The World Is My Classroom

Something New - A Few Words

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Wed, 13 Nov 2019 13:26:00 +0000

God is at work in me to excavate and share some of the renewal He is bringing to my soul.

In this season, I believe He is asking me to write and write and write. There are several specific things I am writing about and not yet sharing... my courageous Miskito women friends is the big one.

I am also working on a 7-day devotional. Wow. Just putting these two projects out in the 'real world' has me wanting to clam up a bit.

Ever forward.

In an effort to find the readers that resonate with the words of my heart, I have joined a writing group called Hope*Writers AND I have planted a website. Yikes, I want to erase what I just wrote!

Ever onward.

As a commitment to myself and to God to keep writing, I will be publishing my writing every few weeks through a newsletter currently named "A Few Words."

Will you join me, long-time friend? Some of you have shared 14-15 years of life with me as I stumbled, fell and eventually got back up again to share this little light of mine.

Please visit the site, read the few posts shared there and please sign up for A Few Words Newsletter. Your opinion, your feedback, your encouragement and, most of all, your prayers are coveted for this new season of words on a page.

My gratitude for your continued reading and pondering with me. Some of you still reply with your thoughts to the topics I share... let's continue the discussion!

With love and appreciation!
Ever forward,
Laura

My Global Kitchen

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Sun, 20 Oct 2019 13:03:00 +0000

With just a quick glance at you, my Honduran kitchen, I feel grateful.

You are uncomplicated, easy and calm.

You leave your door open. The laundry hangs outside your window. The sun unfolds and fills you.

Yes, I have complained about you in uncomfortable moments. Moments when only one burner was left functioning on my butane stove. Moments when the rats officially destroyed the spongy insulation in my oven. Moments when it felt impossible to create something nourishing from nothing here on the far side of the rainforest.

Yet, my dear kitchen, you offer so much more than uncomfortable. You generously create a place for my children to become independent - cooking eggs, tuna melts, nachos. You host our family tradition - pizza from scratch. You quietly observe our prayers, our arguments, our restoration, our love.

You are a miracle maker. You are a memory maker.

Thank you.

___________________

This month on Taking Route blog, different global kitchens are featured. It is interesting to see the ins and outs of expat living across the globe.

Keep

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Wed, 16 Oct 2019 12:00:00 +0000

What to keep.

In a life of constant sifting, what do we hang on to and what do we discard?

You probably realize already that I am not talking about the tangible. Few material items have the power to draw me these days.

I press, instead, into the filtering of emotions, friendships, beliefs, truth.

What filter do I use to reduce the mass of input into something that my consistently fragile heart can process and keep?

Each morning, we filter our coffee here in Honduras. Why? To eliminate the annoying grounds and emerge with a cup of heavenly joe worth keeping.

Sometimes, we use a coffee sock, pictured above. Sometimes, a coffee press.

The coffee grounds are heated with boiling water and a rich cup of coffee comes forth. There is an almost bitter taste to it, amidst the richness.

As I sift through my emotional 'grounds' and search for the treasure, I want to keep the purest, most authentic of memories and friendships. Of course, I do. It is just easier that way.

But I discover something. As I try to leave the harshest hurts behind in the filter, I still taste the pain in the flavor of what emerges. The flavor speaks of betrayal, loss, and yet, fullness.

And I keep it, realizing that the taste while carrying a bitterness, reflects a pure version of me.

And it is rich.

The Who

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Tue, 15 Oct 2019 11:45:00 +0000

A picture I took back in 2013 of the school being constructed.

Each day, I write for 30 minutes. I keep the commitment I made to me to build small habits toward becoming a writer. It is not easy. I have spent almost a decade tending to the emergencies, the needs, the crises surrounding me in Honduras. Finding a place, outside of the lure of social media, to actually create something, is difficult. But, not impossible.

Deep in the keeping of my commitment, an important question has surfaced.

Who am I writing to?

Who reads these letters, pieced together to make words, sewn into paragraphs?

If you are a person who subscribed to this blog years and years ago, you are a part of my Who. Most of you are women. Many have an interest in cross-cultural work, even if you have never been out of the US. Some of you have been subscribed to this blog for 14 years!

When I think of each of you, I imagine you are curious, deep-thinking and not easily satisfied with the chatter existing in the larger sphere. If we could sit across from the table together, I imagine we would be careful with one another's feelings while courageously approaching the complicated topics.

Perhaps, you love Jesus. Perhaps, you are searching and asking a million questions, digging to find your answers. Perhaps, you have been scarred by people who called themselves Christians. Perhaps, you are looking for a soft place to land for a moment.

I describe myself as I describe you.

I often write to myself, because I imagine you ask the same questions. If so, we are each other's people.

Help me define my writing and clarify the Who. Send me an email to share your 'why' for continuing to read and share my life through the years.

I appreciate you. Because you help me be me.

_____________________

Thank you for reading. I am working on Instagram with shorter 'essays' at @waits.hopes.prays.loves

Open to the Elements - Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Mon, 14 Oct 2019 20:53:00 +0000

The rat didn't show today. Or yesterday. Or the day before.

Shocking, really.

He was so faithful.

And yet, living open to the elements means preparing oneself for the shock.

I remember the day when I heard God gently urge me to open myself up to the elements. This was a time long before Honduras.

At that time, opening up meant reading about poverty, exploring what loving others really meant and then flinging the doors wide for babies whose mamas had made some hard choices.

The opening itself was painful. Excruciating, if I am honest.

