Travel light: Justice matters

“God saw the Israelites, and He took notice.” 

Exodus 2:25

The issue of human exploitation is as old as the fall of man. Satan exploited Adam and Eve’s vulnerabilities in the Garden of Eden, and with their fall, the human experience was forever marred. From there, human exploitation subtly weaves its tentacles through the stories of Cain and Abel; Abram, Sarai and Hagar; and Joseph and his brothers.

Throughout those stories, however, we see a God who cares for hurting people. When Cain thought no one was looking, God saw and executed justice on Abel’s behalf (Genesis 4). To Hagar, He was “the God who sees” (Genesis 16). To Joseph, He brought good out of evil, to bring about “the survival of many people” (Genesis 50:20).

In keeping with the theme of justice for the oppressed, the Book of Exodus begins with the Israelites in slavery in Egypt. They cried out in their misery, and God took notice, sending Moses to rescue them and foreshadowing the coming Messiah, Jesus, who rescues us from the slavery of sin.

January is human trafficking awareness month in the U.S. This month, your heart may have been touched with poignant stories of men, women and children victimized by human trafficking and oppression. You may have been compelled to take some sort of symbolic action. While these actions certainly help raise awareness of the problem, remember this: Not a single victim will be freed because we disappear from social media or mark a red X on the back of our hand.

But God will take notice as we cry out to Him on behalf of those who are oppressed.

This week's reading: Genesis 48-50, Exodus 1-15
Post #5: Discovering how to live missionally through a chronological reading of God’s Word.

#travellight

The Interview: A short story

Image courtesy of Brandon Sigma at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I knew I must not speak, though the night was dark and I was afraid. I clung to my mother’s tattered skirt as she walked quietly and quickly toward the river. I knew where we were going. Oma (Korean for “mother”) had softly explained it to me earlier as we did our chores.

Baby Brother, who should have been able to walk, couldn’t. Starvation had stunted his growth. I was so hungry, too. My mother carried my brother close to her breast, using a single piece of cloth as a makeshift sling. He was the reason for our journey.

The water was cold. Oma and I stepped in together, but it was so cold I hesitated. My shoes did nothing to protect my feet from the icy water. Oma rebuked me quietly but harshly.

“Hurry,” she whispered, “we must go quickly.”

I took a few tentative steps. The water came to my ankles, then my knees. Soon it reached my chin, and my body went numb. I couldn’t swim. My mother knew that, but she’d heard the river was shallow enough for wading at this spot.

My hand clung to Oma’s skirt. Baby Brother was too listless to notice the cold. Oma bent low so the border guards would not see us. Carefully, we moved across the river together.

Our lives had always been difficult, but I didn’t know that. Opa, my father, had died the year before. At least that’s what Oma said. The guards may have taken him away as they had taken others. I’m not sure. The village people would not speak of him.

A few months after Opa died, the famine came, and difficult times grew worse. I knew then we were suffering. Rumors spread, though muttered softly, that food was being diverted to the North Korean army. All I knew was that we had no rice in our village. Oma taught us to enjoy the taste of tree bark, leaves, and grass.

But when Younger Sister grew sick and died, Oma decided we should cross the river.

“Opa would be ashamed of me,” she said. “I will not allow another of his children to starve.”

So, on the first moonless night after the spring thaw, our journey began. Just when I thought the water and the cold and the hunger would swallow me, we reached the shore. Dripping wet, freezing and covered in mud, we climbed out. Oma let us rest for a moment before she rose again.

“Where do we go now?” I asked.

She said nothing, but we started walking. I was shivering from the cold. She pulled me close with one arm.

I didn’t know how to measure time then. I don’t know how long we walked, but we finally arrived at a small village. This village was different from ours. Lights burned in some of the windows. Now, I know this happens because of electricity. Then, I did not know the word.

We came to a building and went down an alley to a side door. My mother knocked lightly in a rhythm we had used when chopping wood in the village. The door opened slightly, and an elderly woman peered out. She was Korean, just like me.

She ushered us inside, shutting the door quickly behind us. A handful of men, women, and children sat against the walls, wearing the same type of ragged clothing as us.

The elderly woman gave me a towel and lifted Baby Brother from Oma’s tired arms. A younger woman led me to the kerosene heater in the center of the room. She placed a bowl of hot soup in my hands—soup with real vegetables, vegetables I hadn’t seen since before the famine.

I drank it slowly at first. It was hot and delicious. Though it burned my tongue, my stomach cried for it, and I gulped it greedily. Later I would regret eating it so quickly. My first taste of freedom was a bowl of hot soup that I vomited moments later.

“What happened then?” the official asked.

I blink. I have forgotten where I am. The memories of those first moments in China are still so vivid, though they happened years ago. I stare at the official. I trust her, somewhat reluctantly. But I know I need her help to complete my journey.

I tell her about our first few days in China, of being helped by those who called themselves Christians.

“They were Korean people like us and some Chinese people,” I explain. “I did not know what a Christian was, and when I learned, I was surprised. I had always been taught that there was no God, that the Dear Leader was our God. These people said nothing about our Dear Leader, but they spoke of God as if they knew Him. They were kind to us. They fed and clothed us. Baby Brother and I began growing stronger. Oma still did not smile much, but she didn’t seem as worried or as old as she once seemed.”

I stop speaking. I do not want to talk anymore. I do not want to talk about the struggles I experienced on the way to South Korea. They had been many, and I had met both good and bad people. It had taken me years to reach this point.

Now, I am sitting in a small cubicle at the American Embassy in Seoul. I have struggled to learn English, and I still struggle to be understood. My sponsor is with me, and she is kind. But, I still feel alone without Oma and Baby Brother. I do not want to talk about them or about what happened to them. 

