To My Dearest Dominican

To my dearest Dominican,

What can I say? As I sit in the airport preparing to leave you, the words of farewell seem slow in coming. I don't have the words to give you the good-bye you deserve, nor the time to tell you what you mean to me. 

You were my first love. It was love at first sight, even. I didn't believe in that until I stepped out into the warm tropical sun for the first time and looked with bubbling anticipation at my future home. For the next few years it was like honeymoon bliss, visiting you and delighting in all the sounds, sights, and people. You have so much to offer.

Though it was hard, I'm so glad the honeymoon ended. The more time I spent with you the more I learned; I saw the good, the bad, the ugly, and the unbelievably beautiful. You broke my heart many times and we both hurt each other without meaning to. But we stuck with it, we grew and we compromised, and now I can't imagine my life without you. The initial excitement settled into a steady, deeper love, and we lived life that way for a time.

And now it's time to be apart; maybe for a short time, maybe for longer. But you have left me with many fond memories to think back on when I am missing you. 

-I will miss the noises: the children shouting right outside my window, the store blasting music down the street, the endless stream of trucks rumbling by and honking their horns. How will I learn to sleep again in the silence?

-I will miss the language, with its fast-paced story-telling and beautiful phrases. And the yelling. So much yelling.

-I will miss the food. But not just the food, the people who were helping me make it. Empanada night won't be the same without my crew crowding in my little kitchen.

-I will miss the ride to work, when I got to sit and watch the endless sugar cane fields pass by and wonder how a place could be so beautiful.

-But mostly I will miss my friends, who made each day an adventure. My friends, who drove me to the brink of madness and then back again in a matter of seconds. My friends, who will never know how much they mean to me or how much of an impact they made on my life. I hope I have been able to reciprocate even half of the love and hospitality that they have shown me.


And so, my dearest Dominican, I want to thank you for the special part you have played in my life. I know your part isn't over yet; in fact, it's just beginning. But all good-byes are hard, and this one is no different. 

When I start to miss you I have many memories to take me back, but this one is my favorite: it's all of those times when I would be at the play (sports field). The girls would be in the middle of a soccer game and they would be talking, fighting, laughing. I would take a break from the organized chaos to look around me. Behind me the boys would be in the middle of a basketball game on the new court, and little kids would be rolling tires and kicking around deflated balls right beside it. Just beyond that the sugar cane in the field would be swaying gently in the early evening breeze, and everything would look golden as the sun kissed the tops of the distant mountains and prepared to set on another day. The sky would be impossibly clear with the most brilliant colors I could imagine. In those short moments everything felt as it should be, and I would wonder if life could get any better than this. 

That is how I think of you, my dearest Dominican, and that is how I will remember you until we are together again. 

Until then.

Forever yours,

Jessica

What's Wrong with the American's Face?

One day I was walking around the batey with a kid who had decided to join me, chatting idly with him and greeting the people we were passing. I raised my hand in greeting and wished one particular woman a good afternoon. She looked up from what she was doing and said in a loud voice, “What’s wrong with the American’s face?”

The kid looked up at me, either expecting me to react or waiting for me to give her an answer. Outwardly I showed no sign that I had heard or understood, but mentally my shoulders were drooping slightly as I continued on. After dozens such comments I have learned to let them roll off me quickly, but it always stings a little.

Ever since I was fifteen years old I have struggled with acne. Okay, at this point some of you may be wondering why I’m talking about something so superficial when I could be using this blog to talk about international politics or world hunger or something less fleeting than my physical appearance. This subject is definitely a bit different from my usual topics, but for some reason it has been weighing on my heart, and so I will give it some space to be discussed.

Obviously acne is something almost everyone can relate to, but for me it was a pretty major struggle, and very quickly became the thing I hated most about my body. I can’t remember a time when I had smooth, clear skin. I use two prescriptions to help keep it under control. One of my medications makes my face sensitive to the sun, which means five minutes outside—even five minutes while using sunscreen—will turn my face beet red for the rest of the day. And in case you didn’t remember I live on a tropical island, so every day my face is spotted with acne scars and reddened from the island sun. Make-up was like a little miracle when I finally figured out how to use it right, but when the year-round heat causes the make-up to sweat off right as you put it on, it kind of defeats the purpose.

In reality most comments I receive from the locals (ahem, I mean the local men) are pretty positive. I am called beautiful and pretty, mostly because of my white skin. But I also get fairly regular comments about my face, and because it is my biggest insecurity, they stick with me.

It’s not just in the Dominican that I have gotten asked about my acne. In every country I have visited, including the U.S., my face has been a topic of discussion, mostly from kids, but adults too. One of my worst experiences? I was in Haiti about two years ago visiting my friend who was living in an orphanage at the time. My sister and two other friends had come to see her too, and we were all walking down a street after enjoying some cool Coke from a glass bottle. Suddenly an old drunk man began to follow us on the street. He was harassing us a bit, first to ask for money, and then to bother us because we didn’t give him any. I was standing next to my sister, and he pointed a wobbly finger at her.

“You are beautiful,” he said in half Creole and half pantomime. I couldn’t argue with him on that. My sister is beautiful, and I have spent my entire life looking up to her. I hated it when people compared us to each other, mostly because she usually ended up coming out on top. I couldn’t fault her for that because I typically agreed with them, but I despised them for pointing it out. I mean, just look at her:

Okay, but really:

Then the man turned to me. “You are not beautiful.” He gestured my face to drive in his point. In that moment all of my past insecurities flooded back to me. I became shrouded in shame, and then anger at feeling ashamed. The man asked if I had allergies, or if I had scratched my face. My answers were laced with defiant pride, but it was a facade; inside I was a broken little girl who had just been wounded by a stranger.

That man is a symbol of the rejection and condemnation that I fear from everyone because of how I look. His accusing words boom over all others, drowning out every compliment, every expression of admiration. In my warped moments of weakness I allow this to happen; I allow strangers and mere humans to assign me value based on what they see. And I close my ears to the quiet truth that is being whispered constantly to my heart, waiting for me to accept it.

The truth is that I am a perfect creation because I was created by a perfect being.

The truth is that my confidence comes from the Lord, and it is nothing I can muster up myself.

The truth is that God has designed me to do many things in my life, and there is no time to be dragged down by the ugly lies about me.

