A small flame

A small flame

hope in decay

Did you read Ann's blog the past couple of weeks? Go on the trip with her to Guatemala, through her blog?. . . Her stories make me cry. . . She's home but still processing . . . still trying to figure out what to do with the part of her heart that didn't make the trip back to her farm.

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?

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