How does one begin to acknowledge that she has walked through much of life with closed-eyes, simultaneously naming herself as 'following Jesus'?

Sometimes awakening happens instantaneously.

Sometimes awakening happens in pieces.

In my case, the eye opening began in the moment I opened our front door to see a beautiful baby girl in a car seat carried by a caseworker. She was found alone, in an unspeakable place, wrapped in nothing but toilet paper.

My eyes opened-wide to easily see her beauty. And then, over time, God asked me to see the beauty in her mother; the very one who had left her. And then, He asked me to name beauty in more mothers who birthed children who later became my very own. My eyes squinted and tried hard to shut.

The elements may mean different things to different people. For some, elements may refer to physical aspect of sharing a house on stilts with tropical insects and rodents. Or, elements may be the spiritual discomfort of sharing the ugly mess of sin with a trusted friend without making yourself look better or turning to flee.

I find it easy to live closed in the United States. We have garages and hermetically-sealed houses. We have hand sanitizer and wipes and Kleenex. An entire lifetime can be lived in the US without ever, once, having to truly confront the seedier elements, the dirty stuff. We can close our eyes, squeeze them so tight and laugh ourselves into the grave of indifference.

Living open to the elements means I fight my own indifference. Instead of complaining constantly about roaches and rats, I sleep under a mosquito net and try to be more careful about food. It means accepting that my Miskito neighbor's life is much more open to the elements than mine will ever be - yet, I remain the poor one.

When I am tender, teachable and open to the elements, God has my full attention. I am more fragile and my heart listens.

Being open also means that I have to tolerate the creepy-crawly pests, actual and metaphorical, that come with a life lived fully-aware.

I can no longer ignore the underbelly of the world, because in truth, the underbelly is the majority.

Untouchables, the majority.

I always heard God's Kingdom was open. The first shall be last. The last, first.

Open to the Elements

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Thu, 10 Oct 2019 12:01:00 +0000

My family. My house. 2015.

The majority of the world lives in open homes.

Huts.

Structures of wood on stilts.

Unsealed.

Open to the elements.

Exposed.

When we began to build our house in La Mosquitia, we knew we wanted it to be of wood and on concrete stilts. I kept telling Alex that I wanted the floors sealed and the walls to completely meet the ceiling and roof.

In an effort to get into our house more quickly, we left the floors as bare-wood planks with spaces between each one. We had exterior walls and an open overhang.

Our home was then placed on the back burner while we built the school. Every ounce of energy went into the school. We live next door to the school, which means work never ceases.

Here we are 6 years from our move-in date. Our floors are still open. I have come to love this part of my home. I can sweep and the dirt falls right down through the cracks. We have interior walls, but only a door on one bedroom. There is still a space between the roof and the walls.

Our home is breezy. And open.

We have lots of insect friends. We have lots of furry friends.

Sometimes, they overstay their welcome. The furry ones have pushed my boundaries.

I once wrote about the rat that chews on the underneath portion of our floor right beside my bed. He is on a timer... at exactly 4:00 AM each morning, he begins to gnaw. It is an annoying gnaw, a chewing, a scraping and gnashing of teeth.

And it always wakes me up.

We have tried everything from traps, to eucalyptus, to hot water poured on him, to attempts with a machete to poke him through the cracks.

Nothing. He is a ninja.

Sometimes he and his siblings or offspring dance around my house at night. I wonder if they laugh at us as they chew on tomatoes and play with popcorn kernels.

Living open means elements enter.

There is a deep spiritual parallel in here. I may have to write about it tomorrow.

The Stench.

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Tue, 08 Oct 2019 12:10:00 +0000

The year is 2014.

The stench is perpetual.

What is that stench?

For a few moments, I search my mind for some familiar recognition. I mentally run through the normal things that my nose takes in on these dusty roads... urine, vomit, rotten veggies, feces, trash, fermented fruit, remnants of a night of inebriation.

Unsure of what it might be, I turn my head back to the left and behind me. The sight takes my breath away and the stench suddenly becomes distant and distinctly unimportant.

There they are, students. Not just any students; students of Instituto Vida Abundante in their white school t-shirts. 2 approach me carrying a beautiful Arbor Day mural made from 100% recycled items. These two are followed by the rest of the 60 walking in 2 lines, very proud to be a part of the Arbor Day parade.

I look at the boys in front and I begin to remember ... a young man who finished 6th grade as a 16 year old with perfect attendance, a young man whose mom abandoned the family and left the house in the care of her children, a young lady sold by her mother and then rescued by her father, a young lady who came to school after her father had broken the windows out of their home in a drunken state, a teeny 13-year old bolt of energy who came to us from a remote village speaking primarily Miskito who has become a mascot of sorts for our little school.

My heart begins to just celebrate the way our God perfectly planned for each student. He has built a safe place for them to study and grow, He works in their hearts to give them a hope, He touches many churches and committed people to love these students from afar.

I smile a HUGE smile... and I thank God for the moments when I get a small glimpse of what He is doing.

The day-to-day is often difficult and overwhelming for this spoiled Texas girl. BUT GOD... He is faithful, friends. He doesn't call us to something unattainable. He calls us to good work with the hands and hearts that he has given each of us. He gives us the very things that we can ONLY handle with His Grace, Mercy and Power. He never, ever gives up on these students... nor does he give up on me. BUT GOD... never, ever gives up.