After eight years of being chained down by this insecurity, I have finally allowed God to tell me what my value is, and it is way more than I ever dreamed it could be. In fact, I am priceless. The comments about my face may still sting a little, but they no longer define me, which is probably why I am even able to write about this with no shame. I am not posting this so I will receive a bunch of comments about how beautiful I am; I actually happen to think very highly of myself, and the only approval I need is from my Creator. I know who I am, and there is strength in the knowing. My hope is that by sharing my struggles there will be someone who will finally let God tell them who they are. And who they are is beautiful.

"What's Your Function Here?": A Culture Study, Part Three

When I had been in Batey 7 for just a little while I still didn’t know many people, and there were still many people who didn’t know me. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that the majority of people knew of me, but weren’t actually acquainted with me. I spent many nights sitting on my porch either by myself or with my friend Nelson. It was nice when Nelson was there because his friends would come over and talk to us, and I was able to meet more people in a less awkward way than me going up to a random house and saying, “Hey, I’m Jessica and I live here right now…” Thus end my small-talking skills.

One night a few weeks after I first moved here a couple of Nelson’s friends came to sit on the porch in the semi-darkness. They chatted amongst themselves for a bit, when suddenly one of the guys turned and directed a question to me.

“And you,” he said, “what is your function here?” I smiled, or rather smirked, at his question, not because it offended me, but rather because it was the first time someone had finally asked the question to my face. I had overheard, or been told of, the people speculating about me since before I had even arrived.  I knew what they all were asking: What are you going to do while you’re here? How will your presence benefit us?

“Don’t you want to know my name first?” I asked him lightly. He told me he already knew my name. He didn’t.

This final post on Dominican culture is not exactly about Dominican culture; in reality, it’s about a culture that has been created in the past several decades through interactions with outside sources, namely NGOs and aid ministries and organizations. When that young man saw me, he saw a means of gaining something for his community. He didn’t see a person, or at least not a specific person. I was interchangeable, and very replaceable. And he wasn’t the only person to think like that.

Honestly, I don’t blame them for asking that question. North Americans don’t exactly relocate to the bateyes for the prime property and excellent school systems. When foreigners come into these communities it’s usually because they want to help, or because they have some kind of goal in mind to accomplish. And wasn’t that why I was here? To somehow be a blessing to Batey 7? So what’s the problem?

I think the problem is with us. The foreigners, the helpers. How can I blame the locals for judging me by what I produce when that’s exactly how we judge ourselves? Think about the culture in the United States; the “important” people are those who accomplish the most, those who make the most money, and those who utilize their time in the most efficient way to cross off lists and get stuff done. We celebrate financial success, and we applaud hard work that produces results quickly. Are these bad things? No, I don’t think so. But when we allow these values that we hold to turn people into efficiency machines, then we begin to miss the most important parts of life. We forget that people can enrich our lives simply by existing, simply by being beside us.

These values shape how we think about helping others as well. When coming into an area, we want to find out how to use the resources (money, materials, manpower) we have to build the optimum number of houses, or wells, or gardens. Then we get in there, do our thing, and voila! A brand new well is ready for community use before you know it.

I know I have years to go before I have the right to start spouting wisdom for the mission field, but from my observations I think in many areas of the world the most important thing to focus on is not alleviating the lack of material resources, but rather developing the people and helping them to reach their potential in Jesus Christ. Only then will these communities be transformed.

If we switched our focus from the project to the individual, maybe their focus would change as well. If we made it a point to show the locals that we value them simply for being themselves, maybe they would value us as more than walking ATMs.

I feel inclined at this point to make a disclaimer that not every organization focuses on the project over the individual, and not every local only expects money and progress from the volunteers that come into their community. But the majority of my interactions with people here involve high expectations for me to provide something physical for the community, family, or individual. I’m sure when I leave Batey 7 there will be many disappointed people over what little I accomplished, but hopefully there will be a few people who feel better for having known me, just like I feel better for having known them.

One day recently while I was playing soccer with a group of girls one of them asked me, “Are you here to [distribute the rice from your ministry] or are you here to play soccer?” I chuckled at the two choices she gave me. You know what, though? Maybe she is spot on. Maybe all I’m here to do is play soccer, and to be an encouragement to the girls on my team. As followers of Christ, no job is too little or too big for us. I’m just thankful for the time I get to share with them, and perhaps they will feel the same.

What’s my function here? To be present in every moment, and to always be open to the opportunities God gives me to point people to him. That’s not exactly a satisfactory answer for many people, but it’s good enough for me. 

"Wow, You Were Fat!": A Culture Study, Part Two

When I first moved to the Dominican Republic a few things happened almost immediately:

1. The small stock of Easter candy we had brought with us ran out, and I sorely regretted not shoving more bags of Cadbury Mini Eggs in my carry-on suitcase.
2. Goats officially beat out dolphins as my favorite animal.
3. I dropped about twenty pounds. (Impressed? My secret is a simple little formula: No Easter candy + several bouts of diarrhea=a new, skinny you!)

My mom brought her digital picture frame along with us, and our friends (once we made some) loved to watch the slideshow of pictures and see our family and friends back in the States, as well as my parents and me before we moved to the DR. And because of item number three listed above, their reaction to a picture of me was always, always the same—“Wow, you were fat!” 

They thought it was the funniest thing, and they never hesitated to point out my past chunkiness. Just like in my first post about Dominican culture, this might sound like an inappropriate thing to say, especially if you don’t know someone very well. But around here that’s the normal conversation. Comments that might get you slapped in the States just get a couple of chuckles here, if any reaction at all. 

Here’s the basic lesson for Americans in this post: don’t allow yourself to be easily offended when you come to the DR. People will say things that sound insulting, but that’s just the way their culture is. 

People usually don’t mean it in an offensive way, either. If someone needs to get the attention of a heavyset boy, they might call out, “Hey, Chubby!” When I first heard that I was mortified. I scolded the person who had called out, saying it was offensive and disrespectful. The guy showed me the boy who had walked up. He pointed to his belly, and, as a justification for his words, said to me, “Look, he’s chubby. So I called him Chubby.” 

…

Well, I certainly couldn’t argue with his logic. But for the first year or so that I lived here I tried to argue against his manners. I thought I was on some great crusade against rudeness. Every day I would remind people to say please and thank you, and I would rebuke everyone who addressed someone as “Fatty,” “Chubby,” or “Ugly.” Sometimes people would call out, “Hey, pregnant lady!” Or, if they weren’t sure if she was pregnant or not, they would carry on a loud conversation about her until the mystery of is-she-pregnant-or-just-shaped-weird was solved.