“Where is your mother now?” the official asks.

I do not want to think about it. I do not want to tell her, but I do.

“I do not know. When we were still living in the border town, Oma went out late one afternoon to buy a few things from the market. It was dusk. She carried Baby Brother with her as she always did. She still did not trust him with me or with the others in our small apartment. I waited for her, but she never returned.”

“Was she taken back across the border?” the official asks.

“I do not know, but I think so. Some say she was captured and sent to a prison camp. I cannot think about it. If she was captured, she may have been executed. I watched an execution once in my village of one who had crossed the border. The young woman was blindfolded and shot by firing squad in front of us. They made us watch so we would learn the penalty. I can still hear the sobs of her family; they haunt my dreams. But Oma, I do not want to think about it. She only wanted to save us from starving. She was a good mother.”

“How old were you when you crossed the river with your mother?”

“I was ten years old.”

“And how old are you now?”

“I am eighteen.”

“Are you sure about that? You look younger than that to me.”

Truthfully, I do not know how old I am. I do not want to say this, but I say it anyway.

I also say, “I know that eighteen is considered an adult in the United States. I want to be able to enter the United States. In my home country, I heard many bad things about Americans, but I think they were mostly lies. After I arrived in South Korea, I learned that many of the things I was taught as a child were lies. I’ve met some Americans since I’ve been living in Seoul and going to school. Most of them have been kind to me, especially those who work at my school. Sometimes near the bars I’ve seen other Americans, too, soldiers or teachers. Some of them drink too much and talk too loud, but they still have the smell of freedom about them.”

“What does freedom smell like?”

I answer quickly, “It smells like soured milk.”

The official blinks. She looks confused. “Why does freedom smell like soured milk?” she asks.

I hesitate. I don’t know how to answer this in English. I realize I should not have said it because I can’t explain it. I hesitate again, trying to force the English words into my head.

My sponsor has been silent throughout the interview. Before the interview, she told me to speak for myself and to look the official in the eye. She said Americans like that. I do not want to disappoint her.

Now, she chuckles softly and speaks for me, “I’m not sure she means that freedom smells like soured milk. I think she may have confused some of the words.”

But I had not confused the words. Americans do smell like soured milk. I am told this is because they eat lots of cheese and milk. They do not smell like Koreans who eat lots of garlic and onions and red pepper paste. I have talked with Americans in my school, and I have watched American television and movies. I have noticed that Americans come and go as they like. They eat what they want, and they say what they think. They live every day without fear. To me, this is freedom, and it smells like soured milk.

Still, I keep silent. Perhaps Americans do not know they smell like soured milk, and maybe I will offend the official if I explain it.

My sponsor continues speaking, “She is eighteen. The malnutrition of her early years makes her look younger. She was in China for three years before arriving in South Korea. She has been in South Korea for five years, learning English and improving her education. She is a smart one, one of our most promising students. I told her that if she studied well, I would help her attend university in the United States.”

“Where do you intend to study?”

This is an easy question. I will not offer any more of my thoughts on freedom. I will stick to the facts. I look the official in the eye. I smile.

 “I want to go to the University of Georgia. I want to study nutrition and medicine. I think it is a crime that children should starve.”

The official nods, and for a moment, tears fill her eyes. She blinks, and they are gone. I do not know what this means. I am afraid that I have spoken badly again. I was supposed to stick to the facts, but I keep giving my opinions.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“You do not need to be sorry. Tell me how you will support yourself and pay for your education in America.”

“I will work. I will scrub floors and clean toilets and empty trash. I will find a job. I will do whatever it takes. I am a good worker.”

My sponsor speaks again, “I will support her. I have included my financial statements along with the application. I will pay her tuition and room and board in advance. She has been accepted at the University of Georgia, and I have a family living near there that is willing to look after her. If we obtain a work-study permit, she may find a part-time job as well, but I will be her primary means of support.”

The official closes the file. “Very well. This interview is complete. We will notify you within two weeks of the status of your application.”

The official nods and stands. I notice for the first time that she is very tall. I look up into her eyes. She looks as if she understands. I pray, if there is a God to pray to, that she does.

--THE END--

By Ann Lovell, copyright 2013, all rights reserved. 

This story is fictional. Any similarity to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

"The smaller the coffin, the heavier it is to carry ..."

This week, Taliban militants in Peshawar, Pakistan, stormed into a school and massacred 145 people. By the end of the hours-long seige, 132 students, 10 staff members and 3 soldiers were dead. Pakistani defense minister, Khawaja Asif told CNN, "The smaller the coffin, the heavier it is to carry. ... It's a very, very tragic day."

Two years ago on Dec. 14, 2012, 20-year-old Adam Lanza stormed through the doors of Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, killing 20 children and six educators before taking his own life as police arrived.

As the world reacts to the massacre in Peshawar and families in Newtown and Peshawar manage their grief, the prayer I wrote two years ago in memory of the Sandy Hook massacre is just as relevant today. May God give us peace.

Dec. 19, 2012

Father, I pray for the families of Sandy Hook. I pray You will be with them in their grief. I know, Lord, that You are close to them because You promise to be close to the brokenhearted. I pray that those who know You will cling to You and that those who don’t will turn to You. For all of them, Lord, I pray that You will heal their broken hearts and bind their wounds.