We walk in the parade for almost an hour. Our students present a song, a poem, a dance, recycled projects and our mural. 3 of our students have a 10 minute visit with the Secretary of Education for our Department and with a UN representative. They are able to talk about Instituto Vida Abundante, our logo, what the logo represents and how God's creation is the thing we are protecting.

Junior - 2014 - 7th grade

This is Junior, one of our smallest young men in stature and one of our grandest in character. He is very impressive in his presentation. Not 10 minutes before, he was a nervous wreck and wanting to throw our mural backward into the lagoon.

Our mural wins 2nd place! In a time where we NEVER expect to win anything nor even be recognized for participating, our students were honored. Their work was recognized and all I can do is say thank you to the One who LOVES these children. He gives them tangible moments to encourage them to keep 'walking through the stench' and out into the marvelous light.

_______________

Update: That little guy in the picture has become a young man and is studying at University to be an Architect or Engineer.

Junior - 2018 graduate of Abundant Life Institute

Navigating

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Sat, 05 Oct 2019 20:37:00 +0000

It is July. A luminous day with just the right breeze to be extraordinarily comfortable. I am seated in my white plastic chair, one of thousands.

Induction Day at the United States Naval Academy class of 2023. The very same brigade my firstborn is about to officially join.

Hurried plebes and detailers rush to and fro.

The notes of the United States Naval Academy band fill my ears.

The United States flag waving at me, reminding me of freedom's gift; reminding me of the land of my birth and the privilege that comes with such a birth certificate.

I want to pinch myself as I silently ask ... how did my kid, born in the US, raised in the pine savannas on the far side of a Honduran jungle make it here in this space?

A swath of blue and white catches my eye. Blue, white, blue. 5 white stars. Cinco estrellas de palido azul. The Honduran flag! How many times have I heard the Honduran national anthem and watched that flag being proudly raised on our school ground in Honduras?

Why is the Honduran flag waving on the stage at the Naval Academy Induction?

15 exchange students, one from Honduras, are taking their oath of office alongside the other US-born candidates.

People ask... is Aidan the Honduran exchange student? No, but I guarantee he will find the one from Honduras. Aidan was born in the US, carries a US passport, was raised among the indigenous Miskito Indians of Honduras and bleeds a global compassion which drives him to serve humanity. The United States Navy is a powerful way to live compassionately. The Naval Academy is an excellent way to simultaneously receive a high caliber education.

My chair squeaks a bit as my legs change position. I am a shifter. My appearance changes, my clothes upgrade a bit, my hygiene becomes a little better each time I cross the border from Honduras into the US.

I pause and let the profound reality sink in.

I am not in Honduras anymore.

Another sunny day. The perfect moment for cul-de-sac bike riding in suburban USA. My 12-year old son, Aaron, walks dejectedly through my mom's laundry room door. He impulsively states, "I will not play with those boys anymore." Knowing my son and that quick-to-forgive heart, I humor him and say, "Okay, tell me what's up?"

He replies with deep hurt... "we were playing, having fun and I did something funny that my friends in Honduras love. One of the boys here hated it. I told him that me and my friends in Honduras enjoy playing in that way. He told me... 'Well, you're not in Honduras anymore.' "

Deep breath.

"Son, your blood runs deep the red, white and blue of United States of America and your precious heart beats the indigenous beat of La Mosquitia. These two things, in one little boy, confuse people." I say.

Not ten minutes later, he bounds out the door; all forgiven and ready to tackle the challenges of cross-cultural tween friendship one more time.

I pause and let the profound reality sink in.

We are not in Honduras anymore.

A sunny day on the shores of the Newport Naval Station more than one year ago. My oldest son, the same one who has now entered the Academy, takes his place. He arrived here in this competitive academic environment at the Naval Academy Preparatory School by sheer grit and God's grace. There were no SAT prep classes, or college development counselors to assist him in his high school path. He did not have elite athletic training or even a full Chemistry lab.

He stands before a squad leader and mispronounces an English word. Giggling is heard around him.

The leader asks, "WAITS, do you EVEN SPEAK English?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" my son replies.

"WAITS, you are NOT in Honduras anymore!"

As he shares this story with me, many months later, I pause and let the profound reality sink in.

My son is not in Honduras anymore.

You don't really know how deeply connected to a place you are until you find yourself navigating another equally interesting place.

As a family living between worlds, inside and outside of the United States, we must navigate.

Sometimes we just tread water. Sometimes, we are swimming along at the pace of other swimmers, smiling and feeling like we belong. And other times, we feel like we are bobbing up and down waiting for a rescue.

Navigating.
_______________

The last week of writing prompts with @hopewriters have helped me realize that it is time to write. It is time for me to dig deep, be brave and just connect. I have no idea who I am writing to, or why folks read. Maybe these answers will come as I write and find my people. Until then, I will keep putting thoughts out there. :)

Becoming

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Wed, 02 Oct 2019 13:20:00 +0000

Becoming.

There was a START. A beginning. Nebulous thoughts came together and became presentable. I took up my pen after years of the deep within me being sealed, locked and lost.

What closed my heart off? Voices. Voices who spoke about ANGLES of poverty, perspectives of exclusion, misunderstanding about 'others.'

My fragility, coupled with the SEASONS of spice, sour and sweet that flavor me, kept my mouth quiet and my eyes misty.

I chose to FOLLOW a few folks who led me back to Jesus people who led me back to Jesus who led me back to me.

The RECORD of 9 years on the far side of a Honduran jungle began to replay, over and over and over and reminded me how Love can TRANSFORM a patch of ground in an isolated area into sacred space.

