From “Finding Calcutta” by Dr. Mary Poplin
“They do not analyze the worthiness of people or the cause of their poverty – they simply (reach out) as quickly as possible to the best of their ability. To the missionaries, poverty is first a spiritual problem and only secondarily a political one. (Teresa of Calcutta) said, “I won’t mix in politics. War is the fruit of politics and so, I don’t involve myself, that’s all. If I get stuck in politics I will stop loving. Because I will have to stand by one, not by all. That is the difference.” – p. 50, “Finding Calcutta” by Dr. Mary Poplin
“One result of (the missionaries’ first-hand knowledge of poverty) is that they do not treat poor parents as the enemies of poor children. They value and seek to serve the whole family.” – p. 57, “Finding Calcutta” by Dr. Mary Poplin
Graffiti of Cochabamba
Every once-in-a-while if I am to wake up at three or four 0-clock in the morning, usually only if we are sleeping in the front bedroom, that windows onto Alto de la Alianza Street, I will hear the “cleferos” (yellow glue-sniffers) (children, teens, and twenty-somethings) who live in the streets and in the dry river-bed strolling and shouting and sometimes banging sticks, along our street. I am not sure, but think that they are the ones most often responsible for writing with spray paint on everybody’s property walls. This is a wall just across the narrow street from where we live. The text reads, ” If God does exist after all, well then, I hope He has a good excuse for things!” Poignant. Expressive of the social, spiritual, political and economic mindset of hundreds and thousands of indigent and non-indigent persons. I think much graffiti all over the world is. I thank God for showing me my personal field to work in and giving me love for and interest in, people, since I could NEVER produce that myself, starting literally one step outside my door. But I don’t go out alone at three or four o-clock in the morning and, it’s a different world in the daytime, actually very safe!
From “Finding Calcutta” by Dr. Mary Poplin
“They do not analyze the worthiness of people or the cause of their poverty – they simply (reach out) as quickly as possible to the best of their ability. To the missionaries, poverty is first a spiritual problem and only secondarily a political one. (Teresa of Calcutta) said, “I won’t mix in politics. War is the fruit of politics and so, I don’t involve myself, that’s all. If I get stuck in politics I will stop loving. Because I will have to stand by one, not by all. That is the difference.” – p. 50, “Finding Calcutta” by Dr. Mary Poplin
“One result of (the missionaries’ first-hand knowledge of poverty is that they do not treat poor parents as the enemies of poor children. They value and seek to serve the whole family.” – p. 57, “Finding Calcutta” by Dr. Mary Poplin
A Sense of Quiet Happiness (for the gift of being able to be working in this tiny slice of God’s universe)
“Someone once asked (Teresa of Calcutta) if she was spoiling the poor, to which she replied, “There are so many congregations who spoil the rich, it is good to have one congregation in the name of the poor to spoil the poor.” Father Angelo Scolozzi, who worked with Mother for over twenty years, remembers that when she said this, the room fell silent for a long while.” – p. 49, “Finding Calcutta” by Mary Poplin
Graffiti of Cochabamba
Every once-in-a-while if I am to wake up at three or four 0-clock in the morning, usually only if we are sleeping in the front bedroom, that windows onto Alto de la Alianza Street, I will hear the “cleferos” (yellow glue-sniffers) (children, teens, and twenty-somethings) who live in the streets and in the dry river-bed strolling and shouting and sometimes banging sticks, along our street. I am not sure, but think that they are the ones most often responsible for writing with spray paint on everybody’s property walls. This is a wall just across the narrow street from where we live. The text reads, ” If God does exist after all, well then, I hope He has a good excuse for things!” Poignant. Expressive of the social, spiritual, political and economic mindset of hundreds and thousands of indigent and non-indigent persons. I think much graffiti all over the world is. I thank God for showing me my personal field to work in and giving me love for and interest in, people, since I could NEVER produce that myself, starting literally one step outside my door. But I don’t go out alone at three or four o-clock in the morning and, it’s a different world in the daytime, actually very safe!
Suggestions for Shopping the Big Market
Walk.
Cars
separate you from people.
Thread your knees
between idling taxis,
inching gargantuan buses.
Squeeze yourself
among ten thousand
warm bodies.
Your eyes assailed
teeming worlds of bright,
melèe of colors,
by a new universe
of strange (only to you!)
humanity.
Whiff of frying meat
assaults your nose,
old urine,
fragrance of mountained roses,
stench of rotting garbage,
husky aroma of homemade leather goods,
wet grassy FRESH of handwoven baskets
mingled with fish getting older,
tang of ripening nectarines.