The words of Matthew 2:18 have been hauntingly close this week, Lord. I hear the cries of “Rachel, weeping for her children,” refusing to be consoled. Father, it was into this kind of world that Jesus came — vulnerable and targeted for death by a crazy king who felt Your threat to his power. Yet, Lord, through the Father’s grace and protection, You survived. You grew to adulthood, lived among us and gave Your life for us. You did not die as a child at the whims of a king but as a man by the purpose of God. And because You came and lived and died and rose again, You are here with us now in our brokenness and grief, in the midst of yet another tragedy involving the innocent.

Father, I pray for the children who survived. In this world gone mad, may they come to know Your love, Your peace, Your security and Your purpose for their lives. May they grow to be strong. May this tragedy define them only to the extent that they seek You and grow into men and women who can be a force for good in this broken world.

Father, I pray for the parents, teachers and community of Newtown. Comfort them in their grief. Give them the resilience to rebuild. Lord, as they face funeral after funeral this week, I’m sure many are praying, “Lord, if You had been here, my child would not have died.” Father, I feel Your tears as You hear their cries. But just as you comforted Martha in the death of her brother, Lazarus, I pray that You will comfort them. Remind them that You are the resurrection and the life. Remind them that in You we can live abundantly, even in the face of suffering, carnage and death. You give us hope, Lord, when all seems lost. Help us to trust You. Help us to believe that somehow what others intended for evil, You planned for good to bring about the saving of many lives.

Father, I am looking to see what You will bring about through this tragedy. May wrong fail and right prevail. I am thankful You walk among us. I am thankful You never leave us.

In Jesus name, amen.

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong, And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail, The Right prevail,
With peace on the earth, good-will to men."

- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A World AIDS Day remembrance: Three ways to lose your heart.

Dec. 1, 2010. World AIDS Day. I stood on a busy sidewalk in northern India. Cars and trucks whizzed by on one side. On the other side, an open sewer and a high, concrete wall separated me from a catacomb of brothels — a den of human trafficking, oppression and violence against women.

Until that morning, I hadn’t known World AIDS Day existed. Until that trip to northern India, I’d had no “real-life” interaction with AIDS patients. I knew only what I’d read or seen on TV. But on this day, AIDS had a face, a name and two small children.

Her name was Ajunta.* She was 27 years old. Her husband had died of AIDS a year before. Given her illness and her status as a widow in Indian society, she had no means to feed her family. To earn the cash she needed, she turned to prostitution.

Then, two Indian pastors visited Ajunta, hoping to learn more about how to minister to HIV patients. They shared the gospel with her, and Ajunta became a follower of Jesus. She was baptized and began sharing Jesus with other women like herself — women in desperate situations.

Ajunta’s story rocked my world and changed the direction of my life and ministry. Ajunta, I realized, was a woman just like me, simply trying to provide for her family. Her story brought my soul to its knees.

And as my soul cried out for justice, God spoke. He used the conversations with Ajunta and her friends to compel me to begin a gospel-focused ministry among exploited women in the Asian city where I then lived.

God also has used my experience with Ajunta to allow me to share with countless faith groups in the U.S. how they can be involved in ministries to exploited people around the world. He is bringing His people together to “speak up for those who have no voice.”

So, on this World AIDS Day, in honor of Ajunta, here are some practical steps you can take to help hurting women:

1. Pray.

Oswald Chambers said, “Prayer does not equip us for greater works — prayer is the greater work.” Pray for exploited women as if they were your daughters, sisters, granddaughters or nieces. Ask God to open your eyes to the exploitation around you and lead you to minister in your community and across the globe.

2. Learn.

Investigate ministries in your community and around the world that are helping hurting women. Find the gaps and determine if or how you can meet those needs.

3. Go. 

Once you identify the needs, get involved! Take the first step. Visit a women’s prison. Provide a meal at a women’s shelter. Teach English to a refugee family. And don’t limit yourself to U.S. borders. Take the risk to travel overseas to hotbeds of exploitation and oppression. Serve alongside Christian workers who are striving to offer help and hope to exploited people who have yet to hear the name of Jesus.

This World AIDS Day, begin the journey to be an “ambassador of reconciliation” among those who are lost and dying. Let God rock your world with His heart for the hurting among the nations.

*Name changed.

Freedom's Path: a story of exploitation and redemption

By Ann Lovell

Author’s Note: Originally published in the collection, Four, this story is a work of fiction. Although based loosely on my experiences working among exploited women in Southeast Asia, any similarities to actual events or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

"And may God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you can make a

difference in the world so that you can do what others claim cannot be done to bring
justice and kindness to all our children and the poor."

A Franciscan Benediction

Nu opened her eyes and blinked. The heaviness behind her eyes made her head throb. She sat up too quickly and felt the dark room begin to spin. She lay down again on the thin straw mat and tried to regain her bearings. Slowly, as if a fog was lifting, images began to form in the 15-year-old’s mind.

Read more »

"Sexpo" and the Gospel in action

A month or so ago, Richmond, Va., held its first ever "Sexpo," a convention of porn stars and pornographic materials. Some from our church and others in the area went not to protest but to pray. One church -- Mt. Gilead -- paid for space to set up a booth and offer free foot massages and gift bags with Gospel materials to the women and vendors. They did not openly advertise themselves as a church.

As the vendors were setting up, several said, "Well, I guess the church will be here protesting today." Later they said, "I thought the church would be here? Where are the protestors?" The women from Mt. Gilead said, "We are the church, and we've been here the entire time." 

That's the Gospel in action.

Walking and learning

Thanks all for your prayers as we continue to figure out how God is leading us in the red-light district. Today we went mid-afternoon to see if any of the girls we met a couple of weeks ago were available. The bar was closed and no one was around. We are trying to determine the best time to talk with the girls when we will not be interrupting their work. Remember, our goal is not keep them from working, but simply to share the Gospel through friendly conversation and build enough trust that they might be willing to talk with us more.

