The Girl with a Callused Heart

Callused

cal·lused

ˈkaləst/

adjective

1.  made hard; hardened.
2.  insensitive; indifferent; unsympathetic:
They have a callous attitude toward the sufferings of others.
3.  having a callus; indurated, as parts of the skin exposed to friction.

A female student of mine was dragged into my classroom by two of her housemates yesterday morning. They shoved her over the threshold of my classroom, closed the door behind her, and held the door closed so she could not escape.

All of this happened as I sat at my desk, wondering, What is going on?

The night before, I had a conversation with this girl about her bad actions. She had chosen not to participate in the Bunco game after bible study – complaining that it was a boring game, and all she wanted to do was watch TV. She then said some choice words to her tia and some choice Spanish expletives under her breath. I tried to talk through those actions with her, adding that “Because I love you, I am sad to see you acting this way – it will not serve you well in life.”

Her response was to yell “No, you do not love me!” and go to her room, slamming the door behind her. I found out later that she spent the night ripping up every photo and letter that I have given her over the last 3 years. She threw them into the trash and gave away her bible, which was a Christmas gift from me.

And now, she is trapped inside of my classroom, being forced to speak to me by two of her friends.

It was juvenile and a bit awkward, yes. But it worked … sort of. 

Me: Why are you mad at me?

Girl: You know why I am mad at you.

Me: Please tell me in your own words so that I can apologize. 

 

Girl: No! You know why, and I'm never going to talk with you.

She opened the door and left, with her two friends shaking their heads and saying, “We tried, Bailey.”

Twenty minutes later, the girl returned to my classroom on her own. She sat in a desk and stared at me.

Me: Why are you mad at me?

Girl: You know why!

Me: I want to hear it from your own words. I know that last night I tried to talk with you about your bad behavior, but you got mad. Because I love you, it made me sad to see you doing things that aren't good for you.

Girl: Don't say that! I hate when people tell me they love me when I do something bad. You don't really mean it.

Me: I do mean it! It is because I care about you that I don't like when you do wrong things.

Girl: You don't care about me.

Me: I don't think you really believe that. If I didn't care about you, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now. And if I didn't care, I wouldn't spend every afternoon with you at your casita.

Girl: You don't come to the casita to see me. You come to see the other girls.

Me: I do go to see everyone, yes. But I have chosen to invest specifically into you, because you are special to me.

 

At that last comment, the corners of her mouth widened into a smile.

Girl: Why?

Me: Because you are a leader.

Girl: (with unbelief in her eye) I'm not a leader.

Me: Yes, you are. When you speak, people listen. When you are positive, so is everyone else, but when you are negative, the others follow.

We continued to speak for several minutes. Then she stopped and thought about what she would say next.

Girl: I think I've decided not to be your friend from this day forward.

I don't know what I expected to come out of her mouth, but that was not it!  I can't say that I was surprised, either. This girl has a history of hurting others with her words, then laughing at the after-effects, as if she herself isn't hurting inside. I chose my next words carefully.

Me: If that is your decision, it will make me sad. But I will never stop being your friend. I do love you, and I will always be here with open arms.

Girl: (confused at why she didn't get an angry reaction) You don't understand. I'm telling you that we won't be friends anymore. I won't talk to you ever again.

Me: Oh, I understand. But I will always be your friend. Even if you don't talk to me, I will still say, “Hello!” everyday. I'll still ask you how you are, even if you don't answer. And I will still be here with my arms open for a hug whenever you want one. I will be sad that you don't see me as your friend, but I will always be your friend. I love you.

Just then, a few students walked into my classroom to ask me a question. While I was speaking with them, she got up and walked out of my classroom.  I guess that is it, I thought. I guess I've lost her.  

The rest of the school day went by, and I didn't see her. The bell rang for the end of classes, and I continued to sit at my desk to finish some work.  But when I looked up, she was once again standing in my doorway. This time, she had a smile on her face.

Girl: I'm sorry.

I smiled, walked over to her, and put my arms around her. At first, she just stood there. Then she hugged me back. I looked down at her.

Me: I forgive you.

We hugged again.

Me: I'm so happy we are still friends!

We both laughed, and she asked me if I would come to her casita later.  I told her yes, and she left.

 

Over the years, this girl has trusted people who have let her down. She has loved family, friends, missionaries, and week-long volunteers who have left her with a broken promise of return.

