Meet Hiba

Confession:  I have not been faithful in my prayers this week.  It's the holidays.  We were out of town for the week.  There is so much to do.  My excuses sound hollow.  And they are.

Determined to start anew, I begin by opening the weekly persecution alert email in my inbox.  I have been quite successfully ignoring its presence for over a week.  My faithlessness is glaring in the shadows of these great men and women who serve our Lord amidst immense opposition.

Perhaps because of this, I read the stories quickly.  There are many this week, but I have much to do.  My house is dirty, the laundry is piling, the Christmas decorations need to come down.  It seems excuses circle my every action.

And then God has me meet Hiba.  My rapid reading slows.  I stop.  Reread.  Can it be that she is only 16 and possesses so much faith?  So much love?  I click for more information.  God changes me.  Again.

Isn't she beautiful?  Hiba is a believer from the predominantly Muslim nation of Sudan.  Last year when Hiba was but 15 years old, she was abducted by a gang of Muslim men.  Her life since then is hard to fathom.

Locked in a room.  Beaten until unconscious.  Raped.  Moved to various locations to keep her hidden.  All because she refused to convert to Islam.  Her faith remained strong.  I think of 15 year-old me.  Could I have withstood it?  At double her age, could I even do it now?

She endured this torture for a year until she escaped and was reunited with her family.  Her family took her to the police to file a report and were refused.  Hiba was told the police would only open the case if she converted to Islam.

Hiba's own words have captured my heart and prayers:

"I cannot forget this bad incident, and whenever I try to pray, I find it difficult to forget. I ask believers to pray for me for inner healing."

She says she is praying that Jesus reveals himself to her assailants, and "forgives them for what they did to me."

My prayers flow for her.  So much pain.  My prayers for her captors rise in my heart, as well.  So much hate.  God can heal both.  God can heal Sudan.

There is great conflict for Christians in Sudan.  Much of the Muslim population seeks to eradicate Christianity from its borders.  Tortures, mutilations, massacres, and forced conversions are common.  Praise God that despite this, the number of Christians is growing from 1.6 million in 1980 to 11 million in 2010.

To receive weekly updates on persecution around the world, you can go to the following website and click sign up on the right hand side.  Prepare to be humbled and changed.  http://www.persecution.com/public/pray.aspx?clickfrom=bWFpbl9tZW51

 

Sources:

http://www.persecution.net/pnp.htm

http://www.persecution.net/su-2011-08-11.htm

http://www.persecution.net/sudan.htm

Christmas Traditions

As a child, our family had more traditions than cousins, and that's saying a lot.  They were these wonderful memories that we repeated over and over again.  They added stability, security, even love to my childhood.

One of our Christmas traditions was filling a decorated lunch sack with food for Santa's reindeer.  It was a small thing we did, but I loved it.  I want my children to have scads of traditions in their lives.  Hitherto, the making of Reindeer Food bags at Sunrise School.

"Tis the night before Christmas.

Santa will soon be here.

We give cookies to Santa,

Now let's feed his reindeer."

Making the bags was cheap, fun, and easy.  (Those are my three requirements for doing most anything involving children.)  Painting with seven preschoolers vs. two adults was the fun part.  Put paint on kids hands and they are downright giddy. 

Even more fun was the filling of the bags.  I opened the littlest Sunrise Girl's bag to find it filled mostly with rocks.  Perhaps next week's lesson should address this misconception.

What could be more fun, you ask?  How about Eskimo kisses with Rudolph noses.  Again - cheap, fun, and easy.  Mental note:  if you leave red washable marker on your nose for an entire day, it is not so "washable."

The following is late-breaking news from Sunrise School.  I think Tori's is my favorite this go round.  It produces so many different scenarios in my head.

Did she watched the movie, How to Train Your Dragon, while she was in the kitchen?  Was she in a hallucinogenic state?  Were her three brothers in the kitchen acting as only preteen/teen boys can?  Was her mother cooking?  I attempted to gain some clarification from the source, but to not avail.  You must also draw your own conclusions.

Thanksgiving: Sunrise School Style

If you've read my other posts, you may have noticed that Thanksgiving is my favorite.  Sadly, it is the forgotten holiday.  In fact, I believe it is America's middle child holiday.  All of you first borns and babies are shaking your heads right now, but us middle children know what I am talking about.