As we absorb what Jesus work accomplishes, our FALL often takes us by surprise, often distorts the transformation. Evil still seeks to kill, steal and destroy.

And yet, the STORY continues. God still writes.

He alone is without TYPE. He does not set us as types, nor is He typeable.

With these eyes open, with these new words and this fresh start, I am BECOMING.

________________

Today is the last day of the @hopewriters writing prompt. The prompt today is BECOMING, but I wanted to include all 10 words to encompass what has emerged as I have written. Maybe I am truly entering a time when I can write. Maybe. #hopewriterlife

Type

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Tue, 01 Oct 2019 13:38:00 +0000

A door in my town... "Jesus is my Lord"

Type.

Watching the US culture from afar these last 9 years has made me keenly aware of a shift. While humans have always liked to generalize to some degree, the US culture has currently become obsessed with types. The right types the left. The left types the right. The red types the blue. The breast-feeding mom types the bottle-feeding mom. The over-indulgent parent types the strict parent. It is everywhere I look and listen in the US.

I have watched the smartest of my friends slip into one side or the other and begin to allow language of exclusion into their vocabulary. I have listened to people urge me to take a side, to speak out, to choose.

The saddest part... we are smarter than this.

We really do know deep down that no-one is 100% typeable. Even Jesus is described from different perspectives by the writers of the Gospels. If we only had one Gospel, our perspective of the life and person of Jesus would be skewed. Even with all we read in the New Testament about Jesus, we still cannot type Him. He is so much more than a type.

God has given us brains and hearts to analyze, to read His Word, to consider context, to look for the real wrongs, to avoid fake news, to be careful with our influence.

Yes, there are things that are non-negotiable that should raise all voices ... trafficking of humans, hunger, abuse of children, taking of life.

Most other things are nuanced.

If I am a type, I want to be the type who speaks of purple and gray and subtlety and grace. May I be typed as a lover of people, a helper, a peacemaker. May I speak about the few sure things God has given me to speak about and may I listen in every other instance.

________________

Prompt today is TYPE. @hopewriters has helped me explore my voice once again and get my pen out to share that voice. #hopewriterlife

Story.

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Mon, 30 Sep 2019 15:07:00 +0000

Story.

Good stories have an arc. American Dream stories have a sympathetic, humble beginning.

The meat of the story includes struggle, obstacles, heroism, courage.

We like our stories to end happy. We like to walk away feeling good about the ending. The poor farmer boy becomes a world-traveling CEO. The abused woman becomes the Director of a non-profit for trafficking. The sinner enters the gates of heaven with celebration.

Some stories cannot be wrapped in a bow.

Yet, God still writes.

Abundant Life Institute has taught me that I can often only see a portion of the story arc. A student leaves due to discipline issues at the school. My editorial comments typically speak of the loss. And yet, God still writes.. A student is raped and loses an incredible amount of ground in her spiritual life and academics. My pen needs to be refilled. And yet, God still writes.

Sometimes students leave and come back. We have students who have left twice and come back twice. It feels like the story of the prodigal son.

I do not control endings. I do not control how long God writes or what He writes.

But, I absolutely love that He still writes.

________________

Word for today: STORY. My 8th day of writing and all sorts of things are filling my brain! Thank you, @hopewriters, for reminding me of the beautiful stories around me. #hopewriterlife

Transform

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Sat, 28 Sep 2019 14:06:00 +0000

TRANSFORM.

An empty field. A place where Miskito Indians hunted white-tailed deer. A place where grass grew wild.

It was 2011. A dream began to take shape. The mayor donated land for a school.

It was 2012. The first classroom was built as a storage area.

It was 2013. Two more classrooms grew from the dirt.

It was 2014. Sixty students were welcomed by 5 teachers, 1 cook and a watchee.

It was 2015. One-hundred and twenty student studied and a Pastor preached.

It was 2016. One-hundred and eighty students, a teen mom program was born.

It was 2017. Two-hundred and fifty students, an adult education GED program emerged.

It was 2018. Three-hundred and fifty students, a psychologist joined our ranks.

It is 2019. Four-hundred sixty-five students, 25 classrooms, a kitchen, 25 teachers, 2 Pastors, a psychologist, 8 cooks, 4 watchees and a pavilion under construction.

And what brought this transformation?

His name is LOVE.

Record

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Fri, 27 Sep 2019 12:55:00 +0000

My childhood years were recorded on tape. When I was teeny-weeny, my dad recorded my voice on what was then a technological wonder, a shoebox-sized cassette recorder.

As I grew older, I used to record the songs played on the radio. My friends and I would sit listening intently to the moment the announcer said... "and up next, Rick Springfield with "Jessie's Girl." I would press RECORD and pray that everything worked correctly.

At Christmas, I would ask for one group's new release on cassette and my best friend would ask for a different one, then we would copy them onto clean, new cassettes.

As an attorney, I now know that was illegal.

We were recording.

As an adult, I record differently. My brain and my journals carry my history. Without these records, I am prone to distortion.

Being a 'feeler' and a 'thinker', sometimes the feeling skews the thinking. And the record becomes messy.

The written word allows me to record both the feeling and the thought and somehow attempt to discern the past and the present.

The record provides a memory, which reveals a life.

_________________

Today's word is RECORD. I erroneously thought it was FALL, because I am ready to discuss that word. And yet, I must play along in ORDER. No matter how far I stray, I still love following the rules. 5 days of writing and my soul feels lighter. Thank you, @hopewriters.