As a result, her heart has become callused, indifferent, unfeeling. She has decided that instead of loving others and accepting love from others, she will reject anyone who tries to get close to her. She has decided not to believe that people love her, because they always fail in the end. And what is even more heartbreaking is that she refuses to believe – she can't believe – that there is a God in heaven who loves her and is always fighting for her, always standing with open arms waiting for her to run to him.

Pray for the girl with a callused heart. Bit by bit, I am watching those hard, shielding layers around her begin to soften. I do believe that one day, she will accept that God loves her and wants a relationship with her. And when that day comes, I have told her to let me know.  I'll need to replace the bible she gave away.

Perspective

The picture above is of a delicious meal that was made for me last night. What you don't see in this picture is the woman who made this dinner for us. She makes lunch and dinner for us every day, and she is one of the sweetest, most hard-working women that I know.

Two days ago, because of a death in her family, she didn't show up to work. I spent some time last night speaking with her, and as she shared her life challenges with me, my eyes welled up with tears.

This woman is incredible. She is strong. She has gone through trials that I will probably never have to deal with in my life.

Her nephew passed away two days ago, due to drug violence, which made her remember her own son, who passed away a year ago due to gang violence.

“I like coming to work, because I can think of other things,” she told me. “When I go to my house at night, I see the pictures of my son and end up crying.”

At this point, I felt tears running down my face. Do I wipe them away? I wondered. How do I say, “I am so sorry this happened to you” in Spanish?

I wipe my tears away and stay silent, just listening to her.

She continued to tell me that her surviving son (16 years old) misses his brother so much that he goes through depression on the 21^st of every month (the day his brother was killed).  She also tells me about her own brother – the son of her father – who she found a week ago in his house, barely alive.

“It was like looking at a skeleton,” she tells me. “He had gotten so sick that he couldn't take care of himself. He hadn't eaten in a week.”

Her brother has an infection in his colon, and since he has no family, his sister (our cook) has taken care of him.

“I took him to a hospital, but it is not a good hospital,” she said. “It is one at the school. They are giving him medicine, and my brother says he feels better because he is not in pain. But what he doesn't know is that the infection has spread to the rest of his body.”

She continued to share her sorrow with me, as I continued to listen and cry.  When our conversation came to an end, I didn't know what to do other than to hug this courageous woman and tell her, “I love you. You are very special to us, and I am praying for you and for your family.”

She said, “Thank you, Bailey, for your support.” Then she grabbed her belongings and walked out of the door, leaving the meal she had made for us on the counter.

Since I had a "skype date" with some friends, I got a to-go plate of the food and walked to the school to use the internet.  When I got to my classroom, I sat down at my desk and opened the box.  What I saw was a perfectly baked pork chop, sweet green beans, beautiful, Southern potato salad, and juicy, red watermelon.  It was a warm dinner that had been made with the most tender care.

I just stared at the plate of food.

Lord? I prayed. This meal was made by a woman whose brother was found starving to death in his house!

The reality of my privilege was thrown into my face at that moment.  Why do I have a plate full of food while so many in this country have none? Why have I grown up so privileged, while others have nothing?

I didn't know what to do but to pray.

For our cook.

For her surviving son.

For her brother.

For her family.

And I thanked the Lord for giving me this perspective and for giving me this plate of warm food.  And I prayed that I can use what I have to bless others, in Jesus' name. 

The Spiritual Cold

The "Spiritual Cold."

The "Dry Spell."

The "I-Can't-Feel-God" times in our lives. 

Do you know what I am talking about?  It happens to each of us at some point ... ehem ... or many points ... in our walk with Christ.  I have had a Spiritual Cold for a few weeks now.  The time home from the mission field has not been good to me.  But yesterday, my fever broke:

Hello, Lord.  It's me, Bailey.  I feel I should write like that because I have not been faithful in meeting with you.  I have not been drawing near to you, and now I feel distant.

I feel like I can hardly reach you with my voice -- like you are at the opposite end of a long hallway -- and like if you spoke, I would hardly be able to hear.

I want to ask for your forgiveness ... but that seems selfish and undeserved -- because it is undeserved!  I know that in Christ I am already pardoned, but that seems selfish and undeserved too -- because it is! 

Lord, you know my heart.  You know my dirt and my sin.  I have been selfish with my time.  I haven't sought you.  I haven't held you in your right place in my heart.

Lord, I am sorry.  I don't like this selfish, distant part of me.  But it is always with me, telling me that my God -- the Creator of the world -- can wait.

