Nightmare to Reality: What is this?

A month before it happened, I awoke one night with sweaty palms and hair sticking to my face. "Hannah died in a car accident" was the voice I heard in my dream. What?...
For weeks, I thought about the nightmare. Why did I hear that Hannah died in a car accident? Which Hannah? I know many.


"The parents of Hannah *last name* ask for your prayers, she died in a car accident yesterday".

WHAT!!! 

I scooped my baby niece into my arms as my family let out astonished sobs. Hannah? Sweet, little Hannah? No, Lord, too soon! I ran upstairs with her in my arms, so she wouldn't witness the immediate grief that was hitting all of our hearts. My pulse was skyrocketing. The dream, that voice. It came true. All of my fear, my anxiety that lasted for a summer, it wasn't just me. That nightmare became reality; a nightmare for so many that I couldn't make sense of because I did not want to possibly know what it could mean or entail for myself or those around me.

It's been three weeks since Hannah was giggling on this earth, excited to enter high school. Last week I was supposed to hang out with her, mentor her into the stage of young womanhood, encourage her to always seek after Jesus. Yet, on the anniversary date of her big brother's heavenly arrival, Hannah tasted eternal glory. For what is unseen to us is now seen to her, with every glorious promise entailed.

I am haunted, though. Why was I told of this before the events occurred? This isn't the first time. I wish I could end this with something encouraging, a revelation I had since then. I am so confused. Please offer wisdom and insight, if you feel inclined. 

Her name is Miriam

I say it with a smile on my face, as if it's a secret written on my heart, like one that a mother discovers when she realizes she's late, and those two blue lines whispers that change and growth is on the way, in the best way possible.
I'm expecting.
I am expecting and anticipating a daughter through a beautiful, complicated little thing called adoption.
Due date? TBA.
Father? Unknown.
Birth mom? Unknown.

...The Lord has called me to adopt.
A little girl will be mine, and in my arms she'll know love, motherly love, and eventually she'll know fatherly love- from a King above!

I know very little about the process, but I do know the hardships of this journey, I know the financial and emotional need it requires. But, I know there's a little girl out there. Perhaps she's merely a gamete at the moment. Maybe the one who is carrying this gamete is just a child herself, fetching water at the well, bare skin glistening in sweat, and a toothless smile.

A little ridiculous, some quietly think. I'm a twenty year old college sophomore, currently failing Spanish, rushing to field placements, and surviving on ramen and coffee. Signs of marriage are most definitely not on the current horizon, and student loans silently stack up. But, I have a heart to offer this child. A heart that will love without condition. A heart that prays for her everyday.

Adoption has always been on my heart, and this summer confirmed it. Traveling around the poorest state in India, the birthplace of Hinduism, and watching the countless children starving from malnutrition, sunken in pain from a life of selling their little bodies on manured streets, shimmying up mango trees in loin clothes- my heart cried out! The Lord has given a tender desire, a desire that will cause me many tears and long nights, but a desire that is worth it.

Prayers went up all summer over this desire. Really, Lord? You're telling me to do what? Yes, it only made sense. It only made sense that as I watched the city lights of Delhi grow dim as we flew into the horizon that I knew I would see similar lights below me again, with a little one below waiting for her new mommy.

It only made sense that as we went to new "house" (hut) churches, and we would pass the naked children on the street that inevitably my eyes filled with that familiar, salty water again, that all I could think of was the day that I'd be free to come rescue and deliver these children from the slavery.

But, it isn't just one little girl that I know I'll be mothering. Many, many little ones will fill my arms and heart in this life. Yet, this one. This one; this one is the catalyst. It is not exclusive, this desire of mine. Although, this particular little girl has been laid on my heart...I walked the beach up and down for miles when I arrived home from India. My daughter, my daughter! Where are you? Who are you?

"Yes, my daughter!" He answered as surely as the waves that were crashing on the shore. "Pray for her. Pray for this one. Pray for her mother walking this earth right now. Pray without ceasing- I am doing immeasurably more. Close your eyes, do you feel your heartbeat? I gave you that beat. The cry of your heart is of me, pursue it, fight for it...she is worth it. They all are." I gave a cry and leaped into the next wave, not a soul in sight that day, and I dove into a world unknown, fears quietly lingering, assurance building within as each toss of the tide twisted me deeper into the abyss. I arose from the water stronger with He that is in me. Strong with burning passion.

The passion hasn't dimmed. It only grows. I refer to her as my daughter, gamete or not, she is more than an idea put into my head- she will be a little life that will serve as a testament to God's faithfulness. I wondered for weeks, for months really, what I would call her. I am expecting and anticipating motherhood and hunger to pray for her by name. Years later, this name will have a face. But for now?
Her name is Miriam. Yahweh's beloved. 

Trafficked Before My Eyes

Sometimes I think about those two children.The little boy and the little girl that ripped my heart that busy day at the metro. It was just my second day in the second largest city in the world of 10 million people...and it looked a little bit just like this (see second picture to the right). Somehow I heard it, though. A muffled cry and a whimper caught my ear. Surrounded by men in turbans and women in saris were two children, a little girl with porcelain skin, silky dark hair and almond-shaped eyes that screamed terror. A little boy, coarse hair and distinct African pigment. Held in violent grasps by two pompous, overweight men in curling mustaches. Dragging their little bodies across the filth of the floor, despite their pleas for help, determined to make a healthy sum of profit for their foreign imports.