We also prayer-walked that area, along with another one nearby. We're trying to determine where to go next, but it isn't as evident as it was a couple of weeks ago. We'll just keep praying and waiting. We also stopped by one place run by another Christian organization that offers childcare in the red-light district. We will go back next week to talk with them more.

In an interesting side note, as we were walking back to our car, a homeless man on crutches tripped and fell in front of us. My friend, Patti, saint that she is, stopped to help and he asked us to help him stand up. After we got him to his feet, he told us a little of his story in a mixture of Thai and English. Apparently he is Burmese and he was injured in some sort of vehicle accident. He asked where we are from and we told him we are from America. Then, again in a mixture of English, Thai and apparently Burmese, he said, "I believe in father. Do you believe in father?" and pointed above his head. After some confusing pointing and trying to make sure we understood what he was asking, we said, "Yes. We are followers of Jesus." As it turned out, apparently, he is, too. He told us that even though he is homeless he is so happy because "die, never." I'm not sure what to make of that encounter. I'll even admit to a tad bit of skepticism. On the other hand, maybe he is supposed to remind me that regardless of our circumstances, Jesus is enough.

Continue to pray for the following:

- Wisdom, discernment and courage as we figure out our next steps

- A variety of upcoming meetings with potential partnering organizations, our strategy leadership and our local Thai advisors

- Thai women who can come alongside us. (We have a lead on two!)

- Softening of hearts and openness to the Gospel among those we encounter in the red-light district

- The salvation of exploited women and children in my city and beyond

Thanks so much for your prayers!

Working in the Red-light district

I've used this blog for many things over the years - to post stories, devotional thoughts, photos, etc. And the truth is, I don't post very often, choosing instead to post short status updates on FB or dash off a quick email when things are happening or need prayer support. But I have so much to share about how God has been moving over the last few months that I'm not even sure where to begin - and a short facebook status won't do it justice. So let me start at the beginning ...

In June 2010, as part of a meeting with my colleagues in this city, we took a prayer-drive up a nearby mountain, gathered at an overlook and prayed for the city. I was convicted. At that point, we had lived in the city for 10 months and I had never been to that place. I had never prayed for my city. I was too busy missing the city I had left behind and wallowing in the "woe is me" of another transition. But in that moment, I felt stirred not only to pray for my new city but to pray a radical, outrageous, audacious prayer:

"God, please close down the sex industry in my town."

Most of you know that Thailand is well-known for its sex industry. My city is no exception. And while local authorities work hard to address child trafficking and pedophilia, prostitution is legal and very much alive. I really didn't personally want to become involved in this issue. I just wanted God to close it down ... because He can ... if we ask Him to.

After that initial trip up the mountain, I began making an intentional effort to prayer drive various parts of the city - sometimes alone and sometimes with two friends and colleagues. We prayed in several places - not just red-light districts - seeking areas where we might minister to the people. I continued to pray that God would bring an end to the sex industry in my city. Crazy, I know.

Then in late November I traveled on assignment as a writer to northeast India. I initially thought that I was covering the work of medical volunteers since health strategies have been a focus of mine for the last year. I learned, instead, that the volunteers were providing basic health checkups in a red-light district and that we would be working with prostitutes. The assignment morphed from a health strategies focus to a human trafficking focus. Ok. Sounds interesting.

But it turned out to be more than an interesting story coverage. That trip, quite literally, changed my life. I've never wanted to work with prostitutes. It isn't that I don't care about their salvation ... I do. But I come from a very safe, protected, emotionally fulfilled environment. I simply thought I had nothing to say to them. No way to relate.

What I learned on that trip - as I learn so often - is that it isn't about me. It's true that have nothing in common with exploited women and girls. But I do have Jesus Christ living in me. And He is enough to break their chains and set them free. I don't need to identify. I don't need to understand. I just need to share the Gospel. Jesus is enough.

So, I realized that all this prayer for the sex industry in my city really meant that I needed to get involved. But I just wasn't sure. Prostitutes? Really?

From the city in northeast India we traveled to Kolkata. Our first night in Kolkata, we walked down to Mother Teresa's home. As I read the stories about her life in the small museum, I noticed that it was on a train to Darjeeling (near the city we'd just visited) that God impressed on Mother Teresa his will for her to work with "the poorest of the poor."

Standing there, I knew that God wanted me to find a way to share the Gospel with bar girls and prostitutes in our city. I had no idea how to go about it, but I'd just had a "real-life lab experience" with my new friend and colleague involved in the work. I had learned some things. So I prayed, "God, I'm not sure how to do this. I'm not even sure I want to do this. But ok, God. Just show me the next step."

I returned to my city rarin' to go. I knew that I only wanted to share the Gospel - not start a livelihood project, not build a safe house, etc. One of the things I've learned this year as I've traveled and written about social justice issues (e.g., homelessness, health and human trafficking) is that the most effective approach is simply to start by sharing the Gospel. Social justice issues have a lesser priority and can be addressed later as needs arise.

So, of course, I decided I'd look at teaching English in one of the red-light districts. (Insert ironic smile here). My prayer partner, Jamie, and I prayed about that for a few weeks and constantly ran into one brick wall after another. Ok, so it isn't about teaching English. It's about sharing the Gospel. I get it.

As a Holy Spirit-induced aside, on the trip to India, I learned about an effort by FBC Inola, Oklahoma to deliver gift bags to strip club workers in Tulsa. This is a new ministry that came about after my co-worker in India challenged her home church to take action. I did not mention this to Jamie. I knew there was no way the two of us - as introverted as we are - would ever attempt something so bold and foolish. But ...