It isn't just directed at other people. My family gets our fair share of comments. Every time a friend of ours thinks that my dad’s hair is getting too long he will say, “Martin, barber shop,” every day until my dad goes to get his hair cut. That same friend once told me that I would never win a Miss America pageant. I didn’t ask which category I was falling short in; I didn’t really want to know. 

Believe it or not, I actually made some progress with my Polite Crusade. The employees of our ministry now almost always say please and thank you, and they address people in a more respectful (in my eyes) way. But after a while I realized that the person who was most offended by everyone’s comments was, well, me. And if I, the outsider, am the only person who has a problem with it, why am I fighting so hard against it? Maybe I should try embracing it for a while.

Don’t mistake this attitude with complacency. I won’t just sit back and allow the children and other people around me to be horrible to each other or to me. Neither, though, will I try to change them to treat each other in a more “American” way, because frankly, I don’t think we have it right either. The way I see it, the Dominican and the U.S. are on opposite ends of a spectrum, when really everyone should be in the middle. In the Dominican harsh words and insults are perfectly acceptable. You can comment on someone’s weight, facial features, personality, with no problem. Just last night at a church service a girl came up to me and told me I should have fixed my hair before showing up (thank you, friend, for the beauty tips). In the United States, on the other hand, you can’t say anything anymore without someone jumping on you for being offensive. People are getting in big trouble for the things they say, and now many people are afraid to say anything. That’s no way to interact with others. 

Instead, I will take the best of both cultures and use it to change the way I interact with the people around me. My American-ness will always stick with me; I will probably never be able to address someone as “Chubby,” and that’s not a bad thing. But my impeccable American manners have changed a bit. Remember what I said in my post last week about everyone living interdependently and helping each other out? I would say thank you every single time someone would do something to help me (which is a lot). One evening after thanking my friend Negra for what was probably the hundredth time for helping me wash the dishes, sweep the floor, cook the food, etc., she turned to me and said. “You know, now that we know each other well you don’t have to say thank you anymore.” Every time I would say thank you after that she would give me a look that made me bite my tongue. Now I hardly ever say thank you to her. At first it felt rude; she helps me so much and I want her to know I appreciate it! But after a while it kind of feels even better to not say thank you. We know each other well enough to appreciate each other and be thankful for what the other does without ever saying anything. It feels like a new step of friendship. Maybe I’m overanalyzing a simple “thank you,” but maybe what we say or don’t say really does matter.

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, people do still let me know if I have put on a few pounds. It happened just last week. Who needs a scale to keep track of your weight when you have your neighbors!?

What's Mine Is Everybody's: A Culture Study, Part One

“You weren’t going to use that can of peas, were you?” My neighbor walks in unannounced and heads straight to the shelf in my kitchen. She picks up the can of peas and starts to walk toward the door again before I have a chance to tell her, “Of course not, please take them!” To most if not all of you, this probably looks really rude. But that’s the thing about culture—something that is unacceptable in one culture is completely normal in another.

A lot of hurt relationships and miscommunication can happen when we aren’t aware of each other’s culture. I personally believe that all cultures should be celebrated; but more importantly, I believe that all cultures have a right to be learned and understood. No culture is inherently better or worse than another. Even though there are days in which Dominican culture drives me crazy, there are other days where I feel very privileged to be experiencing it. And so, to celebrate the Dominican culture as well as help others understand it better, I have decided to write a three-part post on some of bigger aspects of Dominican culture, specifically the culture of the bateyes. Today my focus will be on material possessions.

We Americans tend to be very possessive of our possessions. We take pride in the things we have been able to earn for ourselves, like our cars, televisions, houses, etc. If someone wants to use our possessions, the correct thing to do is to ask permission first, take proper care of the item, and then return the item back to its owner in a timely fashion. Our system is polite, respectful, and orderly.

And it is completely irrelevant in the Dominican Republic.

In the Dominican, if you have something then it is meant to be shared. I noticed this especially after I moved to Batey 7. My neighbors would constantly come in and sort of ask but actually just take things in my house to use. If I hadn’t already lived in the DR for over a year this probably would have bothered me a lot. But I understand now that this is the rhythm of life.

Why is this aspect of culture so drastically different from the culture in the United States or other developed countries? I think it is derived mostly from economic status. Many people in the batey can’t afford to buy everything they need or want, so they live interdependently with their neighbors to meet their needs. Maybe I have some rice and my neighbor has some beans. Separately we wouldn’t be able to make much of a meal but together we can whip up something that is both delicious and sufficient to feed both our families.

The same thing happens when people walk in and take my stuff. It’s not as if they are just constantly stealing my things; living in such an interdependent community means a lot of give and take. Sure, my neighbor took my peas, but she was using them to make enough food to give to me as well. I traded my can of peas for a prepared, home-cooked meal (and honestly, I think I came out on top with that one).

One day a friend walked into my house while I was next door and took a bucket I had because he needed to carry some plantains. He returned it a little while later without saying please or thank you. It wasn’t rude; I had a bucket that I wasn’t currently using and he needed a bucket in that moment. The logic is as simple as that. And plus, I would be taking my empty jugs to his house later that day to use his tap to refill my water supply since I don’t have my own tap. Give and take.

I am constantly loaning my flashlight to my friends so they can shower when the electricity is off, but they let me use their washing machine to wash my clothes. I let them borrow clothespins and take drinking water, and they let me use their fridge. When the power is off we use my computer to watch movies, and when the power is on we go to my friend’s house to watch her television. Working together we have a better quality of life than we would if we were alone. On reflection, maybe that’s why people play their music so loudly here—they are providing music for those who can’t afford to buy gigantic speakers. Or maybe they just like their music loud. Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s it.

This give and take shouldn’t become some sort of competition or judgment, however. In my American mind I want everything to be fair and even. If my neighbor gives me things I want to repay her in kind. I don’t want to feel like I owe her anything or that she is giving too much of herself while I am not giving enough. This can start a maddening sort of list in your head in which you weigh out everything given and received and try to work out who is “winning” or if you need to give more. That’s not the point, and it’s also not healthy. Maybe today you have more to offer than your neighbor does, and you should give freely. Tomorrow might bring hard times for you and your neighbor will be able to give more. It’s not a game to keep track of. You have received freely, and so you should freely give. 

A couple of years ago I would have hated this lifestyle of interdependency. I was very possessive of the things I owned (especially my food!) and I also didn’t like having to depend on other people to meet my needs. Those two attitudes aren’t wrong; they are just a different way of living. There is definitely something to be said for independence. I still enjoy my independence by living by myself and taking some alone time every now and then. And maybe I have a secret stash of cookies to share with me, myself and I. Is that so wrong?