Fall

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Fri, 27 Sep 2019 12:08:00 +0000

The last 9 years of my life have been spent in and out, among and amidst quantities of people. People who say they are Christ followers and people who claim no affiliation with God. Loving people, listening to people, seeing people are some of my favorite things. Being loved on, listened to and seen speaks to my heart.

Before these 9 years, I lived in an insulated, protected world in suburban USA. Making the jump to another culture, I left my neighborhood, my safe space, my community. I left with the idea that my little bubble of beautiful people would always float together, no matter the distance. In fact, I was somewhat enamored with the idea that OUR people were the go-the-distance, weather-every-storm, grace-for-every season and every single cliche that could describe committed friendships.

Just one problem.

I did not yet know the capabilities of people. The possibilities of pride and destruction in each of us. The reality of Evil's desire to rip apart every one of us in the most vulnerable places.

My vulnerable place... relationships. It seems I had lived 40+ years without encountering a deep breach in relationship. That seems like a pretty good track record over all, doesn't it?

Not really.

Without experiences of deep breach, I was immature, unprepared and truly devastated when people really became people. Pride showed itself off as the nasty, insidious creature that is capable of living in all of us.

While I was unprepared for the depths of my own insecurity and pride, I was equally unprepared for the attempts by other 'Christians' to undermine and destroy, to feed the ego through 'acts of good' while simultaneously criticizing anyone who tried to bring a ray of light to the truth.

In many ways, I am still naive. My life is a study in self-awareness, others-awareness and a reminder of the WHY behind the life of Jesus.

A reminder of the Fall. My fall. Your fall.

A Fall that requires a redemption.

And that redemption has a name.

Jesus.

__________________

Prompt of the day: FALL. My 7th day of writing IN A ROW! @HopeWriters has motivated me to explore the far-reaches of words. I am grateful.

Follow

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Thu, 26 Sep 2019 12:00:00 +0000

Am I following you on Facebook?

Am I following in your path because you are paving the way?

Am I following you in the grocery line?

Am I following your example?

Am I following in your footsteps?

The word follow often implies an agreement with the leader's belief. Or an interest in at least obtaining interesting information from one being followed.

Who do you follow?

Who do I follow?

Jesus people talk a lot about following Jesus. Do we follow Him in His life of poverty? Do we follow Him in calling out the 'selling-out of the temple'? Do we follow Him in feeding hungry people despite of their heart status? Do we follow Him in pouring our lives into teaching others who remain messy? Do we follow Him in self-awareness of our identity and, simultaneously, self-awareness of our complete inability?

Or do we take the comfortable parts, the easy interpretation and say that 'He really didn't mean follow Him in THAT aspect.'

I don't know. All of it remains mystery to me, even after following Him for many years and seeking His Way. The years pass and I am keenly aware of the parts of His example that are deeply uncomfortable and completely unattainable.

In a weird way, this brings me relief. I have but one lifetime; I am one small woman; I am flawed, fragile and fierce in one package. And I am a follower who gets distracted by the yellow flower on the side of the path and strays. And then, realizing my Jesus is way ahead of me, I fight to follow close, once again.

________________

Writing prompt of the day is FOLLOW. My 4th day in a row of writing! I am trying to keep up the momentum and this practice of putting words in the sphere of connection. @hopewriters writing challenge is helping me do just that!

Season

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Wed, 25 Sep 2019 12:00:00 +0000

Radishes from the Abundant Life School Garden

Season.

What flavors season my world?

As a strong-willed woman, I am a pretty intense mix of cayenne pepper, lime and a little bit of sugar. Most of my quiet time is spent asking God to add more sugar and little less lime to me.

And yet, doesn't the Lord tell me that He created me in His image?

What part is Him, the sweet or the spicy? Or both?

I taste my way through the world savoring other people as honey and chocolate, a great mix of goodness. My first impressions of others are sweet.

Cross me or my people - the aftertaste doesn't dissolve well.

Most of my closest friends have a little chili pepper on the side... we can be strong to take for some folks.

What spices season you and your life?

__________________

Today's prompt is SEASON. I think they were going for the Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall idea, but my brain always sees the odd angle. 3 days of writing in a row... new record. @hopewriters

Angle

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Mon, 23 Sep 2019 11:50:00 +0000

Multiple perspectives exist on every topic. Outlooks. Viewpoints. Angles.

My vocation, which happens to also be my passion, involves poverty. There are dimensions and angles to poverty that bring all sorts of opinions into the public sphere.

Is poverty a result of laziness as the American Dream insinuates? Is poverty a side-effect of mental illness? Is poverty a curse of geography and birth?

Jesus-people search for angles that emerge from the vertex of Jesus and His life and teachings. What is the Jesus angle on poverty?

Jesus was born into poverty. He was not mentally ill and he was not interested in accumulating wealth or position.

In other words, Jesus did not run from poverty or look at being poor as something to overcome.

What an angle.

Jesus cared for the poor, He fed the hungry, He looked at the poor not as His 'project', but as part of His purpose. He was poor, He walked beside the poor, He loved the poor in the midst of His very own material poverty.

Lord, may Your angle be mine.

__________________

I don't think I've posted 2 days in a row in many years. It feels good. I am officially participating in a Writing Prompt challenge from Hope*Writers.

Today's prompt is ANGLE.

#angle #poverty #hopewriters

A Start

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Sun, 22 Sep 2019 21:11:00 +0000

It leapt to life like something spring-loaded.