Halloween is the oldest child.  The one everyone has been waiting for.  As soon as the school supplies are up, costumes and candy come out.  People decorate their homes, plan parties, carve Jack-O-Lanterns.  Pumpkins ooze out of every store.

When middle child Thanksgiving comes around, no one notices.  Looking for Turkey day shirts or decorations, I find either discounted Halloween items or Christmas paraphernalia.  I sigh in disgust.  I complain to employees.  I am met with blank stares.

Then comes the baby - Christmas.  Everyone goes wild.  Lights.  Trees.  Decorations.  Presents.  The stores lay out their Xmas day wares before the turkey is even carved!  And now stores are opening on Thanksgiving night for Black Friday!!  I do not have enough exclamation points to express my disdain.

I say, "No more!"  Thanksgiving may be the middle child, but November still has two more days.  Thus, it is still Thanksgiving season.  In light of this declaration, I present to you Sunrise School's Thanksgiving.

We had so much fun at Sunrise School the weeks before the Big Day.  We made Indian headdresses, played Pin the Top Hat on the Turkey, and read a million Thanksgiving books.  Thanksgiving at the Tappletons' is my favorite.  Honorable mention goes to The Relatives Came and Thanksgiving is Here.  There was the much anticipated watching of A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.  Turkeys were made out of hands and feet.  Drumsticks were dressed up as Indians and Pilgrims.  I loved every minute of it.

But the best part of Thanksgiving at Sunrise School was the video we made.  It starts off with a November song that involves the kids bowing their heads.  At this point they are so wrapped up in eucharisteo that they forget the lines for the rest of the song.

Next, our wonderful videographer, Gigi, interviews individual kids to get their perspective on Thanksgiving.  Their comments are sweet, genuine, and hilarious.  Personal favorites:  Tori's pronunciation of Thanksgiving, and all shots containing the littlest Sunrise School student, Josiah.

Our video concludes with a rousing play about 5 fat turkeys and two Indian hunters.  There was much debate/arguing about who would play what part.  In the end, all were happy with their roles of hunting or dying.  Here is the almost critically acclaimed Sunrise School Thanksgiving Video.

And this is the old news from Sunrise School for those of you keeping track of the scintillating lives of preschoolers.  To update you:  Abigail STILL has not eaten all of her candy, Jaycee loved the carnival at her other school, Gideon is a born bookie, Tori's foot is better, and Ashlyn loves Gnomeo & Juliet.

Thanksgiving - Thursday

The best day of the year is almost here.  A holiday devoted to family, food, and giving thanks to God.  What could possibly be better?  I rise with the sun to morning taquitos and homemade salsa.  The adults and children come in early.  The teenage cousins straggle in late.

Games and talking and singing mingle with the smells and sounds of cooking.  Everyone is preparing their dishes.  This food has become a part of us.  A part of the love we share together.  Aunt Carol's dressing.  Aunt June and Aunt Dee's pies.  Aunt Eva's giblet gravy.  My Momma's fudge.  The list is long.

We stand around the kitchen helping with the dumplings.  There are dumpling makers.  Dumpling droppers.  Dumpling stirrers.  Some years we even have dumpling fanners.  There is talk about the right way to do things and, of course, the wrong. 

In my mind's eye I see Mammaw making them on the counter at Uncle Kenny's house.  I am young and full of questions.  She answers and keeps on working.  Old hands that know their task well.  I am fascinated.  But there are games to be played, a creek to explore, cousins to see.  How I wish I had stayed longer.  Memorized her movements.

Sighing, I close my eyes, and I can see her, years later, in her chair.  Too old, too tired to make them herself, but still directing.  Still ruling the roost.  Then, I recall her last year with pain.  Remembering her frailty, I am relieved she is now strong once more.

As we remember, we work and cook and make new memories until the feast is finally ready.  Cooks proudly lay their food out on the serving table.  Mommas call their kids inside.  Grandmas count their grandchildren.  We circle around the room - a circle so full of love and memories and faith.  Everyone is here.  Almost.

She is gone.

My heart has an empty space inside.  But I look around and see her face in so many of my siblings and cousins.  What was empty is once again full.

We join hands to pray.  It is beautiful.  We begin to sing:

Praise God from whom all blessings flow.

My cup overflows.  I hold my baby girls' hands and try to keep my tears from falling.  The blessings in my life are surrounding me.  They are these people.  These memories.  This love.  This faith.  I can barely sing.