A couple of weeks ago, we met to pray again. We talked about different ways of gaining access to the women. Then, Jamie said, "Why don't we just walk up the street and talk to them."

"That's very dangerous," I said.

"Yes, but we can go to one out in the open. We won't be in the brothels, just the bars," she said.

"Oh, ok," I said.

"Should we take something?" she said.

"How about a gift bag?" I said.

"That's perfect!" she said.

"Really? Ok. " I said. "Had you thought of this before we met?"

"No," Jamie said. "It just came to me as we were praying."

Of course it did.

So, there you have it. Last Friday, February 11, Jamie and I along with an extroverted friend and co-worker named Patti, delivered 8 gift bags to a bar across from a hotel where our company frequently has meetings. We shared with them that God had put them on our hearts, that we loved them and that we had a gift for them. The gift bags included lotion, lipstick, tissues, a facial mask and a copy of "The Hope" DVD. We also gave them a card with our first names and cell phone numbers, inviting them to visit us for coffee and conversation. The girls were very friendly. They accepted the gifts. No "bad guys" ran us off. It was a great experience.

A few days later, on Tuesday, the three of us attended a seminar called "Red Lights and Redemption" held by a colleague who works in the brothels in another nearby country. We learned a lot. One of her suggestions is that we take a gift every time we go to the red-light district. That was my plan, but I also realized that we have no "real" budget for this outreach. I didn't know where the funds would come from. After all, there are a LOT of prostitutes in my city.

That night on our walk around our neighborhood, my husband, Joe and I were talking about what to do. I told him, "I'm just going to be George Mueller about this and trust that if God wants us to deliver gift bags then He will provide the funds. If he doesn't, maybe He just wants us to talk to them." (George Mueller was a missionary in England who set up orphanages. Rather than asking for donations, he simply prayed every time he had a need ... and God provided funds ... every single time).

The next morning I woke up at 5:00 a.m. with this ministry on my mind. I prayed that if God wanted us to continue providing gift bags that He provide the funds.

Later, just before lunch, Joe walked over to my office. With a funny look on his face, he told me that we had received a special gift from a donor that we don't know and have never met. It was a substantial amount of money to "address exploitation of children in Thailand." My jaw dropped. 'That's a LOT of gift bags.' I thought.

So, now we know that God has opened a door big enough to drive a truck through. I'm in conversations with our leadership about developing a comprehensive plan to reach exploited women and children in northern Thailand. I hope to help coordinate the efforts of all of our personnel working with exploited women and children - from an orphanage in our city to work in the girls' and women's prisons to human trafficking and prostitution. So far, I've gotten nothing but support to pursue this.

Our small team is also planning to meet next week with a potential partner - a woman with another organization who just moved to our city to work with prostitutes. Interesting coincidence, isn't it?

We have several prayer requests:

- Pray that God will give us wisdom as we move forward.

- Pray for the salvation of the girls' in the red-light district

- Pray that our ministry will continue to be focused first on sharing the Gospel

- Pray that as we seek guidance, counsel and accountability with our leadership that we will continue in lock-step obedience to God's direction

- Pray for local Thai believers to step out and join us in this ministry

- Pray that God will guide us as we seek to develop an overall plan for reaching exploited women and children in northern Thailand with the Gospel

This is SO big and I am SO inadequate in my own strength. Still, I know that while we can do nothing apart from Christ, with Him we can do everything. I know that God is with us. I can't wait to see what's next. Thanks for your prayers!

Ann

Baby Solomon has died.

INDIA - Baby Solomon has died.  I met Solomon in a small village in India, severely malnourished and starving because his mother was unable to nurse him. Our volunteer team from Seoul International Baptist Church helped the family with hospitalization and follow-up medical care. Until recently, we thought Solomon was doing well. He was eating and growing, but on Friday, I received a note that he had died. Ironically, he died from overfeeding. In cases of starvation and malnutrition, it is important to introduce food, and especially proteins, slowly.

It is hard to know what happened and quite tempting for some to blame the hospital for inadequate education about Solomon’s nutritional needs. But I was there, and I know how difficult it was to communicate through all the different dialects and cultural barriers. I’m sure the hospital attempted to educate the parents. I’m also fairly sure the parents indicated they understood the instructions. But when a starving baby begins to thrive, it is not too difficult to see how a young, uneducated mother could overfeed her little boy, without understanding the consequences.

What I’ve realized as I’ve reflected these past few days on Solomon’s short life is the dire need for volunteers to conduct medical clinics in many of these small villages, not just in India but around the world. For every Solomon, there are countless others like him in every corner of the world. One of the things I learned from talking with personnel in Solomon’s area is how village medical clinics can be a very effective piece of a church planting strategy. Just a little education in basic pre- and post-natal care for young mothers would go so far in saving the lives of children. Just a little training in basic health care could make a difference in the lives of so many.

Mother Teresa once said, “It is a poverty to decide that a child must die so that you may live as you wish.”

I have few regrets in my life, but I do have one. My regret is that in years past I have wasted so much money on useless stuff as children around the world are starving, impoverished, and oppressed. Every time I go out to eat in America, I take half of my food home because the portions are so large. Yet, Solomon’s family did not have enough money to buy formula, let alone the education to know how to feed their child. And while I lived as I wished last week, feasting on the riches of America and trying to decide which pair of shorts to buy, a child died.  But this wasn’t a faceless victim of global poverty that flashed across my television screen. He was a child I had held in my arms. He was a child I had prayed for. He was a child I had loved.

