one of the most caring, qualified, passionate pastors I have ever met, for the last 25 years. Working in a variety of ministry settings, she has consistently labored to show people Jesus, to bring freedom from oppression and justice to the poor. She has sat in meetings, often the only woman present, and used her God given gifts of leadership in spite of the belief of some that women shouldn’t have a place at the table.

Nothing much will change about the way she ministers, now that the name plaque on her door can officially read “Pastor Lynne Ellis.” She’s always given it her all, regardless of the fact that the title was previously unavailable to her simply because of her gender. She ministered with passion and a fierce love of Jesus Christ because she understood that the calling on her life was from God, whether validated by an institution or not.

But, last night, with scores of friends, family, and church members in attendance, Lynne’s years of service were validated. My husband is the Lead Pastor at our church and, as he prayed over her, I wept. I wept because I was proud of my friend. I wept for the young women watching who witnessed a ceiling being blasted out of their lives. I wept for the old women watching who, while sighing deeply, had something healed in their hearts. And , I wept because I’m proud of my husband, who strongly, publicly, believes in women in leadership in the church.

My daughter (9) and Lynne’s daughter (4) sat together watching the service and cheering for Lynne. The girls stared up at Lynne, faces proud and smiling, totally unaware of what an historic day they were witnessing. To them, Lynne has always been a pastor. My son, Caleb, took in the scene as well, asking, “Mom, why are you crying?” I responded, “Because, buddy, I think Lynne does a really good job.” “Oh,” he said. “Cool.”

Lynne’s ordination is an important milestone for her but even more so for women in general. Her ordination repeals a cultural limitation and announces that women are valuable, that they can be leaders, and that God uses them in powerful ways. It also counters some misguided theology of several churches in our community here in the Northwest.

One male leader in particular frequently clarifies that the target of their ministries, the very reason they exist, is to reach lost men. He rails against a “chickified” church and insists Jesus would have spent his Saturdays watching football and drinking beer. I understand that men in Seattle need Jesus. I get it.

But, so do women.

As a woman who happened to be born with leadership skills, I feel hurt by this rhetoric, excluded and marginalized by it. It pains me to realize that in this particular church community, my gifts would not be valued or utilized to their fullest extent.

With Lynne’s ordination, I believe the message both men and women in our congregation and in the larger community will receive is this: There is a place for women at the table. Women are an essential part of our target audience. Jesus died for them, saves them, and empowers them with his Spirit to change the world. No ceilings. No limitations. Only freedom.

Mike read the following quotation from John Stott, an esteemed Christian theologian, during the ordination. "If God allows women with spiritual gifts (which he does), and thereby calls them to exercise their gifts for the common good (which he does), then the church must recognize God's gifts and calling, must make appropriate spheres of service available to women, and should 'ordain' (that is, commission and authorize) them to exercise their God-given ministry...Our Christian doctrines of creation and redemption tell us that God wants his gifted people to be fulfilled not frustrated, and his church to be enriched by their service."

Suffice it to say that I'm more than stoked to be part of Overlake Christian Church.

So, Lynne, I’m proud to call you my friend and even prouder to call you my pastor. Thank you for hanging in there and seeing this through. Thanks for inspiring my daughter, who I believe might just be President one day. J