Praise Him all creatures here below.

All of us think on who is not there.  Our Mother, our Mammaw who is now in heaven.  This great woman who began our Thanksgiving  tradition.  Our Father, our Pappaw.  This great man I never knew who shaped the lives of those older than me.  In my mind he is a legend who loved wide and deep.  I cannot wait to meet him.

Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts.

The two now sing these same praises at the feet of Jesus.  Their voices ring out, joining the great cloud of witnesses that went on before them.  There, they wait for us.  Can their faith save us?  No.  They chose Jesus and wrote Him on their lives.  While here they prayed for us to embrace this faith in their Christ.  In Heaven they hope and pray for the day when they can look around the feast and see that none of theirs are missing.  I join them in this fervent prayer. 

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

I think about the day when I will join them.  To see Mammaw healthy and happy.  To introduce myself to Pappaw and hug him for the first time.  To embrace all Hattons there before me.  To wait with them for the rest to come.  Truly Heaven must be an eternal Thanksgiving.  I look ahead with longing.  We all sing:

Amen.

There will be more.  More years and memories.  More babies.  More joy.  More Amens.  And when we get to Heaven the praise will be sweeter.  The feasting fuller.  And the love deeper.  Until then, dig in and happy Thanksgiving.

Remember Them

They are stories that become part of me.  Images I can see so vividly.

Home and all the comfort that brings.  Family together, laughing, being, breathing.  Until a grenade is thrown into the house.  Peace becomes mourning in an instant.

A young girl.  Ten years old.  Killed by the blast.  Winnie.  Daughter.  Sister.

A man.  Twenty-five years old.  Younger than me.  Killed.  John.

Two brothers forced to see their kindred dying in front of them.  They are, themselves, severely burned.  Samuel.  Peter.  Witnesses too young to understand.

Their grandmother watches in horror.  Bone of her bones.  Flesh of her flesh.  Unable to save.  Unable to comfort.  She, too, is badly burned.  Rachel

This is the reality of many around the world.  Chased out of their homes.  Churches burned down.  Bibles confiscated.  Women raped.  Grenades rocking houses.  Children taken away.  Banished.  Prison.  Beatings.

This is happening now.  Right now.  As I type, warm and safe.

Their crime?  Claiming Jesus as their Lord and Savior.

Jesus knew this was to come.  What?  In fact, He told his disciples to expect it.  Hard to fathom here in safe America.  (John 15:19-21)

In this safe America, I remember learning years ago that Christians were being persecuted daily.  I was shocked.  Why has no one told me this before?  I thought persecution was rare.  A thing of the past, mostly.  Very rare, isolated instances, at the most.

My eyes were opened and I have never been the same.  I began getting weekly email updates on persecution around the world.  Names flowed.  Countries swirled in my head.  What am I to do?  I cannot save these people.  I do not even have a frame of reference for their suffering.  And the stories keep coming.  Every week.  What am I to do?

Pray.  Remember.  (Hebrews 13:3)

Pray for physical healing.  Pray for emotional well-being.  Pray for further protection.  Pray for those in chains to feel the presence of God.  For God to call to their minds scriptures and songs to bring them comfort.

That prayer flows freely from me.  Compassion for the persecuted wells in my heart and overflows.  I feel like this is it, but God gives me a not-so-little nudge.

What about the persecutors?

No way.  God's answer to the persecutors seems all wrong.

He does not call for vengeance.  This is hard for me.  I crave justice.  I love when the bad guy dies in movies.  Books that bring the evil to their ruin seem...right.  I want these persecutors brought to their punishment.  I want to watch it and revel in it.  But then I hear God.

What right have you?  What sins have you?  I do not require you to bring about my righteous judgment.

So I reluctantly get on board with not craving vengeance.  It is liberating.

Then God speaks again.  (That guy sure has a lot to say.)

On top of this God adds love.  Love?  Really?  I wrestle.  I argue in my mind with God.  I list out my reasons.  God does not change His mind.  (He rarely does.)  So I pray for the love.  (Matt 5:44)

It comes and I am changed.  I see the persecutors as children themselves.  I wonder how I would have reacted if I had been raised to hate.  It is a powerful thing.  Could I rise above it?  Would I become a persecutor?  I feel compassion.  I love them.