A movement, a quick jump and I found my family of 6 in a sweltering house in a crowded neighborhood on a cobbled street in Honduras.

The year was 2010. In this enchanting new country, it felt like 1970. The everyday person knew not air-conditioning. The preferred mode of movement was with two legs and a bicycle. Often 2 or 3 people on one bicycle, navigating a sea of faces, motors and noise.

Life in another space, a different place.

A start.

My heart questioned the God I thought I knew. My soul ached for familiar as my steps faltered forward.

One teeny toe toward tomorrow.

And that is how it began.

_____________________

I have never been a 'real' writer. Writing has been my balm, my real. And yet, there is so much unsaid. So today, I begin my first writing challenge with hope*writers. The prompt for today is START.

And here I am at the beginning.

#start #hopewriters #wheredoibegin

Finding Your 'Just Right' Circle

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Tue, 04 Jun 2019 00:43:00 +0000

It showed up on a friend's social media a few days ago...

"You may be too much for some people."

Too much. Interesting to contemplate.

Too much of what?

Too much personality? Too much love? Too much challenge to the status quo? Too much quiet? Too much in what way?

Isn't it odd that in social settings, we can simultaneously feel like we are too much and yet, not enough?

Not enough.

Not enough of what?

Not enough beauty? Not enough patience? Not enough intelligence? Not enough skills? Not enough experience? Not enough of what?

Why in the world do we make one another feel this way?

In my 'line of work' I have an opportunity to meet and socialize with large quantities of people. People with very interesting stories. People with deep wounds. People with an incredible need for someone to listen.

In most of those settings, I see people who feel they are too much for the 'normal, suburban way'? In the very same human, I see a person who feels they are not enough for the norm.

And then, I see me.

In the very same moments, very same gatherings, even in the same minute I can feel like I am too much for some people and just not enough for others.

It feels so Goldilocks and the 3 Bearsish. Too hot, too cold...

Do we ever just let one another be just right?

Or do we always have to make the slight comment that subtly rips another tear in the already-fragile heart of another? Because slight comments and jabs hurt humans. And when we are called to the carpet on our sarcasm or behind the back stab, we just say things like, 'can't you take a joke?' 'Gosh, you are just so sensitive.'

I have heard this about myself and I have said this to others.

I have hurt and been hurt.

And the best solution I have heard lately is 'Zero Negativity'. The idea is part of the Relationships First and Safe Conversations approach by Harville Hendricks and Helen Hunt. Creating zero negativity zones where relationships are free from words, tones and body language that can be taken as a 'put-down.'

Where would we be as a society if we cradled our interactions in love and set the sarcastic slights aside? Where would we be as churches, organizations, families?

Let's just be careful with one another. Intentional about guarding our 'advice' and even the prideful feeling like we know better about something we truly know nothing about. Careful.

One last thing.

I will not give up on my circle. The ones who love me when I'm too much, not enough and the just right days, too. Life-giving people who teach me zero-negativity.

And I commit to this Zero Negativity Challenge for my own interactions with others.

Words of affirmation.

Let the words of my mouth.

Think of what is pure, lovely, true.

Closer to you, Jesus.

When love is not an either/or proposition

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Tue, 02 Apr 2019 12:38:00 +0000

Neighbor.

Next door neighbor.

Around the corner neighbor.

Church neighbor.

Grocery store clerk neighbor.

Construction worker neighbor.

Homeless neighbor.

Gainfully employed neighbor.

Beautiful neighbor.

Uncomfortable neighbor.

Incarcerated neighbor.

Non-English speaking neighbor.

________

I woke this morning with a mind overflowing with words to write.

Full-time writing is not my calling. I only write publicly when I am filled to the brim with thoughts and words that I must share.

My calling prods me to talk about a few of my neighbors. The work here in Honduras requires an open discussion of neighbor.

In the talking and discussing together about neighbors, many on US soil declare, "People are starving in the US, people are poor in the US... we must take care of our own before we take care of others. I cannot help you take care of Hondurans."

I understand this mindset, I really do. This mindset was mine many, many years ago when I only held hands with my closest neighbors. This mindset is not mine today when my hands are eager to join hands with whomever wants to work to bring light in hard places... some of the hardest of places.

Many who are reading this today love Jesus and live to follow His example.

I wonder, did Jesus only love his next-door neighbor? Did Jesus only help the neighbor who looked like Him? Did Jesus make sure all neighbors in Bethlehem were comfortable before He helped the next town over? Did Jesus tell His followers to go only to Jerusalem and surrounding counties?

Or did He really say be my witnesses all the way to the very ends of the earth?

Loving is not an EITHER/OR proposition... Loving is an AND commitment.

We are to love here and we are to love there. We are to help here and we are to help there. We are to be a reflection of His love here and a reflection of His love there.

We must see the wealthy businesswoman and the migrant worker as equally worthy of God's love and ours.

I ask myself today ... where are my blind spots in relation to loving, caring, helping, raising my voice? What can I do or refrain from doing today that would better reflect God's international love?

I ask you today... are you courageous enough to look for blind spots? To ask questions? To be curious about others? To refrain from posting things that truly may not be loving to your neighbor?

Let's grab hands today and really look around. And let's celebrate together as we begin to see Jesus people looking more like Jesus.