A mechanical beep. The metro door closed and I was whisked off to the other side of the city, I stood in horrified shock as the city's skyline became a rushing blur.
Trafficked.

 And the reality of the 27 million other slaves in this world became that much more real to me.
Everything in me screamed to search the metro, the streets, the entire city for the children. But I knew I'd only find thousands of others just like them.
It's encounters like this that make it hard to answer the question, "Was your summer fun?"

No, no it was not "fun". We had fun...we made it fun, we learned to laugh when we waded in murky sewage water that soaked our pants and when urgent runs to the outhouse or nearest field could have been considered an Olympic sport at the speed we ran. At the end of the day, we'd laugh over situations that made a week of college exams seem like a vacation. We learned that if we didn't laugh, we'd cry.

But, I can't laugh about this particular story. No, this story is worth my tears and I hope it's worth your's, too, as we fight to end modern-day slavery through prayer, support, and obeying Mark 15:16. I wish I could end this story with a heroic act of courage, leaving us with warm hearts that all is well again. But I have to rest in the promises of Jesus, that He has the victory and that one day, all creation will witness His glorious return, including these children.

of ashes and beauty // India

         I won't forget. 

I will not forget the deformed beggars at my feet, pulling my salwars, "Didi? Didi?" Or the little ones who chased me down, begging for shoes. And then there’s the baby boy, merely three years old, waiting my awakening the first few mornings in the city, knowing that my breakfast was his; so patiently he stood in the shadows, little tummy rumbling. And the other child, the one who wrecked my heart...naked, curled in a ball, outside of a swanky Starbucks in the city. Moaning in pain and hunger, tears streaming, a pimp nearby watching his every move. Oh, and the child bride, placing her malnourished infant in my arms, "Take. I cannot feed." The rows and rows of sick, elderly women singing praises to the spirits of the dead as a corpse vanishes into flames on the Ganges’ shore. The father tithing his last rupee at the feet of Ganesh, crying out to a god made of plaster and painted in oil, forfeiting his daughter's life for the false hope of future sons to come. I cannot forget. 

 I will not forget watching the scenery fly before my eyes on the train, as if it were footage from an independent film. I can still smell it, too; the rank of human bodies, feces drying in the sun, spices culminating in the sticky air. I can hear the rats...the little scratches on the floor, squeaking for more crumbs, to devour the last of my treasured, American crackers- the little thieves that hid no more! I feel the crawlings on my skin, scratching, crying, and slapping them off. The stings of the pinchers, the utter irritation that I was never alone from humans nor creatures. What a blessing it is that I can now travel and no longer burrito my body in a sweaty dupata to shield off the millions of roaches darting and swooping above my head, eyeing my bun as a luscious nest to lay more. 

         I can still feel the eyes of men on me; that one night in Delhi when I fought my way to safety through the power of unceasing prayer...and ear-curdling demands, fists ready, to a taxi driver with intentions from a demon itself. And there were more; more demons and spirits swarming our room at night...inflicting fear, conflict, and bitterness; clouding the truth. Close my eyes and I can hear the mob around me, machetes inches from my face, threatening curses in a language not my own. The sheer scarf covered my cheek while whispered pleas were sent to the God of angel armies. I feared not for my life, but for the little lives I was yet to meet, who were anxiously awaiting my arrival! And I can feel the panic in my heart, for stories that I do not speak of.

But India is so much more than the sensory overload and the demons lurking.
         There are beautiful stories, beautiful places, and beautiful people with hearts that yearn for so much more than what the above paragraphs depicts of their home. The steaming chai and a welcoming host, touching your feet and letting you "take rest" on a bed of woven blankets. A warm mango to begin the day, a view overlooking sweet smelling tea gardens perched on the hills, scattered with tiny umbrellas, shielding the pickers from the rays.
         It’s the skyline of the world’s second largest city, decked with European architecture and marbled temples, the multicolored saris on the streets below, and slum children's laughter as they dodge the autos and rickshaws. The taste of fresh masala, seasoned with tablespoons of curry, tingling your tongue...monkeys flying from column to rooftop, carts of orange, purple, and pink leis, and the coolness of the gushing water from a well. The ears that listen so intently and the hearts that instantly love...the festivals, the markets of fresh fruits and vegetables, the rows of bags, laid open for the spices to waft in the air, mixing with the tangy scent of fresh mehndi on a new bride's body.

And the Himalayas, with snow peaks and rushing waterfalls! A pond of satisfied water buffalo, freely roaming and enjoying their reign. The plains of tall grass, tigers lurking, too. The bleak deserts. The winding, holy, river that flows with grace and strength, emptying old life into an abyss of a new world below. Fields of rice, the tops of emerging pineapples from the earth, mango trees, and shady banana groves. The dense, exotic forests covering the ruins of ancient temples that beckon forth the inner adventurer in all. 

This country is so beautiful when I see it through the eyes of the One who made it. Beauty rests in the ashes because there IS hope. Sin taints every street and village, but there is glory to be found when we know that all we see is temporary, a better ending is promised, and it is all a part of a greater story to be unfolded. I am just a vessel used in the unraveling.