But Dominican culture has changed me. It has challenged me to think differently and to act differently. I hold onto my belongings more loosely, and I ask for help more willingly. I see life as a beautiful sort of dance, and I love to watch the people around me living life together, and including me in it as well.

This aspect of Dominican culture reminds me of the verse in Acts about the early Church: “All the believers were together and had everything in common” (Acts 2:44). That is a pretty accurate description of life here. We are together and have everything in common. What’s mine is everybody’s and what is everybody’s is mine.

Except for those cookies…

The Soccer Game

I love Batey 7; I love the people in Batey 7, and I want you to share with you my experiences in this community so that you love them too. Since we have a lot of time and not a lot of electricity, sports is how people pass many of the cool evening hours. And by some fluke of the universe, they have actually invited me to play too (actually the real reason is that I am one of the only people in Batey 7 who owns a ball pump, so when they would come to ask me to inflate their ball it was just too awkward not to invite me; but after a while their pity invites became real invites when they saw my impressive skills—no wait, that can’t be right either). So for your entertainment I have written a composite of several soccer games that I have played. I hope you enjoy reading about them as much as I enjoyed playing in them.

“Aren’t you going to play soccer?” The girls ask me as they pass by my house. My heart leaps at the thought of having friends for the next couple of hours—friends who are older than two and won’t decide to pick up all the puzzle boxes in my house and pour the pieces onto the floor; friends who are older than eight and won’t want to play a memory matching game for three hours straight and then tell me I’m mopping my floor the wrong way—but I contain my excitement with a simple smile and an “Ok!” After I inflate their ball I strap on my cool-but-rarely-used orange running shoes that I use either when I work out or have to kill a spider. We walk together down my street to the “Play,” the big empty piece of land that we play on (get it?). Already a crowd of kids have formed, all wanting to be on a team. We mill about in the center of the field while several people spend a half an hour placing the orange cones that represent the goal posts in the exact correct position. There is a lot of arguing involved, but eventually the dispute is settled and the cones are placed, only for a five-year-old looking for mischief to come up and move the cones as soon as the older kids walk away.

Today we play girls versus boys, though we have picked teams in previous games. The Dominican Republic is the only country in which I consistently get chosen first in sports. I don’t delude myself into thinking it’s because of the value I bring to the team. As the only current American living in Batey 7 I assume I’m chosen more for the novelty, kind of like a Banana Bunker (look it up) or a snot-flavored jelly bean: not exactly the most useful thing to go after but it’s something fun to laugh with your friends about.

Our self-elected team captain yells us all into position (it’s not angry yelling, that’s just the volume of conversation, especially in sporting event), though I’m not sure why we are spending so much time arranging ourselves when I know we will all leave our positions as soon as the ball goes into play. She puts me up front as a forward, which anyone who was around for my Charlie Brown soccer-playing era will think is a big joke. After a bit more yelling and a bit more rearranging of the orange cones, the ball is tossed up into the air. We have to wait for it to bounce three times until we can touch it.

One…

Two…

Three…

What starts now is one giant scuffle to get the ball. When a girl gets the ball, her usual first instinct is to kick it as hard as she can down the field. When a boy gets the ball, his usual first instinct is to try out all the fancy moves he has until he fools around too much and the ball is taken from him again. I take the time now to thank God once again for putting me in a country where soccer is not the official pastime; my skills are fortunately pretty comparable to a group of kids who are more accustomed to playing baseball.

Although they are happy to have me on their team the girls start the game by rarely passing me the ball, so my two main jobs right now are to make sure I don’t fall down when the ball is nowhere near me, and to check every now and then to make sure that my tank top hasn’t slipped down and is giving someone an unsolicited show. Other than that, I have a lot of time to stand back and watch the game.

The ball never seems to be in play for too long before someone sends it sailing to the other side of the Play and we have to wait for someone to retrieve it. The game also stops frequently to allow for discussion, argument, and loud cursing matches. If someone gets really upset with someone else they can pick up the soccer ball and throw it at them, or they can look for a decent rock to throw if the situation calls for it. I watch for a while, stepping in now and then to use my nonexistent authority to end the disputes. During one argument a random boy and fellow bystander points at me and laughs. I don’t know why. After five more minute of ignoring me and fighting, the game continues.

When the ball comes to me by accident I try to play it cool, get the ball under control, and send it back out to a teammate. I actually am able to do this several times without looking like an idiot. What I’m saying is the ball really goes to the person I wanted, or at least it looks like I wanted to send it to them. My skills are minimal but they are enough for one boy to comment at one point, “Wuey, pero la americana sabe!” A rough translation of that is “Wow, I expected this American to fall flat on her face the first time she tried to kick the ball but after a half hour she’s still standing upright!”

When the boys score a goal against us the girls call for a time out and a team meeting. Everyone huddles up and gestures furiously for me to join them. I bumble over to their huddle but all we do is put our hands in, cheer, and run back out to the field. I am confused, but I guess there’s something to be said for team spirit. After a few more minutes of playing I think they realize that we didn’t actually make a new plan for victory and so they call for another time out and team meeting. They huddle up, gesture furiously, and I bumble over. This time our team captain has an inspiring speech that I don’t really understand, but I manage to put my hand in just in time to cheer with everyone else.

The game continues. My team starts passing me the ball a little more and I even score a goal. It was disputed of course, because the ball had knocked the orange cone out of place as it went “into the net,” but in my best Dominican debating voice I argue my case, and after that nobody questions it.

The ball goes back down the field and is picked up by our goalie. She sends it out, kicking it high and hard, and headed right for my face. Not wanting to risk breaking my brand new Dominican glasses that are slightly too big for my head and slide down my nose every thirty seconds, I turn my head and let the ball awkwardly hit the right side of my skull and bounce away, which I choose to believe looks impressive and self-sacrificing.

Just as I begin to wonder how much time we have left before the sun will set completely, the game stops abruptly and everyone on the field simultaneously starts to walk away. The ball is picked up, the orange cones retrieved. I look around, wondering if I had missed a signal or something, shrug, and continue on my way, covered in sweat and dust and maybe, just maybe, with a tad more street cred.

At least enough to get me invited back to the next game. 

The Post I Never Wanted to Write

I have put off writing this, mainly because I wasn’t sure how to put everything into words. There is so much to say, and yet when I sit down to tell you about it, no words come. But I feel like now it is time; many of you already know the announcement I’m about to make, through some letters we have sent out or through talking to us in person.

