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"God stand in this place! Settle in my heart, take Your place and come, reign in every corner of my heart, be the Lord of my life, of my dreams, of my fears and my questions. May you be the center of everything, in every process, anoint my heart with your Holy Spirit, and pour Yourself out as oil that soaks and restores the deepest part of my being."
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A visit to Bolivia will take your breath away. Literally. When you fly into El Alto, Bolivia, you land at an altitude of 13,325 feet. Your body is taking in approximately 1/3 less oxygen than normal and it takes more energy and time to do even simple things, like walking through the airport with your luggage.
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Perhaps all too often I can get caught up in the weight of this work, the difficulty of true healing processes, and thus trying to take seriously what we do, which is certainly merited. But what if the most healing, therapeutic thing we can do is to hug our child or draw together or laugh?
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“I wish everyone would stop talking about him like he was a drug dealer and a gangbanger. As if that makes it okay that he was killed.”
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At Christmas-time we remember the baby Jesus, but the nativity is not about warm fuzzies. It's love amidst fear, hope in despair, and light forcing back the dark - smirking faces and off-key voices, it's all a part of the Christmas story.
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Recently, a staff member was ready to hand in his resignation after an exhausting (and rather loud) conflict with one of the women. I listened to his frustration, and realized that he was stuck seeing the small, bloody fights, but couldn't step back to see his vital place in the bigger war.
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Every superhero has a tragic origin story, but Wanda's is absolutely horrific.
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Subsisting in the middle of urbanity, no one knew how she and her 3 children were suffering: a single mother prostituting, pregnant from gang rape, cooking on an open fire, and all 4 sleeping on one small mattress on the floor.
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“Sometimes,” she said, “You can come home from brothel visits and take it in stride. Other times, the harshness of what they face night after night, and how we can just walk away at the end of the visit, hits home and the gulf between us feels overwhelming.“
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Angela has worked hard to never have to return to prostitution. On average, a woman attempts to leave the streets 7 times before finally becoming free. But Angela is going strong, supporting even her grandchildren.
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This spring, I visited Vanessa’s* to share Sunday lunch and a rite-of-passage tradition for her toddler. She received me in her stepmother’s home, one of two living relatives in her life. I cut her toddler’s hair for the first time - the hair he entered this world with – which now designates me as his godmother.
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The story of Word Made Flesh Bolivia is one of God’s faithfulness and grace, one where loved ones have come and gone and left their mark, one of perseverance in the face of disappointment, political turmoil, sickness, severe weather and tough living. But it is also one where Hope triumphs and each small step towards transformation matters.
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I´ve been at a loss for words. Fluctuating between heartache and despair, anger and confusion, I’ve questioned our effectiveness, the possibilities of change and even God’s unfailing power.
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As soon as I arrived, I became an emotional wreck for days, feeling the tears well up inside me at any given moment and for no explainable reason. After a sob therapy session, I took some time in the prayer room to quietly reflect - tried to breathe deeply, to quiet my body and mind that had been racing in preparation for this trip.
I began to walk the labyrinth in the center of the room, slowly following the lines set before me.
And as I walked…. I realized how very alone I feel.
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Honestly, I understand why Ada was mad at God. Misfortune and disaster seem to hunt her, and it’s hard not to blame it on an all-powerful Father.
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On a chilly Wednesday evening, a small team made its weekly visit to the red-light district, and met Vanessa.* At 28 y/o, she had resorted to prostitution a few months prior to make ends meet for her two young sons.
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In the red-light district a block from our ministry center, there are 500 beds. As we do every Christmas, we enter each of the fourteen brothels there donning Santa Claus hats and proclaiming the gospel through Christmas carols. The administrators were, as always, remarkably accepting; some even genuinely enjoying the cheerful invasion. One administrator in particular pulled us aside and told our staff, "I've got a girl who's not doing well. Think she's about to die."
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Although she visited our ministry center years ago, she wasn’t quite ready for change. But when she hit rock bottom, she knew where to turn for help.
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I felt my soul pierced. In a physical sense, it took my breath. This was someone else’s baby, born into the world through pain and sweat and love - as special and treasured as my own daughter who was at home with a caregiver. I felt the weight of indignation descend upon me. I was witnessing a lamentable injustice, and unfortunately a common one both near and far – a child’s true identity lost.
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