Once I have made this giant step, the last is much easier:  Pray for them.  I do.  The love increases.

Today is the International Day of Prayer for the persecuted church.  Open your eyes.  Open your hearts.  Pray.  Diligently.  Fervently.  Make it part of who you are and what you do.  You will see the change in you.

To receive weekly email updates on persecution around the world, you can go to http://www.persecution.com/ or http://www.persecution.net/.

Sunrise School News Part 1

Sunrise School is what I call our preschool homeschool.  I teach six girls and two boys.  Some cousins, some friends.  Everyday we pick a new leader for the day.  The leader gets to share their Daily News with the class.  As you can imagine, this is an exciting time for the kids and an enlightening time for me.

Note the difference between the news of the girls and the news of the boys.

Girl news:  feathers

Boy news: alligators

Girl news:  Belle, mom, Tiana, pumpkin patch

Boy news: alligators, hitting

In all fairness I must admit that Gideon had non alligator news for this week.  His news was, "My mommy says bad words."  I encouraged him to perhaps pick a new topic.  He then reverted back to alligator news.

Those of you ready to call the bad parent police, have no fear.  I asked him what these "bad words" were.  Stupid and idiot.  He must have not been listening very carefully.

Girl news:  princess, computer, CHoP

Boy news: alligators

It may be time to broaden the horizons of the boys at Sunrise School.  Though, their devotion to their beloved alligator is quite touching.

He Protects Us

Standard adult bedtime procedure at our house:

pjs

brush teeth

take medicine

Momma climbs into bed

Daddy checks the doors

Daddy checks on the girls

Daddy climbs into bed

This is the way things have worked at our house since our oldest was born.  I did not find out until recently that when he was checking on the girls, he was praying for them.  One night I snuck in with the camera to capture this precious moment.  I was not prepared for just how special this sight would become to me.

I enter the room, and I fall more in love with him.  He sits on the floor between their beds.  One hand on the oldest's leg.  One hand holding the youngest's hand.  Head bowed.  Praying for our children.  Praying protection.  Praying blessings.  Prayers that come from the heart of a father who knows the Father.  I am forever changed by this image.

The oldest sleeps with her huge Children's Storybook Bible.  The Bible that is almost too big for her to pick up.  The Bible that belonged to my sisters and me.  The Bible my father read to us when we were little girls.  The Bible that makes me want to cry when I see her with it.  Her sleep is deep.  She knows she is loved.  She knows she is safe.

The youngest sleeps with her Hugsie.  The elephant who used to be pink and is now gray.  She sleeps all wrapped up in her blankie.  The blankie that is a requirement for sleep.  I try not to think of the days when she will no longer need these two comforts to rest.  Her sleep is peaceful.  She knows she is loved.  She knows she is protected.

I startle my husband with the flash of the camera.  He looks.  I smile.  He continues praying.  I stay for a moment longer, wanting to burn this image into my memory.  I quietly return to bed and snuggle under the covers.  I know I am loved.  I know I am protected.  I know I am safe.  And I know he prays for me, too.  I feel humbled by this gift of a man God gave to me.

Some people have problems seeing God as a loving Father.  Their own father did not show to them true love.  True protection.  Grateful these girls will not have that problem.

"Mommy, Can I Have a Bra?"

That is what the youngest asked today.  And then the oldest asked if she could get one for Christmas.  I'm not sure why I was surprised.  The father just shook his head.

Our girls (4 years and 2 years) are insanely girlie.  We live in a sea of tutus, dolls, purses, and make-up.   A closet full of dress up clothes.  A trunk full of princess shoes and accessories.

They chose this.  I did not want to push pink on them.  Their nursery was yellow with jungle animals.  I bought them blocks, legos, and dolls.  As soon as they were old enough to choose on their own, them wanted pink or purple.  They wanted dresses.  They wanted tutus.  I have to force them to wear pants when it is cold.

Could these children really be mine?  In my friend Candra's blog (http://curiousgeorgi.blogspot.com/ ) she wonders, "how someone so pink ended up with so much blue."  I feel the opposite.  How did someone so blue end up with so much pink?

"Mommy, why don't you wear make-up?"

"Mommy, can you please wear more dresses?"

Seriously?!?  I think God gave me my pink girls so He could have a good chuckle.  Nature vs. Nurture?  In our house, Nature wins.