After a lot of prayer and discussion, my parents and I feel that, for a variety of reasons, our time in the Dominican Republic is coming to an end.

Did I just say that? This is me we’re talking about; for the past seven years (for those of you keeping score at home, that’s about a third of my lifetime) I have lived, breathed, and dreamed of nothing but the Dominican Republic. Not a day has gone by since my first trip here when I was 16 that I haven’t thought about my dear country that I fell in love with so quickly. I read so many books, did so many assignments in college, all geared toward having a successful ministry in the Dominican Republic. And now, I’m…supposed to leave?

At the end of 2015, my parents and I will be finishing our work in the DR and heading back to the United States for the next step in God’s plan for our lives. You probably read through that last sentence really fast, but I can’t tell you how long it took for me to actually write. I hope to always be honest with you, and this is honestly a decision that was really hard for me to make. During the process of deciding to leave the DR I felt anger, bitterness, frustration, uncertainty, and a lot of sadness. I was angry at God for giving me such a small amount of time here; I was angry at life for not turning out the way I thought it should; and I was angry at myself, because at first even the thought of leaving my home here felt like an unforgivable betrayal. It hurt my misplaced sense of pride, as if leaving here is equal to failure. I’m sure many other missionaries who have left their mission field have felt that very same way.

Though I will never be able to fully explain why we are leaving at the end of the year, mostly because God hasn’t really told me himself the whole story, I do want to tell you that we are not leaving because of something bad that happened or because we are culturally, emotionally, or physically exhausted. We have a wonderful life here, and though it is far from easy and even farther from perfect, we have thoroughly enjoyed our time here. The friends we have made are beautiful people, and my heart will ache to leave them. The work we have done is slowly growing and developing, and it will be hard to leave it behind for others to continue. But in all things I have to trust that God knows what he is doing, and that he really is working in all things for the good of those who love him (which is me-and my Dominican brothers and sisters).

For a while now I have felt completely at peace with my decision, and I was even excited to see what God has in store for me in the future. But I have to admit that as soon as I began to write these words to you all of my feelings of sadness and doubt came rushing back. I think it’s because this kind of makes it seem more final. When I make this announcement, there’s no turning back. I am ready, now, to face the future, but it still hurts. I know in December I will leave a big piece of my heart behind.

So what’s next for my family? In truth we haven’t established any set plans yet, but we will definitely keep you informed! My heart and soul still feel the distinct call to the mission field, though which particular one I am not sure. We would appreciate all of your prayers as we begin to wind down in the next coming months and prepare to transition back to the States. Pray for us to finish our work well, and for the people around us that we will be leaving. And as always pray for God to move in mighty ways in the DR; he has big plans for this country, and I feel so honored and privileged to have played a small part in his greater plan.

Thank you for reading, and for understanding, and for praying. Thank you for being with us during our journey. You have meant more to us than you will ever know. 

When You Think of Poverty...

I heard my name called quietly amid the noise of the food distribution. It was the last batey we were visiting that day and the sun was intense, waiting patiently for our truck to drive out from under the protection of the shade tree and back into its full strength. The afternoon breeze was kicking up the dust and flinging it into our eyes.

Leaving my work, I stood up and made my way over to the driver’s side of the truck. Our driver, Ariel, was sitting in the front with a small group of people surrounding the open door. I made my way into the group and looked expectantly at Ariel, waiting to see what the problem was.

 “They say this boy just came from Haiti and was dropped off by someone here this morning,” Ariel began, his face sober and expressing an emotion I couldn’t quite place. Pity? Sympathy? I rarely saw him as serious as he was now. “The man who dropped him off told him he was going to the next town to pick something up and that he would be back, but he hasn’t returned.” He nodded his head toward a boy I hadn’t noticed right away, and I finally started to understand the situation. This boy was an illegal immigrant, and he had crossed the border with someone and been left behind in a batey where he knew no one.

He spoke no Spanish. Using the little Creole I know I asked him his name. To respect his privacy I will call him Emmanuel. We had some of the batey community members translate our questions and slowly we found out more of his story:

Emmanuel was fourteen years old. The man who took him across the border was not a family member. This was his very first day in the Dominican Republic. The man told him to wait here until he came back, but hours had passed and still he hadn’t returned. I asked the people listening where Emmanuel was going to stay tonight.

“On the street,” a girl proclaimed, with no shame or hesitation.

“Who is going to take care of him here?” I asked, my anger rising with my voice.

“Nobody knows who he is,” they told me. “We can’t trust people anymore.” Their answer was simple, but effective. My anger remained, but it was not directed at them. That’s part of an impoverished life. People hurt you, take advantage of you so many times that eventually you can’t trust anyone you don’t know. This boy could be lying about everything; he could be waiting for someone to weaken and allow him in, and then he will take all of their stuff. No, Emmanuel might be able to expect a meal from someone who takes pity on him, but in all likelihood there would be no bed waiting for him tonight.

Throughout my conversation with the locals Emmanuel remained motionless. He never smiled, never frowned, never showed any kind of emotion. His face was passive yet stoic, and there was a quiet fierceness in his eyes that told me he had seen too many hardships for someone so young. His back was arched in perfect posture and his head was held high, not out of a heightened sense of pride, but out of sheer will and resilience. When I saw his strength I felt broken.

We gave him two small bags of food before we left and told him that if he was here next week we would see about giving him a ticket to start receiving food from the ministry. He took the bags silently, with a quiet dignity, and began to walk away. I wondered where he was going, since he had never been here before and didn’t know where anything was. If I didn’t know his story, I never would have thought that he was an outsider. During his retreat he looked neither to the right nor the left; his head remained high and facing front. I followed him with my eyes until our truck pulled out of the village. As I observed him I couldn’t help thinking, “This is what poverty looks like. This is what poverty is.”

Emmanuel wasn’t dirty. He wasn’t wearing ragged clothes, and he didn’t have a distended belly. His appearance spoke nothing of his poverty, but his attitude spoke volumes. It’s an attitude that I can hardly explain, and that I don’t think you can truly begin to understand until you witness it for yourself. And even then, as outsiders I don’t think we can ever truly know how poverty affects someone.

People living in poverty are the strongest people I know. You have to be strong, or else life will break you. Nobody ever cries. On this island crying is for babies and weak people, and they hardly tolerate crying from babies either. If you have a problem you don’t cry about it, you deal with it because that’s all you can do. Their strength isn’t a choice; it’s the natural result of years of hardship.