All this is the lives of families,
of children working,
of persons like you.
Please know it’s not only another trip.
Do realize it’s not just a destination
to check off
your bucket list. -a poem by Niñadesusojos.
Vignette # 7 from the Children
#7 Amanda, 5 years old, kept complaining to the adult monitor that some of the little boys kept calling her a SPIDER (araña)! They kept insisting that they were not! (a lot of these little ones seem to have lisps and slight speech impediments) Several of the other kids chimed right in and they all had a little philosophical discussion about it.
Enjoying George Herbert
Yesterday while continuing my project to gradually and systematically weed through, organize and de-clutter our apartment, I was dusting a bookshelf and happened to come across an old college textbook on 17th c. poetry. Feeling wry fondness for the faded green hardback, I pulled it and dipped in.
I came across a George Herbert poem, actually several of them, already marked up in now-faded pen, by the “me” of years ago, and they touched my heart, spoke to me, even YET, and YET AGAIN! Especially this one!
JESU
Jesus is in my heart, His sacred name
Is deeply carvèd there, but th’other week
A great affliction broke the little frame,
Even all to pieces, which I went to seek:
And first I found the corner, where was J,
After, where ES, and next, where U was graved.
When I had got these parcels, instantly
I sat me down to spell them and percieved
That to my broken heart he was “I ease you”
and to my whole is JESU.
-George Herbert, a pastor in the 17th century.
Vignette # 7 from the Children
#7 Amanda, 5 years old, kept complaining to the adult monitor that some of the little boys kept calling her a SPIDER (araña)! They kept insisting that they were not! (a lot of these little ones seem to have lisps and slight speech impediments) Several of the other kids chimed right in and they all had a little philosophical discussion about it.
When Our Hearts Break
Yesterday while continuing my project to gradually and systematically weed through, organize and de-clutter our apartment, I was dusting a bookshelf and happened to come across an old college textbook on 17th c. poetry. Feeling wry fondness for the faded green hardback, I pulled it and dipped in.
I came across a George Herbert poem, actually several of them, already marked up in now-faded pen, by the “me” of years ago, and they touched my heart, spoke to me, even YET, and YET AGAIN! Especially this one!
JESU
Jesus is in my heart, His sacred name
Is deeply carvèd there, but th’other week
A great affliction broke the little frame,
Even all to pieces, which I went to seek:
And first I found the corner, where was J,
After, where ES, and next, where U was graved.
When I had got these parcels, instantly
I sat me down to spell them and percieved
That to my broken heart he was “I ease you”
and to my whole is JESU.
-George Herbert, a pastor in the 17th century.
White City – a Poem about Racial Discrimination in South America
-by NinadesusOjos
Jewel city of the Americas,
Pearl spun into stressed fabric of Andes life,
Where folks still sense silken whispers,
Glimpse, in memory, inlaid tortoiseshell haircombs,
Pompadoured raven locks of fine ladies,
curves of white cheekbones,
Sheepswool-white, pearl-white, cotton-white.
Long swallow-tail coats on gentlemen,
Imperious be-jewelled white fingers “SNAP”!
beckon for the lady’s fan.
Quechua slaves, dark brown, scurry, obey, eyes cast down.
Tiered stone mansions, spreading stairs,
An historic tapestry of old, white-washed buildings, red clay roofs, tiles,
textured, textiles, speckled – pink, blue, peach.
Deceptively spacious, these ornate estates
discreet behind massive carved doors,
CLOSED.
In the streets OUTSIDE, hunkering on gray greasy pavement,
green-hued teeth chewing leaf,
(to kill the hunger pangs)
homespun striped ponchos, stained,
cover dark brown trembling skin.
A silent myriad Quechuas still sit,
lower gaze beneath stares of white men.
On the subject of stress management…
On the subject of stress management Dr. Roger Mellot said, “Identify your values and support them behaviorally”. (Decide what’s important to you, and then live in a way that’s consistent with those values.) – David Posen, M.D.
Vignette # 7 from the Children
#7 Amanda, 5 years old, kept complaining to the adult monitor that some of the little boys kept calling her a SPIDER (araña)! They kept insisting that they were not! (a lot of these little ones seem to have lisps and slight speech impediments) Several of the other kids chimed right in and they all had a little philosophical discussion about it.
Scraps and Pieces from a Good Textbook: “Effective Biblical Counseling” by Lawrence Crabb
” the results of the Fall include separation not only from God and from others, but also from ourselves. we “come apart” as persons, unable to genuinely accept ourselves as we are. Our consequent struggle to be, or to pretend to be what we are not explains much of our deep discontent and personal suffering.”
