Today, she tells the story about her visit to the dump outside Guatemala City . . . reminds me of another trash dump where a piece of my heart lives now.
'The couple live in the dump. . . The father speaks quiet. He tells us he goes to church services every other night. . . I ask through the translator if he fears for his safety. He says no. God is with them. I nod, chin trembling.
We ask them about dreams, do they have dreams for their children?
What are your dreams for your children when you live in a dump? What are your prayers? What is your hope in all this decaying mess? . . .
I can’t imagine this either, how he’s going to answer. He’s a father living on a garbage heap.
His black eyes circle all of ours.
“It doesn’t matter to us what our children grow up to become or do.” His voice is gentle, certain. I lean forward, praying he will still dream. Please, still pray. Even if…
And he does and the most important of all and I didn’t see it coming.
“All that matters is that they follow the Lord, that they live only for the Lord.” '
Words fail me. . . .
If you missed her trip to Guatemala, you can still walk the streets she has, here. How can our hearts break for what breaks His when we don't go - with our feet or with our hearts - to the places where He lives?