I don’t know what God will do through Solomon’s death. We have been asked to pray that Solomon’s death will not separate this family from the love of God. I believe that God is at work. Before time began, He ordained the number of Solomon’s days. He had a purpose for Solomon’s life, and that purpose has been fulfilled. Today, Solomon is in His Father’s arms. He is well fed and happy.

But my message is much deeper than a simple social gospel message. Not only are children dying physically, millions of men, women, and children are dying spiritually every day in villages just like Solomon’s in every corner of the world. “How will they know, unless someone tells them?” Paul asked. But how will we go when our credit cards are at the limit and we are so strapped with consumer debt that we even buy our daily bread on credit? Certainly, God has blessed America, but rather than taking those blessings and turning them back to use for His glory, I fear that as a nation and as a church we’ve become like Eli and his sons. We’ve become fat off the sacrifices of others, taking no thought for the burden our selfishness and materialism is placing on those around us and especially on the generations that follow us.

Still, we must go. We must with God’s help curb our spending on frivolous things, lay aside the entanglements of debt, and finish the work He has given us to do. It is our commission as Christians to preach the Good News to all people that Jesus Christ is Lord and that He forgives all our sins and heals all our diseases. As we do this, those from every tribe and tongue and people and nation are gathering before the throne of God in Heaven. This is not a pie-in-the-sky dream. It is a picture of a present reality and a future hope.

It is my prayer that someday Solomon, his parents and many from his village will be reunited before the throne of God. Never again will they hunger or thirst. Never again will they be outcast and unclean because of a cultural system that has declared them “untouchable.” They will rejoice in God’s faithfulness through difficult times. They will praise God for the times of blessing. In Jesus, their sins will be forgiven and their bodies made whole.

This is why I do what I do. No regrets. No turning back.

In the news: UN-assisted genocide tribunal in Cambodia

Killing Fields Collage
Originally uploaded by Ann Lovell

In today's news, a UN-assisted genocide tribunal in Phnom Penh is hearing testimony from Kaing Guek Eav, alias Duch (pronounced Doik). Between 1.2 and 2 million people died under the rule of the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia from 1975-1979. Duch, who is now a born-again Christian, admits to being "criminally responsible" for the deaths of 16,000 men, women, and children at the infamous Tuol Sleng Prison (S-21).

I created this poster after a visit to the Cheoung Ek Killing Field and S-21 on a family vacation last summer. The skulls are from the Cheoung Ek Killing Field where 8,900 men, women and children were executed by the Khmer Rouge. The faces are actual prisoner photos from S-21 in Phnom Penh. The skulls at Cheoung Ek remind us that these were real men, women, and children. The faces at Tuol Sleng tell the story of their suffering.

In the face of such horror I am rendered nearly speechless by the depravity of man. While we sometimes like to think of man's inherent goodness, we need not look very far back in our history to recognize the evil that is possible within the heart of man. No, mankind is not inherently good. He is inherently evil, which makes our need of a Savior and the promise of redemption that much more amazing.

I realized not long ago the extent to which we take the salvation of our souls for granted. All too often we fail to recognize the amazing miracle of grace and the tremendous cost that God Himself incurred for the redemption of our souls and the restoration of our relationship to Him. "Amazing grace how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me." In a society that has resorted to praising mediocrity for fear of damaging self-esteem, personal wretchedness is rarely a topic of discussion. Yet, without the recognition of our wretchedness, there can be no forgiveness.

The Apostle Paul recognized the dilemma of his wretchedness. In Romans 7:24 he wrote, "What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?"

He answered his own question in the very next verse. "Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!"

It is only through a relationship with Jesus Christ and not through our own efforts that we can be forgiven for the evil that lurks within us all. Most amazing is that even the most depraved among us is not beyond the reach of God's love.

So, what's so amazing about grace? Just ask Duch. I think he understands.

Baby Solomon with his mother

2009131-AML-0042
Originally uploaded by Ann Lovell

You can read the previous posting for details on Baby Solomon, but he and his mother have been released from the hospital and are now doing well.

India: Through the Wardrobe

2009131-AML-0069
Originally uploaded by Ann Lovell

A few weeks ago I made a trip to Bangalore, India with a team from my church in Seoul. I have been trying to get my head around all that I saw God do. I had no idea that stepping off the plane in Bangalore would be like stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. At this point, however, it is the closest metaphor I can think of that describes my experiences there.

My purpose on the trip was to lead a Bible conference for Pastor’s wives and widows. I was scheduled to speak for four sessions – two on Tuesday and two on Thursday. God had other plans.

On Tuesday morning, after a few hours of sleep, our group went first to the children’s home where the majority of our group was slated to give injections, play games, and tell Bible stories to the 118 orphans living there. Shortly after we arrived and were welcomed, my friend, Shanti, and I were driven to the church in the next village where the women had gathered for the conference. Shanti and her husband, Prince, own a chain of Indian restaurants in Seoul, and both are members of SIBC. This was their first time on a trip of this nature.

The Power of the Story

I began the conference by sharing the lessons I had prepared on the fall of man and Eve’s role in it. After just a few minutes, one of the more elderly women stood up and addressed the group. I asked my interpreter, Rebecca*, to translate for me.

Rebecca said, “She is telling them to wake up and pay close attention. She is telling them to stop falling asleep.”

Well, it wasn’t difficult for me to figure out that what I had planned to teach wasn’t working. By God’s grace, I suddenly remembered all my training in oral storytelling. For oral learners, the best way to communicate is simply to tell the story just as it is recorded in the Bible. So, I switched gears as best I could and simply told the story of Adam and Eve.

When I finished, I asked Shanti if she had anything to add. She offered to share her story, and for the next few minutes, she told how she had come from a Hindu background to faith in Jesus Christ. The women were enthralled, and I was reminded of the power of the story. When women share what God has done in our lives, He is glorified.