White City – a Poem about Racial Discrimination in South America
-by NinadesusOjos
Jewel city of the Americas,
Pearl spun into stressed fabric of Andes life,
Where folks still sense silken whispers,
Glimpse, in memory, inlaid tortoiseshell haircombs,
Pompadoured raven locks of fine ladies,
curves of white cheekbones,
Sheepswool-white, pearl-white, cotton-white.
Long swallow-tail coats on gentlemen,
Imperious be-jewelled white fingers “SNAP”!
beckon for the lady’s fan.
Quechua slaves, dark brown, scurry, obey, eyes cast down.
Tiered stone mansions, spreading stairs,
An historic tapestry of old, white-washed buildings, red clay roofs, tiles,
textured, textiles, speckled – pink, blue, peach.
Deceptively spacious, these ornate estates
discreet behind massive carved doors,
CLOSED.
In the streets OUTSIDE, hunkering on gray greasy pavement,
green-hued teeth chewing leaf,
(to kill the hunger pangs)
homespun striped ponchos, stained,
cover dark brown trembling skin.
A silent myriad Quechuas still sit,
lower gaze beneath stares of white men.
what a beautiful poem by George Herbert!
Yesterday while continuing my project to gradually and systematically weed through, organize and de-clutter our apartment, I was dusting a bookshelf and happened to come across an old college textbook on 17th c. poetry. Feeling wry fondness for the faded green hardback, I pulled it and dipped in.
I came across a George Herbert poem, actually several of them, already marked up in now-faded pen, by the “me” of 37 or so years ago, and they touched my heart, spoke to me, even YET, and YET AGAIN! Especially this one!
JESU
Jesus is in my heart, His sacred name
Is deeply carvèd there, but th’other week
A great affliction broke the little frame,
Even all to pieces, which I went to seek:
And first I found the corner, where was J,
After, where ES, and next, where U was graved.
When I had got these parcels, instantly
I sat me down to spell them and percieved
That to my broken heart he was “I ease you”
and to my whole is JESU.
-George Herbert, a pastor in the 17th century.
Suggestions for Shopping the Big Market
Walk.
Cars
separate you from people.
Thread your knees
between idling taxis,
inching gargantuan buses.
Squeeze yourself
among ten thousand
warm bodies,
all shorter than you.
Your eyes assailed
teeming worlds of bright,
melèe of colors,
by a new universe
of strange (only to you!)
humanity.
Whiff of frying meat
assaults your nose,
old urine,
fragrance of mountained roses,
stench of rotting garbage,
husky aroma of homemade leather goods,
wet grassy FRESH of handwoven baskets
mingled with fish getting older,
tang of ripening nectarines.
All this is the lives of families,
of children working,
of persons like you.
Please know it’s not only another trip.
Do realize it’s not just a destination
to check off
your bucket list. -a poem by Niñadesusojos.
Suggestions for Shopping the Big Market
Walk.
Cars
separate you from people.
Thread your knees
between idling taxis,
inching gargantuan buses.
Squeeze yourself
among ten thousand
warm bodies.
Your eyes assailed
teeming worlds of bright,
melèe of colors,
by a new universe
of strange (only to you!)
humanity.
Whiff of frying meat
assaults your nose,
old urine,
fragrance of mountained roses,
stench of rotting garbage,
husky aroma of homemade leather goods,
wet grassy FRESH of handwoven baskets
mingled with fish getting older,
tang of ripening nectarines.
All this is the lives of families,
of children working,
of persons like you.
Please know it’s not only another trip.
Do realize it’s not just a destination
to check off
your bucket list. -a poem by Niñadesusojos.
White City – a Poem about Racial Discrimination in South America
-by NinadesusOjos
Jewel city of the Americas,
Pearl spun into stressed fabric of Andes life,
Where folks still sense silken whispers,
Glimpse, in memory, inlaid tortoiseshell haircombs,
Pompadoured raven locks of fine ladies,
curves of white cheekbones,
Sheepswool-white, pearl-white, cotton-white.
Long swallow-tail coats on gentlemen,
Imperious be-jewelled white fingers “SNAP”!
beckon for the lady’s fan.
Quechua slaves, dark brown, scurry, obey, eyes cast down.
Tiered stone mansions, spreading stairs,
An historic tapestry of old, white-washed buildings, red clay roofs, tiles,
textured, textiles, speckled – pink, blue, peach.
Deceptively spacious, these ornate estates
discreet behind massive carved doors,
CLOSED.