Same Bridge... Deeply-Changed Family

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Sat, 12 Jan 2019 17:21:00 +0000

2010 - Waits Family - Aidan (10), Arlee (7), Adam (4) & Aaron (3)

I haven't seen this photo in 8 years. My aging brain jumps into memory mode and I remember...

It is 2010. I am fresh from the US... plucked out of my comfortable soil and roughly planted in temporary soil of La Ceiba, Honduras for language school. The language comes slowly. everything seems challenging and unknown.

My babies... 4 of them taking this new journey on with nervous excitement. My husband, strong for the task, encouraging us all to look for what awaits and always in need of God's grace and mercy.

We live with a beautiful Honduran couple... limited privacy, hot to redefine my concept of hot, new foods, stubborn stomachs, studying and practicing.

We take a weekend to head up into the mountains. Rio Cangrejal. God's barely-touched beauty before our eyes.

A photo is snapped.

We proceed up the mountain. Within 30 minutes, the babies tire and we head back down, not reaching our goal of the waterfall ... just happy to have seen the beauty of Pico Bonito.

2018 - Waits Family - Aidan (18), Arlee (15), Adam (12) & Aaron (11)

It is 2018. I am a multitude of complexity... always Northamerican, yet forever changed by Honduras and her people, forever a part of a forgotten region called the Miskito Coast. The language flows fluid, the challenges and unknowns still come.

My babies... there are 5 of them now. 5 people with strength, dignity, struggles and victories. My husband and me ... worn, battle-weary and still in deep need of God's grace and mercy.

We have traveled far to be able to spend a few days together. Our oldest is now on his own, yet longing for the smells, tastes and welcome of the country who loved and raised him. He travels 24 hours to reach us. We travel a few hours to reach him. Together again.

We are back in Rio Cangrejal. God's barely-touched beauty before our eyes.

A photo is snapped.

We proceed up the mountain. Within an hour or so, we reach the first waterfall. Enormous blue butterflies flutter. Clear, cold water. Coolness on our skin. Peace.

First Waterfall

An hour later, my body says no. I cannot walk another step. My 6-year-old climbs like a little mountain goat. My 11-year-old scampers up the trail. My 12-year-old grins from ear to ear at his success. My teenagers are experts. Alex stays behind with me as we tell them to go on.

I am the weak link on this day.

I take small steps, teeny-tiny baby steps, sure that I am going to reach the goal, stubborn that I will not cause Alex to miss the beauty of the large waterfall.

30 minutes later, my 15-year-old comes back. She literally pulls me up the mountain. Over big rocks, slippery stumps, on a very small trail.

I smile at the beauty of this human being who leads me... never ashamed of my weakness, sure of our capacity together to both reach the summit.

The Big Waterfall

8 years changes things. 8 years changes bodies... some get stronger, others a bit weaker. 8 years change dreams.

8 years cannot change love. It cannot change commitment. It cannot change faith.

And, 8 years absolutely cannot change family!

When Dreaming Requires a Dare...

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Sat, 22 Sep 2018 20:00:00 +0000

... the dreams of a few of our 9th grade young men...

DARE ... to have sufficient courage

What do you think of when you hear the phrase 'Dare to Dream?'

Do you really think that the very act of dreaming is something that would require 'sufficient courage?'

I, Laura, dreamed easily, and mostly, still do. I was raised in fertile soil where dreams grow.

Do you know that there are MANY young people for whom dreaming is absolutely an act of courage?

Why?

Imagine you are geographically isolated. Literally, you have limited land access to larger cities due to a variety of corrupt political practices. A road needed to be built 30 years ago and there was aid to be had... and yet, why use that money to connect an entire people group when it is easier to just leave them to themselves?

Imagine you have few examples of dreamers. Literally, your mom left school in 2nd grade to work on the farm and had you when she was 15 or 16. She knows not how to encourage you other than 'you have to go to school.' She doesn't really even know why, she just knows.

Imagine you have zero resources. Your mom works hour-to-hour eeking out a below-poverty level existence to feed you and your siblings. Your dad has gone to live with another woman and has other children. Your grandparents have more mouths to feed than they can count.

Imagine the only people around you who you see as successful are involved in an illicit trade. Your cousins provoke you to give up on that long, hard education and try the easy route. Your siblings need to eat. You are hungrier than you should be. Your mom is crying. Easy decision.

It is 2014. I find myself teaching in a school God built with my husband's hands, my heart and many friends seated around many tables. As my heart pounds and my Spanish falters, I ask our first group of 7th graders... What is your DREAM?

Silence.

I rephrase and ask again.

Silence.

I smile big and pat a student on the back... do you have a dream?

Imagine that you stare back at me and smile. 'What is a dream?'

My heart stops.

Imagine ... you don't yet know how to dream.

The process of opening yourself up and exploring the very courage to dream takes years. There are so many reasons not to dream. And yet, these teachers keep standing up in front of you and saying... DREAM. People arrive from far-off places and say... DREAM. Your mom begins to imagine and encourage... DREAM.

You say to yourself ... DARE I Dream?

_________________________________________

My middle-aged life song has been one DREAM after another. I have sung the same dream song in many different keys for the last 20 or so years. Many of you have spent time dreaming with me and even taken some of the dream as your own.

In just 6 weeks, I will be in the US to share how one very small dream that God planted in the hearts of a few folks has grown into a full-color, living, breathing testimony of God's faithful care.

Please join me on Saturday, November 3, 2018 to hear how daring to dream in one place allows others to DARE to DREAM in another far-off place. I look forward to being with you and sharing it all together.