I was pretty sure I had been a miserable failure, and I was quite certain that I would not be asked to speak again. I was wrong. Rebecca asked if I could “teach” for another 30 minutes. I told her that I would share my personal story. Some of you know that my story involves elements of God’s physical healing from teenage cancer, infertility, and the premature births and deaths of my first three children. While these healings were not miraculous, they were healings nonetheless. I simply shared my story, and Shanti and I prayed for each of the women individually. Day 1 was complete.

The Hindu Priest

We went back to the children’s home, and later in the day, I went with some from our group to meet with our company’s personnel in Bangalore. The rest of our group remained at the children’s home giving injections until late into the night. One of the most powerful stories from their experience involved the Hindu priest from the neighboring village. From a distance, he had been watching the group giving injections to the children throughout the day. Later that night, he came with his wife, and both received injections. Then, he sought out one of our men to pray with him and his wife. After the prayer, the priest and his wife returned to their village hand-in-hand.

The next day, on Wednesday, Pastor Dan and Pastor Jack from SIBC held a Pastor’s conference in the same church where I had been the day before. Later in the day, the Hindu Priest and his wife showed up at the conference, and again they asked for prayer from Dan and Jack. It seems that God is at work in the life of this man who is a leader in a village that as yet has no house church. Our national partner, Paul*, has had a vision to reach this village since attempting to show the Jesus film there in 1982. He and his team were beaten and stoned in that attempt, and he continues to encounter resistance to this day, which leads me to Day 2 …

Prayerwalking the Village

Actually, when we started our day on Wednesday, I knew nothing about the Hindu Priest or the village. But, we took a different route to the children’s home on Wednesday morning and drove through the village. Four members of our team – Shanti, Sherri, Mary, and I – had no responsibilities on Wednesday but as we passed through the village, I felt a very strong leading to prayerwalk through it. When we arrived at the children’s home, I watched the children for a few minutes, but the leading to prayerwalk was so strong that I knew I would be disobedient if I did not follow through. I asked Shanti, Mary, and Sherri if they would like to join me, and they were eager to do so. We started off down the dirt road, but we had not gone very far when one of the orphanage workers came after us. He advised Shanti that we should not go and said that the people in the village might hurt us. Shanti told him that she thought we would be all right. She asked the rest of us what we thought, and we all agreed to go ahead. None of us were the least bit worried.

As we approached the first house, the family came out of the gate to talk to us. I made their photo, and Shanti explained who we were and what we were doing at the children’s home. A few steps more and the road forked. A short distance away down the right fork stood a group of people who were beckoning us to come. Once we reached them, I made photos of many of them, and we found them to be very welcoming. Again, none of us felt even slightly threatened or afraid.

As we continued our walk, praying silently in our hearts, a crowd continued to gather. Shanti would communicate as best she could, and I would make photos. Smiles and nods were basically our only means of communication. With the crowd growing, we made our way to the Hindu temple, where we stopped for just a few minutes before Prince arrived with the van after making a run for bottled water for the orphanage. We prayed silently at the temple for a few minutes more and then boarded the van to go back to the village. From the van, I made one last photo of the children. They were reaching out to me, and I showed the photo to Shanti who was in the seat beside me. We returned to the village without much fanfare but within 15 minutes of our arrival, children from the village began to come and participate in the Jesus songs and games. Those are the highlights for Day 2, which leads me to …

Shanti’s Vision

On Thursday morning, I was scheduled again to hold a conference for pastor’s wives and widows. However, our team had inoculated all of the pastors at the conclusion of the pastor’s conference on Wednesday, and all of the pastors were sick. Therefore, all of their wives had to stay home and take care of them. We met instead at Paul and Rebecca’s home for what turned out to be a time of worship and sharing. During this time, Shanti shared her vision. For the past three to four years, every time she has closed her eyes, she has had a vision of children reaching out to her. She believed them to be Indian, and she believed they were from the slums. Although she had no mission inclination or desire, she could not escape the vision of these children. Shanti said, “But yesterday after we finished our walk through the village, Ann showed me a photo she had taken of the children reaching out to her. Those are the children from my vision, and I believe that God has called me to help them.” If only the wonders of the Almighty stopped there, but the day was just beginning.

The Gospel Meeting

After our most incredible time of sharing and worship, Paul asked if I could go door-to-door to meet with some of the women whose husbands were sick. That plan lasted about all of two minutes when Paul asked if I would be willing to accompany Pastor Dan, Pastor Jack, and Josh (a member of our team from Shanghai, China) to the Gospel meeting they had scheduled in another village about twenty minutes away. I agreed but asked if I could take either Shanti or Rebecca to help me interpret. Sadly, there was no room in the car for Shanti and Rebecca, so it was four men and me.

When we arrived in the Hindu village, about 30 people from the local house church had gathered. As the preaching started, a young woman arrived with her baby. The baby was severely malnourished, and as Jack and Dan preached, I motioned to the mother that I wanted to hold the baby. As I held this tiny baby who appeared to be clinging to life, I began to pray, asking God what could be done for this child and praying that He would be glorified in this child’s life somehow. I gave the baby back to his mother just before I was asked to share.

In preparing the stories I had planned to share at that day’s women’s conference, I had asked Rebecca what the women needed to hear. She told me that they needed to know that Jesus has the power to heal. Although I had planned to share the story of Jarius’ daughter and the woman with the issue of blood, I realized sitting in the village that I simply needed to tell my story. Again, especially given that my testimony includes elements of healing, it seemed the thing to do. I began very simply by saying, “I am here to tell you that Jesus has the power to heal,” and I went from there.