In the streets OUTSIDE, hunkering on gray greasy pavement,
green-hued teeth chewing leaf,
(to kill the hunger pangs)
homespun striped ponchos, stained,
cover dark brown trembling skin.
A silent myriad Quechuas still sit,
lower gaze beneath stares of white men.
Encouraging principles gleaned today from Genesis 12 and 13.
1. GOD initiated the personal relationship of Himself with Abram, and Abram’s role was to respond to Who God is.
2. God communicated expectations that He had for Abram, and Abram chose to hear and obey, the best he could, even from an almost certain “place” of feeling of reluctance and inadequacy, and a “place” of real and gross imperfection and weakness!
3. Abram always kept on worshipping God. Everyplace they stopped, he built an altar and called on (worshipped) God.
4. Abram did not cling to his “rights” and his normal, understandable entitlements in the eyes of mankind. He gave these up willingly in order to obey and follow God. (ex: the way he dealt with his nephew, Lot, when both of their peoples and animals became too much for one camp.)
White City – a Poem about Racial Discrimination in South America
-by NinadesusOjos
Jewel city of the Americas,
Pearl spun into stressed fabric of Andes life,
Where folks still sense silken whispers,
Glimpse, in memory, inlaid tortoiseshell haircombs,
Pompadoured raven locks of fine ladies,
curves of white cheekbones,
Sheepswool-white, pearl-white, cotton-white.
Long swallow-tail coats on gentlemen,
Imperious be-jewelled white fingers “SNAP”!
beckon for the lady’s fan.
Quechua slaves, dark brown, scurry, obey, eyes cast down.
Tiered stone mansions, spreading stairs,
An historic tapestry of old, white-washed buildings, red clay roofs, tiles,
textured, textiles, speckled – pink, blue, peach.
Deceptively spacious, these ornate estates
discreet behind massive carved doors,
CLOSED.
In the streets OUTSIDE, hunkering on gray greasy pavement,
green-hued teeth chewing leaf,
(to kill the hunger pangs)
homespun striped ponchos, stained,
cover dark brown trembling skin.
A silent myriad Quechuas still sit,
lower gaze beneath stares of white men.
A Sense of Quiet Happiness (for the gift of being able to be working in this tiny slice of God’s universe)
“Someone once asked (Teresa of Calcutta) if she was spoiling the poor, to which she replied, “There are so many congregations who spoil the rich, it is good to have one congregation in the name of the poor to spoil the poor.” Father Angelo Scolozzi, who worked with Mother for over twenty years, remembers that when she said this, the room fell silent for a long while.” – p. 49, “Finding Calcutta” by Mary Poplin
Suggestions for Shopping the Big Market
Walk.
Cars
separate you from people.
Thread your knees
between idling taxis,
inching gargantuan buses.
Squeeze yourself
among ten thousand
warm bodies,
all shorter than you.
Your eyes assailed
teeming worlds of bright,
melèe of colors,
by a new universe
of strange (only to you!)
humanity.
Whiff of frying meat
assaults your nose,
old urine,
fragrance of mountained roses,
stench of rotting garbage,
husky aroma of homemade leather goods,
wet grassy FRESH of handwoven baskets
mingled with fish getting older,
tang of ripening nectarines.
All this is the lives of families,
of children working,
of persons like you.
Please know it’s not only another trip.
Do realize it’s not just a destination
to check off
your bucket list. -a poem by Niñadesusojos.
Angry on behalf of the Children
Cold, dry factual reporting. That’s what this post will be. Because I don’t yet have words for what I’ve been learning as I come alongside of these children and their situations, each day. My heart is breaking for these kids, and I don’t have answers, and I don’t have wisdom, and I don’t have interpretations ; I’m still processing everything that I am seeing. I am crying out before the Lord, on behalf of these children.
What happened the other morning: One of our little boys, a six year old, did not show up at the Center the other morning. At eight o clock in the morning, S. went to investigate – she knows exactly where each of the kids live. The child was stretched on an old dingy loveseat, totally conked out. Dead to the world.
“What has happened here?”, S. asked. “This child seems drugged or poisoned!”
Sheepishly, the big sister, in her mid-teens, explained. Mother had come back to the room, very drunk, at seven a.m. Her little boy woke up and asked his mom for his breakfast. (Traditional Bolivian breakfast is always bread and hot tea.) In her drunken state this mother gave her little boy hard liquor instead of tea, thus poisoning his little system, and he was stretched out on the filthy furniture sleeping it off.
GlobeRoamer 