CLICK HERE TO BUY A TABLE FOR YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS!

Where Sorrow and Joy Dance Together

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Tue, 04 Sep 2018 00:12:00 +0000

They sometimes hold hands, you know...

Sorrow and Joy.

Like old lovers, they often quarrel. Sorrow rises up and joy feels small. Joy soars and sorrows plummet.

There are moments, though, where they dance together. Sorrow moving slow and with anguish, while Joy pushing for the salsa.

The last years of my life have been a strange love affair between deep joy and profound sorrow. In the midst of such a couple, I find Jesus.

You see, in far off places or in nearby places, Sorrow finds me. And so does Joy. They both chase me down and beg me to allow them to stay the night.

Sorrow reaches for me in the face of a dead young man who needlessly succumbed to a disease long-eradicated in developed parts of this world. Sorrow grabs me in perceived hopelessness. Sorrow twists my arm in slow, yet frequent bursts; story after story of loss.

Joy calls for me on the La Mosquitia breeze. Joy knows my name and speaks my heart language. Joy never yells, nor twists. Joy carefully draws me in.

A day dawns without even a glimpse of what is yet to come. Will Sorrow have her day, or will Joy become my hero?

Somehow, I believe the two will dance wildly with me until the curtain falls.

"....sorrowful, yet always rejoicing." 2 Corinthians 6:10a

Thoughts on Time

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Wed, 15 Aug 2018 21:51:00 +0000

5 months is a good, long time.

It is sufficient time to celebrate all of the Waits birthdays, anniversaries, a graduation and a launch.

It is sufficient time to schedule a reconnect with long, but never lost, college girlfriends.

It is sufficient time to rest, regroup and reboot a calling.

It is sufficient time to eat at lovely restaurants, tea rooms and a few picnics.

It is sufficient time to gaze into the eyes of my beloved and remember us.

It is sufficient time to zoom in on priorities.

It is sufficient time to be away from dear, dear people who cradle me in arms of their beautiful culture.

It is sufficient time to reexplore my strengths and seek clarity for my blind spots.

It is sufficient time to rediscover the answer to every human's question of 'why was I created?'

5 months also goes fast.

It is not enough time to say 'I love you', 'I appreciate you', 'I need you.'

It is not enough time to meet with every person I love.

It is not enough time to express my sorrow at what our absence leaves to our loved ones.

It is not enough time to explain the depth of my soul about the work we do.

It is not enough time to rebuild broken trust or apologize sufficiently for old wounds.

It is not enough time to slowly live alongside our Northamerican neighbors.

It is not enough time to understand the complexity and sheer agony of the current political climate.

It is not enough time to have all the i's dotted and t's crossed.

__________________________

The Waits are on the way back to the proverbial barn... we have grazed on the goodness of the USA. We have drunk-deep from the fountain of love that our people prepared for us. We are walking faster through these last days before boarding a plane that will take us to that humid, hot place where home is just a few more steps away.

Home morphs and twists for me. Once, home was only where my parents lived. Then, home expanded to include anywhere the 7 members of the Waits circus were together. Now, I have a small home, on the east coast, where Aidan plays the introduction to his life symphony. I have a actual, worn, wooden home built on concrete pillars waiting for me, close to a beautiful lagoon on the Caribbean. I have a family of students and teachers guarding the sweetest of hugs to greet me in mere days. Richness.

Home is my place where there is sufficient time and, simultaneous, never enough time.

6,608 Days Together

noreply@blogger.com (L. Waits) — Tue, 17 Jul 2018 13:49:00 +0000

This morning we celebrated 6,608 days together.

I wept a bit. Honestly, I sobbed.

I thanked God from the depth of me.

I laughed at your antics and your crazy.

I remembered you standing at the IVA gate every morning, free hugs and a fist pump for every, single student.

I sent out a few texts to friends asking for prayer. Truthfully, I begged.

I cackled at your hack of my autocorrect so that every time I typed 'I', it corrected to 'Ozzy' and 'you' to 'dolphin butts'

I watched a video about what you will face the next 3 weeks in Indoc and I knew my little Greek Olympian would cross the finish line.

I relived the moment your Dad told me, 'It's a Boy!' and my heart sent pieces of itself to live in another person.

I touched the beautiful memory box full of letters from your Miskito friends. The ones who could write... and the ones who simply couldn't...

I counted the times you have shared your story... assuring the doubters that your teenage life really was a rich one, that you really had not missed out on all that much.

I heard your prayer of love and gratitude on the dedication day of IVA in 2013, when we were still close to the same height.

I imagined myself in the upstairs game room in Van Alstyne where we learned Latin together and explored the idea of what homeschooling might look like.

I once again printed your12-page transcript, proving to the world that you were 'educated' and marveled at how many books you have read while on the other side of a Honduran rainforest.

I held tight to my memories of your cement mixing, painting, hauling water, building a school... your arms trembling under the weight of the wet cement in your shovel, your smile and cheers calling out to your Miskito brothers to keep on, your heart beating with love for a people who helped make you a man.

I gave thanks for our trip to Annapolis... never knowing back then that it would change your trajectory.

I tasted the sweet victory that came as you received notice that your dream was coming true... Naval Academy.

I listened to the Spotify playlist you created for the Family to remember you as we look to a new normal.

I loved you, just like every other morning.

I prayed for you... and for me... and for the little people here who think you are their very own superhero.

I smiled at the past, grieved for the present and looked with anticipation at the future, your future.

Godspeed, my firstborn.