People in poverty don’t look to the right or to the left for help, because they know they won’t find any. If they glance around the only thing they will see is more problems, so it’s just easier to face ahead and carry on to the best of their ability.

People in poverty seldom default to anger and indignation when things don’t go their way. Things rarely go their way. Many times in developed countries like the United States we get frustrated when things happen to us, like the electricity going out or a problem with our vehicle. We have grown to expect things to work out for us, so when they don’t we feel uncomfortable, or cheated somehow. Most people in impoverished conditions don’t learn to expect things to work out; they expect quite the opposite, if they even expect anything at all. That’s where the whole “live for the day” concept comes from in so many developing countries. Why bother saving money for tomorrow when I don’t know what tomorrow will bring me? Tomorrow could be worse than today. Better to use what I have now to take care of my immediate needs.

If Emmanuel was despairing over his situation, he wasn’t showing it. I’m sure he learned to suppress his emotions and hide his difficulties at a very young age. When we asked about him the next week they told us that he had left the same day he had arrived, setting off for the unknown. I will never see him again, and he will never know what an impact he made on my life. I hope and pray he found some friends to depend on.

So when you think of poverty, don’t focus too much on the lack of material wealth or the lower-quality living conditions. Those things don’t give you the whole story. Instead think of Emmanuel, his back straight despite all of the burdens he was carrying, his face determined despite all of the uncertainty before him.

That’s what poverty looks like.

That’s what poverty is.

Getting Wrapped Up in It

I’m sitting in my new living room in my new house in my new community, and after six days of living in Batey 7 it feels both natural and strange at the same time. This is hands-down the most extreme change I have ever made in my life, and I can feel it in my deep raw emotions and by how completely overwhelmed I sometimes feel.

Anyone who knows me pretty well knows that I am a definite introvert. I need some time to myself on a regular basis to keep me sane and ready to give my best to the people around me. I could be alone for days and feel perfectly comfortable, even energized.

At least, that was me before I moved to the Dominican. Over a year of having the Dominican culture beaten into me (it was much more pleasant than it sounds) has changed me in many ways, one of them being how little alone time I now need. Don’t get me wrong, I still treasure those afternoons where I can pop in a movie and eat popcorn with me, myself, and I. But I had grown accustomed to having my parents in the next room over, or the neighbor kids interrupting for a half an hour during the show.

But now here I find myself surrounded by strangers in a different culture, and suddenly I have never felt so alone in my life. Yes, my friends and family are just a half an hour away, but around here it really is just me and God, getting ready to do…what? In reality I don’t know what my next move is, and the planner in me is screaming for some concrete direction. Deep down I think I know that in this slow-paced batey community, direction for me isn’t coming.

I always want to share with you bits of wisdom that I gain from my experiences, and it took less than 24 hours to receive my first bit of wisdom from living on my own as a missionary. I’m going to be completely candid with all of you: my first night alone in Batey 7 was rough. Very, very rough. Thinking back on my life, the last time I felt that alone was probably my first night in Honduras when I started my internship for college. But at least I had some familiar comforts there, like my host missionary “parents” who understood the adjustment of entering a new culture. That situation was very similar to my situation now-I had just gotten back from a trip to the DR, and after seeing all my friends there, it was hard to plop myself into a country where I knew no one. For shy people like me (believe it or not), it’s hard to begin in new places.

Anyway, back to my first night. I tossed and turned all night, thinking of nothing but myself and how sad I was to leave everything familiar. I felt almost like I was suffocating in all my loneliness. My morning began quite the same, a lonely pity-party for myself. I had quickly become very tightly wrapped up in my own problems.

Wrapped up in my problems.

I stopped and considered that phrase in a way I never had before. I pictured my problems like a big piece of cling wrap, or like a dark sheet. The more I focused on my problems the tighter the sheet wrapped around me. It covered my legs so I could not move, and it covered my mouth so I could not breathe. Finally it covered my eyes so that I couldn’t see anything or anyone around me. Suddenly my suffocating feeling made perfect sense. I was smothering myself with my heartache.

Maybe all of this sounds very dramatic, and it probably is. But emotions aren’t rational, and they’re also nothing to be ashamed of. Let me tell you my first step in unwrapping myself from my problems.

My parents offered to take me to fill up my propane tank for the stove. We thought the gas station was close by, but it turned into about a 45-minute trip there and back. We passed some towns I had never been to before, and we passed other bateyes that I visit every week. I looked at the endless sugar cane fields that I have passed hundreds of times, and I realized that they were now considered my neighborhood. We passed so many people and so many houses, and for the first time since moving to Batey 7 I felt like I could breathe again. I cast away my own problems for the moment and focused my eyes on the life that was happening around me. I allowed myself to feel how small I am. I am one little person, in one little house, in one little village, in one little country, on one little island. I was so busy putting the weight of the world on my shoulders that I forgot that I was never meant to carry it. I’m not supposed to carry the weight of the Dominican Republic, or even the weight of Batey 7. I’m just supposed to breathe, and to take the next step that God lays out in front of me.

I was sharing with a friend about my concerns before the move. What am I supposed to do when I get there? What if this is a mistake? What if I fail, even though I don’t even know what it is I’m supposed to succeed or fail in? On the night before the big day, she sent some words of encouragement. At the end of her message she wrote, “You may not do something great in the batey but you are going to be something great” (emphasis mine). I think those words were exactly what God wanted me to hear. Why was I so concerned about doing something? The quick answer is because I am American and have been trained to measure my worth through quantifiable productivity. We want results, and we want them fast. According to this thought process, if I leave this batey and it looks basically the same as when I came, then I have failed.

But that’s not a good way to live. That’s not a way to live at all. I would kill myself with the irrational pressure. During my first few days in the batey I reminded myself of my insignificance. Don’t misunderstand me; my life has incredible value because I am a child of God, just as every life has incredible value. But I am just one feeble human with human strength. If God wants to use me during this time in my life to help transform this batey then he will do it. But if he simply wants me to learn to live life with no plan and to have complete dependence on him, then that’s great too. Whatever he wants to accomplish during this time, whether in me or through me, he will do it, because I choose to be obedient.