At the end, Paul asked if there were any who wanted to become followers of Jesus, and five women responded and prayed to receive Christ. Immediately after that, most of the congregation came to the four of us for prayer. I prayed for the mother and her baby and for a number of other women and children. Then, a very old woman who had been sitting apart from the group beckoned me to come to her. This is where things get very interesting …

The Crippled Woman

The woman was seated on the ground and with some difficulty she stood to request prayer. She was hunched over, gripping a walking stick with both hands. She put one hand on her back, and even without an interpreter, I knew that she wanted me to pray for the pain in her back. I prayed that God would remove the pain and I prayed in accordance with Romans 8 that the Spirit would intercede for this woman according to God’s will. When I finished praying, the woman straightened up! She began shaking her head from side to side in the way that Indians say “yes,” and she was talking a mile a minute in words I could not understand. To say I was amazed is an understatement. Then, she got down at my feet in what I feared was an act of worship. I bent down, took her by both arms and said, without an interpreter, “No. No. Don’t worship me. Worship Jesus.” I lifted her to her feet. She was still bobbing her head and talking excitedly, and then she stood even straighter. By this time, I had no idea what to make of what was happening. I began looking around for somebody to help me, and at that point, I clearly felt God say, “Ann, do you believe I can heal this woman?” I prayed out loud (and bug-eyed, I’m sure), “Yes, Lord! I believe. Help my unbelief!”

We stood there a few minutes more – me in wide-eyed wonder at the power of God and her bobbing her head and talking excitedly. I was called away, and I helped her sit down. As we were leaving, she reached out again to touch the feet of the pastor’s wife from the village. The pastor’s wife did the same thing I had done – waved her off. And that is where I left her.

That night, I read through all of the miracles of healing in the book of Luke, and I focused specifically on the healing of the paralytic in Luke 5:17-26 and the healing of the crippled woman in Luke 13:10-17. Most significant were the words of Jesus from Luke 5: 23-24. “Which is easier,” Jesus said, “to say your sins are forgiven or to say take up your bed and walk? But so that you may know that the Son of Man has authority over all things,” he said to the paralytic, “take up your bed and walk.” The five women who had accepted Jesus had not surprised me, but I had been completely astonished that a crippled woman had stood up straight. In reality, which is easier?

And now back to the village …

Baby Solomon

After my amazing encounter with the crippled woman, I was still very concerned about the baby. At this point, I did not know if the baby was a boy or a girl, but I knew that it needed medical attention and fast. I asked Paul if we could take the baby to the hospital. He conferred with the local pastor, and at first, they agreed to go that afternoon. Then, they decided that they would meet us at the hospital on Friday morning. I wasn’t entirely comfortable with this, but Paul assured me that the baby and the mother would come.

On Friday morning, we had scheduled a tour of the Bangalore Baptist Hospital, and as promised, the mother, father, and baby arrived with the local pastor at the hospital at about the same time we did. The baby was registered and seen fairly quickly. Rebecca was with us, and as we were waiting to see the pediatrician, I asked more questions. I learned that the baby was a boy between two and three months old. The baby had been “fat” when it was born, but it would not nurse and had not gained weight. Since the baby would not nurse, the mother had been feeding it cow’s milk. The couple had a son a few months before this baby that also wouldn’t nurse. That baby lived six weeks. Through Rebecca, I learned that the couple believed that an owl had flown over their house and sentenced their children to die.

I also asked the baby’s name and learned that the couple had not yet named it. This concerned me until later in the day when I learned from a coworker that Indians have a naming ceremony for their babies that usually comes much later in the first year. However, when the father and the pastor returned with the baby’s registration papers, they had named the baby, Solomon.

Solomon weighed in at 2.45 kgs (about 5 lbs.). As the pediatrician examined him and questioned the mother, I learned that the mother had an abscess, and this was the reason that the baby would not nurse. The doctor believed that both mother and baby might be infected with HIV and ordered an HIV test on the baby. The results of this test were not available when I left India. She also asked if the mother was willing to admit the baby. I assured the mother through Rebecca that we would pay for the baby’s care, and the mother was willing for the baby to be admitted. Then we were off to buy formula for the baby, to get the mother seen, and to figure out how to get the baby in a room.

As it turned out, the mother’s abscess, though large, simply needed to be drained. The doctor pulled a half-liter of pus from the abscess. The mother was producing milk, and the doctor believes that once the abscess heals, she will be able to nurse the baby.

Finally, the baby was in a ward with his mother and father; the mother’s abscess had been drained and the mother was on medication; and the baby was sucking down formula like … well, like he hadn’t eaten in two months. The doctor told me late in the day that she thought the baby would be ok if he would just “eat, eat, eat, eat, eat.” At the end of the day, the baby was certainly “eat, eat, eat, eat, eating.”

As I realized that my role in this drama was coming to an end, I told the pastor that I wanted to make a photo of the family and pray with them before I left. The photo actually didn’t turn out very well; I can’t be a photographer and a minister at the same time. But the prayer was most important anyway. I prayed for the family and the pastor, and while nothing miraculous occurred this time, when I opened my eyes, the other families from the ward had gathered in a circle around us and were looking at me curiously.

As I was leaving, I looked into the face of that young mother one last time. I had seen many emotions in her face that day. I had seen bewilderment and fear and pain. But as I left that room after praying for her and her family, she raised her hand, waved to me, and gave me a big smile. In her eyes at that moment, I saw hope.

And that is the picture of India that I will forever carry in my heart.

Travel light and wear comfortable shoes,

Ann

*Names changed to protect the security of the local believers.