Sweet Ideas

I’m very proud of my wife.  A few months ago Ruth had the idea of making a Bake and Crafts Sale for the Christmas season.  The plan was straightforward enough: bake a collection of items, set up and sell at the local supermarket, raise money for Dar El Awlad and increase awareness in the community.  The set-up was easy, but the execution was tricky.  Lots of gifted hands pitched in to bake, spread the word, prepare, and sell.  It was a team effort, but Ruth was the captain.  She was the first to start working and the last to stop.  This was her idea; she pushed it through and, in the end, made it a success.  

Some money was raised and some PR was spread.  DEA will benefit from the bake sale in ways we can measure and ways we cannot.  Maybe it won’t add up to much but it will add up to something.  Even so, I’m proud of Ruth.  It’s not because of what the bake sale earned but simply because it happened.  Everyone has good ideas about what can help the orphanage.  We all think we know the thing that will move things along or improve this or that.  In my experience I find that very rarely do ideas ever materialize.  This time they did.  It was a small endeavor, but sometimes even little ideas are big achievements when they actually happen.  I’m very proud of Ruth for what she does and what she is.  I hope she rubs off on others, especially me.

Bakers busy at work

The little kiosk

Smiling faces and helping hands!

Goodbye to a Friend

This week I said a goodbye to a friend.  It wasn't a final goodbye, but a difficult one nonetheless.  Camille was hired on staff at Dar El Awlad in 1984 by my grandfather and spent nearly 28 years serving at the ministry, first as a gardener and then as a cook.  Over the decades he prepared (literally) tons of food, watched many dozens of boys grow into men, and saw volunteers from all over the world come and go.  He was the last staff remnant of my grandparents’ time in Lebanon, and when he walked off site the final time the chapter on an era officially closed.  It’s not just the link to a nostalgic pass that I have said goodbye to; it is a friend.

Most of my days for the past six years have started with a “hello, how are you?” from Camille as I popped into the kitchen to give a morning greeting.  Over the years we shared running jokes about solving the problems of Dar El Awlad first and then sorting out the Middle East next, lessons on agriculture, updates on family, and discussion on the many things that fill this life between birth and death.  We gathered together in his mountain village and shared meals at his home in the city.  There were funerals and weddings, visits during holidays and drop-ins after surgeries.  There were goodbyes and there were welcome backs.  There was a season-through-season friendship.

Making a change now is good and right.  Camille’s kids are all grown, and he still has health and strength to spend time working in the village and tending to his lands.  His home in the city is near and it’ll be easy to him call up or stop by for a visit.  Community circles are small around here; our life has many more intersections to come.  But I’ll miss Camille’s daily presence at the ministry.  I’ll miss his interactions with the boys, his philosophical offerings for any situation, and his genuine concern about family and loved ones.  These coming days I will find myself facing something new.  It’s something small, but still something I haven’t had to experience during my years at Dar El Awlad.  I’m thankful that God brought us Camille nearly three decades ago, and I’m thankful that he has remained a consistent presence ever since.  May God help those of us remaining to likewise tarry on with steadiness and faithfulness, just like my friend Camille.

This little light of mine, helping us through study time.

We often have power issues at Dar El Awlad.  However, this time it's not about boys recognizing and respecting authority; it's about electricity.  The government has been sending only limited electricity our way (3-4 hours a day) and we can't afford to run our generator full-time (at $20 an hour we simply don't have the money to cover the diesel bills), so we've been dealing with power cuts.  Late sunrises and early sunsets combined with and a winter storm have left us often feeling our way in the dark. 

We've been resorting to old-fashioned candle light for study time as we wait for the generator to kick in for the evening.  Actually the results have been positive.  I don't know if it's the soft glow of a little flame or the inner longing for a sense of ruggedness, but the boys seem to be more attentive and focused.  Maybe we'll stick with the wax and wick even when the electricity problems are sorted out.  It will be nice to at least have the option of light bulbs though.

The Future of Syria and the Hope in Reaching Another's Pain

I want to invite you to step into someone else’s pain.  The Syrian displacement tragedy is the greatest man-made humanitarian crisis of the 21^st century.  Of the many millions affected, children are the least at fault and yet the most to suffer.  The UNHCR has recently released an intensive report on the plight of the over one million children living this continuous nightmare.  The Future of Syria report provides an in-depth analysis of the scope and dimensions of the suffering.  I encourage you to take some time to read the stories, ponder the statistics, and grasp the sheer scale of the crisis. 

In the coming weeks I hope to draw from the Future of Syria report and share how particular problems are facing children I know.  These may be individuals currently in Dar El Awlad programs or family relatives that have seen life turned upside down by war.  I’d like this to be a tool for others to enter into the pain of the victims and sympathize with the human fallout of armed conflict, but I’m not sure how possible this is.  The issue is not a shortage of knowledge (modern technology has made information very accessible) nor is it a lack of caring (there are many compassionate people around, I know this).  I simply believe the chasm between the experiences of the suffering displaced and us is too great to bridge.

For the nearly the past three years I have journeyed through this conflict and watched it drain the lives of countless individuals.  I’ve sat in refugee tents and visited makeshift camps.  I’ve heard the tales of fleeing in the night from pending attacks and navigating escape routes through combat zones.  I’ve held babies born in displacement and gathered supplies for relief distribution.  I’ve witnessed families divided and tried helping to track down a missing person.  I’ve offered hallow explanations about what is going on and what might happen.  Mostly I’ve just sat in silence, listened to despair and said “I don’t know… I’m sorry.”  I’ve been affected by the armed conflict; my life has been changed by it.  Even so, I’m so far away from it all.  The painful realities facing millions is a reality that I cannot claim as mine.  I occasionally visit their situation of pain, but I live in a different world.  I wake up from the nightmare, they never do.

So what’s the point of caring if I can’t fully feel what they feel?  How do I offer compassion or sympathy in a situation that I can so easily walk away from?  All would be futile and empty if it wasn’t for a baby born two centuries ago.  One single life changed the way we know someone’s pain because it showed to the world that God has felt pain.  Christ was born in a barn.  He was a child refugee forced to flee threats of violence.  His life was one of instability and flux.  Ultimately, Christ suffered rejection and endured death on a cross.  He knows pain.  He knows displacement.  He knows what it’s like when your whole world is turned upside down.  That’s why He can bring hope.  My only prayer for reaching into someone’s pain is the knowledge that I don’t have to bridge the chasm between our experiences. God does.  His grace reaches the deepest parts of hearts alike.  When we read a news story or a U.N. report and learn about another’s pain, we know that God is the only hope we have to respond in any way that will make a difference.  This is all the hope we need to press on in love.