I still have moments where I feel weighted with adjusting to a new lifestyle and doing it alone, but in those moments instead of getting wrapped up in my problems I instead choose to open my Bible or send a message to a friend. And God has been faithful in sending people to be blessings in my life, like my neighbor boy who shared the fried plantains I made on my first night and who even had the decency to say they were good. Or the man who just showed up while my dad was fixing up the electricity in my house and helped him finish it without expecting anything in return. Or the woman next door who made lunch and dinner for me today (probably because she saw me eating popcorn for dinner two times already). It’s the little things that get me through the times when I feel alone. These difficulties won’t go away overnight. Maybe they won’t go away at all. But if I can look past my front door and remember the people around me who have their difficulties too, my burdens will become lighter as we share our burdens with each other.

I don’t do this nearly enough, but I would like to share with you some things to pray about. Prayer is an amazing gift, and would love to share the privilege of praying about these things together:

1.      Pray that I continue to adjust to my new community.

2.      Pray that I find friends my age to share my time with.

3.      Pray for the community of Batey 7, that they would feel God’s love every day and be open to his word.

4.      Pray for the church and community leaders, that they be given the wisdom to lead Batey 7 in a positive direction that is pleasing to God.

5.      And pray for The Least of These Ministries, that we always seek to serve God to the best of our ability.

I’m looking forward to keeping everyone updated! Thanks for being a part of this adventure with me. 

Do You Think There Were Flies at the Last Supper?

Anyone who has ever worked for a ministry or a church knows just how easy it is to get off track from God's original vision for that organization. Doing the will of God is an uphill battle, and since basically everything in this world is fighting against your efforts (like Satan, unbelievers, the brokenness of this world) it really doesn't take much for ministries to start losing their effectiveness, or worse, begin to do some harm. In my opinion, the biggest threat to a healthy ministry is human shortcomings.

You all know how it goes. You're sitting in your favorite pew at church (third from the front on the left side) and you're staring up at the preacher, but instead of listening to his sermon you're thinking, How can that man be up there teaching God's word after what he did? Maybe he treated a member of the congregation disrespectfully. Maybe someone asked him to come to the hospital to visit their mother and he never showed up. Maybe it was something worse, something everyone knows but nobody will talk about. No matter what happened, the result is the same: because of the pastor's human failing, his testimony is no longer as effective to the people listening to him, and the people listening to him start to judge him instead of paying attention to what God may be trying to say through him.

I'm not trying to condemn one person or another, whether it's the pastor or the people in the congregation. I just wanted to describe what happens when humans participate in the work of God: in short, we screw it up.

There are two issues going on in the story above, and today I want to focus on one more than the other. The first issue is the fact that the pastor did something that was wrong, something that hurt his ministry. Obviously we can't expect this guy to be perfect; he is human, after all. Our history is littered with stories of our massive screw-ups, and it truly is only by the grace of God that we have made it this far. With that in mind we need to be constantly aware of our actions to make sure that they are always pleasing to God. We need to protect our testimony fiercely so that situations like the one above don't happen. Part of that means having the humility to admit when we are wrong and having the courage to ask for forgiveness from God and from those we hurt. We can't prevent every mistake but we can allow God to bring healing to the situation if we allow him.

But the person I really want to talk about today is the other person, the person in the congregation looking at Pastor Screw-Up at the front and wondering why he is still allowed to be in the pulpit. First of all let me qualify and say that there are some things people do that should cause their removal from a church or ministry, serious offenses such as child molestation, for example. The situation should be handled with grace and compassion for all parties involved, but the whole forgive and forget mentality simply does not work for every situation. So as I continue keep in mind that I'm not talking about those types of incidents.

As a young girl of fifteen, freshly called to the mission field, I envisioned scenes of happy children dancing and playing, and joyful missionaries working together for God's good. I don't want to say that the next eight years of my life beat the pulp out of those dreams because that sounds too bitter and jaded; what I will say is that the next eight years of my life were a rude awakening. Missionaries don't always work well together, and they especially don't always work well with the nationals in their host country. Children don't always dance around you with joy; sometimes they throw rocks at you and call you horrible names. And ministry and church leaders don't always make the best decisions or act in a Godly manner. Where two or three are gathered to do the work of God, there will be problems. 

God can do amazing things through these people gathered in his name, don't get me wrong. I have seen the good with the bad, and I can tell you that God is doing incredible work through us humans no matter how hard we try to mess it up. And he can do even more things through us when we work together in unity. But many times those shortcomings and failures become distractions to us, and all we see are the bad things that are happening instead of the work God is doing.

A couple of weeks ago I went to a communion service. The hot climate and the church without screens sent an open invitation to all the nearby flies to come in and swarm the communion bread and wine as the pastor did his communion spiel. I have to admit that during my more human moments I was watching the flies buzz around instead of listening to what the pastor was saying. Were the flies more interesting than the sermon? Not really, but they were a distraction. That got me thinking about the actual Last Supper that Jesus spent with his disciples. It was hot there too, and I'm sure all the food attracted some flies, don't you think? When we talk about Bible stories we always seem to picture some gilded version of what actually happened. Like Jonah and the big fish? We almost never take the time to consider what the inside of that fish actually felt and smelled like. I bet at the Last Supper some of the disciples probably smelled bad. I bet some of their beards were too scruffy, and I bet there were flies swarming the food as they ate. 

Then I asked myself, What would I have been doing if I were one of the disciples? Knowing my attention span there is a good possibility that I could have been looking at the flies sometimes instead of listening to what Jesus was saying to me. That sounds ridiculous, right? But how many times do we stop paying attention to Jesus today when he is trying to speak to us? You might argue that it would be different if Jesus were in the flesh talking to you face to face, but after hearing about how thick-headed the disciples were during their time with Jesus I can't imagine I would be any different.

Here's the point I'm trying to make: focusing on people's flaws instead of focusing on God's Spirit inside them is like looking at the flies during the Last Supper instead of listening to Jesus. 

Behind the flies was God in flesh, sharing his wisdom and love with us humans. To focus on the flies was useless. And behind the nasty human nature we so easily see, there is God working through someone to share his wisdom and love. To focus on their failures is useless. It is a distraction from the good that God is actually doing. And we should diligently guard ourselves against all distractions. Yes, when we look at Christian leaders, we should readily see God through them. But here's the real question: when we look at our Christian leaders are we trying to see God through them? Or are we just looking for the next thing to gossip about and to judge? What do you think would happen if we decided to look past the people in front of us and instead tried to look at how God is using them?

Maybe it would be easier to think of it a different way. When people look at you, do you want them to see how you are messing up, or how God is working in you? This is easier for some people than for others. Thankfully I was blessed with sins that have become socially acceptable in our world (please note the sarcasm). Things like my judgmental, pessimistic nature, or the gossip that I so enjoy sharing. And also, luckily for me, my deeper sins, the ones I try not to expose, are sins that are very easily hidden. Having grown up in a Christian home and surrounded by a Christian community, I learned at a very young age which sins were acceptable to display and which sins I should keep to myself. But still, there is no foolproof way to protect yourself from exposure, and sometimes those sins come bubbling to the surface. Is that what I want people to focus on when they look at me?

And here's another thing. How can I look at myself  as a Godly young woman who is truly serving God (I really do think that!), knowing how much sin is in my heart, but I can't give the same courtesy to the guy next to me who is just as Godly and just as sinful? Here's the conclusion I have come to. What we see in people is very much a choice. We can look at the crap in their lives that attracts flies, or we can look at what God sees, a perfectly created person who is worthy of love and a lot of grace. Maybe if everyone who is a part of a ministry or church looked at their brothers and sisters like that, our ministries would look entirely different.

So let's give it a shot! Let's look for God in every person we meet, and see if our outlooks don't change. 

How Two Bananas Showed Me That I Am Entitled

I used to have a very serious vendetta against bananas.

Seriously. I hated their very essence. Even the smell of a banana would send me spiraling into a fit of conniption. Why these harsh feelings? I trace it back to an unfortunate experience at Sunday School long ago.

I was about five years old and fairly notorious for my picky eating habits. The time was snack-time, presumably after a stimulating Sunday School lesson filled with felt boards and coloring pages. The napkins were distributed, and the snack tossed haphazardly on top of them. A sinking feeling filled my growling stomach. Bananas? Bananas are the snack for today? I was thoroughly offended as my teacher continued to distribute our sub-par victuals. Really, lady? Whatever happened to animal crackers, the official Sunday School snack of the 90's?

Being the good sport that I am, I took a tentative bite of my banana. I then proceeded to suppress a gag, spit the banana out, and swear off bananas for the next 17 years.

But a 22-year-old fresh on the mission field doesn't quite have the luxury of being selective. When my parents and I first moved to the DR we hardly knew anything, and we especially didn't know how to find and make good food during our first few weeks. Our meals consisted mostly of eggs, noodle soup, and-you guessed it-bananas. At this point in my life my brain was developed enough to win the logical argument that bananas were good for me and I should eat them. I fumbled with the peel and begrudgingly tasted my first banana in almost two decades.

I wish I could say it was love at first taste, but my love for bananas was a slow process. We had to get to know each other, appreciate each other for who we were. It helps that island bananas are far superior to American bananas. By the time a month had passed I was completely sold on bananas, especially in the form of a smoothie.

And so we became regular banana purchasers. We found a banana vendor that we liked and made sure to stop by at least once or twice a week. The going price for bananas here is 3 bananas for 10 pesos. which is about 8 cents a banana. Our typical order was 9 bananas, mostly because that was about how many we could eat before they went bad (they sell bananas pretty ripe around here-there is no such thing as buying them to ripen at home).

One day as my dad was taking our bananas out of the bag he counted them and discovered something delightful-our vendor had given us 11 bananas. 11 bananas when we only paid for 9! Could we really be this lucky? Was there a mistake on his end? Should we take two bananas back? We decided he was just feeling generous that day and we celebrated our good fortune.

But then something strange happened: we continued to get bonus bananas. Sometimes it was one, sometimes even 3, but mostly 2 extra bananas seemed to become the norm. And so we fell into a pattern of ordering bananas and receiving extra. It was a good life, a happy life.

Then came the fated day I will never forget. My dad had returned from getting a fresh supply of bananas and he was taking them out of the bag and putting them on our banana plate (yes, we have a special plate for bananas. It's green and sits on top of the refrigerator so the ants can't get them). Suddenly he looked up, almost at a loss for words.

"They just gave us 9," he said incredulously. I reeled back, completely blindsided by the news. We shared a dumbfounded look for a moment as a deep sense of injustice began to rise within me. 9 bananas? Is that all we are worth to them now? They gave us 9 bananas? Is this some kind of sick joke? The horror, the audacity! I can't believe them! How dare they, how dare they-

-give us exactly what we ordered, what we deserved.

How dare they? How do I dare to get upset when they have treated us nothing but fairly? We paid for 9 bananas and we received 9 quality bananas. There was no crime, no act of sabotage. The only problem here was my attitude.

Do you see what happened? At some point in our dealings with our bananas vendor I began to expect those free bananas. I began to feel like I deserved those free bananas. I had become (dare I say it?) entitled to those free bananas.

The reason I am telling you this story is to show you just how easy it is to become entitled, and thus why we should be so careful in making sure we don't create opportunities for others to become entitled in our ministries. All it took were a few times of receiving something free, something I didn't work for and didn't deserve, and just like that my mind began telling me that I should expect these free things because they belonged to me. I have seen the same thing happen in the villages I work in. Someone receives a free service or material item, and after a few times they come to expect it from everyone who comes into their community. They begin to feel entitled to my material resources and become upset when I don't freely give it to them.

This tendency is not limited to people in impoverished communities. Obviously not, after sharing my own experience of entitlement. There is no such thing as a rich man's sin or a poor man's sin. Sin permeates every corner of the globe, and it shows no regard for class distinction. I can't judge someone for forming the very same attitude that I had in a similar situation, but I can learn how to stop contributing to the problem.

Do I think our vendor was wrong for giving us extra bananas? No, not at all. He can't help my attitude and it ultimately did not inhibit my ability to live a quality, independent life. This is also a slightly different circumstance because this man is running a business, not some sort of social assistance ministry. In this instance what I needed was a gentle shake and a reminder to pull myself together and view these extra bananas as a gift, not something I deserved.

But what about in the ministry world? We need to ask ourselves the hard questions and be humble enough to consider the answers. Will giving out this material item eventually impede the receiver from living a quality, independent life? Do my material possessions speak louder than my overall witness of God? Is it possible that my material things could somehow harm other ministries in the area who may not have the resources that I do and thus can't (or won't) use material things to bring people to God? When people look at me, do they see my stuff or do they see Jesus?

As I said before, it is very easy to become entitled. It is not easy at all to keep a healthy attitude about "things," regardless if you are the giver or the receiver. And remember, we can't continue to feed into a natural human tendency (entitlement) and then get angry at people when they express the very attitude we helped create. Sometimes on the mission field I feel like we treat people like beggars and then condemn them for acting the part. Let's move forward cautiously as we seek God's will in missions around the world. It only takes two bananas to get off track. 

But don't let that discourage you from seeing the hope and potential that can be found everywhere you look.