I bought into the devil's traps, Lord.  Would you help me escape them?  Would you give me back a love for you and a love for your Word and not for the things of this world? 

Lord, help me change. 
-- Yours.  

I wrote that prayer yesterday morning.   And do you know something?  God heard me.  As soon as I started drawing near to him, he drew Himself near to me -- which is how it usually works (see James 4:8).

And today, I find myself in Love with my Lord again -- savoring the truths from his Word, and loving my time in communion with him.

Are you dealing with a Spiritual Cold?  Perhaps, like me, you have walked too far away to hear God's voice.  Perhaps, like me, you have been loving the world and not loving God.  How has that worked for you?

"Submit yourselves, then, to God.  Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.   Come near to God and he will come near to you. . . Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will lift you up." -- James 4:7-8,10

Rest assured, my brother, my sister, that God does not stand far off.  He waits for you.  Draw near to him and he will draw near to you.  Go to him and let your fever break.

Changes

Yesterday was an amazing Sunday.  It was the kind of Sunday that you wish for when you go to bed on Saturday night -- a peaceful one spent with people you love and enjoy.  It was the kind of Sunday that carries you through the rest of the week.

Yesterday before dinner, I spent about an hour sitting in a rocking chair outside of Casa Verde, overlooking the valley view that is so familiar to me.  It is one of the most beautiful views I know.

As I sat, I spent some time reflecting on this year and I thought to myself, "How did I get here?"  Do you ever have those moments?  I laughed to myself as I thought, "Only God could have done this, and it is beautiful."

So many changes have taken place since I first stepped foot on the property of the Good Shepherd Children's Home in January 2012.  Over 3 and a half years later, my life is drastically different from what it was then.

But the children I loved back then have also changed.

Children who once came up to the top of my stomach are now taller than me.  Boys' voices have dropped.  The little girls I played make-believe with underneath kitchen tables are now gaining new, curvy figures and preteen girl attitudes.

It is amazing to watch their lives unfold.  And I get to stop and look back on it with such gratitude in my heart that God would allow me to live life with them.

I get to be their teacher, their friend, their mentor.  I get to spend Sunday afternoons with them -- being silly and playing games and making memories.

Oh, what a privilege this is.  I love my job.

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A few months ago, I did a Time-Lapse project.  I gathered some pictures I took during my first trips in 2012, and I had the kids help me re-create them.  It is so interesting to see what has and hasn't changed in 3 and a half years.  I have loved seeing those changes, and Lord-willing, I am excited to see more in the years to come.

Lester -- Then: 10 years old.  Now: 14 

Jennifer Yolany -- Then: 12 years old.  Now: 16

Armando (my Honduran BFF) -- Then: 13 years old.  Now: 17
Me Then: 20 years old.  Now: 24

Casitas -- Then and Now

Brother and Sister Lily and Lester -- Lily Then: 5 years old.  Now: 9

Jorge -- Then: 13 years old.  Now: 16

School Stage -- Then and Now

School Basketball Court -- Then and Now

School Flag Pole -- Then and Now

The Downside

There are so many great, picture-worthy, make-you-smile moments that happen every day in my life here in Honduras. And in the day's hustle and bustle, I have probably started to take them for granted.

-- A child unexpectedly putting his little hand in mine as we walk from point A to point B.

-- A girl reaching her hands up to me, to give me a wildflower she just picked.

-- Laughing with the teenage girls over silly, teenage girl things.

-- Hugging children “good-night” before I head to dinner.

I truly love my job, my co-workers, and the kids I serve. They are a blessing. These experiences that I get to have are a blessing.

But there is a definite down-side that is painful to deal with for anyone who lives here – kids, tias, missionary staff.

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We live in a home for children whose parents either cannot or should not take care of them. Many of these kids have been here for over a decade – for the whole part of their lives that they can remember. Other kids came when they were older children or teenagers – they remember what life was like outside.

This is their home for now. And this is our home for now. We get to love them. To hug them and to kiss them. To speak Jesus into them.

But we don't stay here forever, and neither do the kids. We don't know how much time we have with them. Every day is a gift.

Sometimes the kids leave, and oh, it breaks my heart when the opportunity to love them is taken from me.

In the 3 ½ years that I have been involved with Good Shepherd Children's Home, I have seen many kids arrive. I have been able to literally hold babies as they ride across the “threshold” of GSCH for the first time. I have been part of the welcoming committee for wide-eyed children who don't know what is in store for them at this new, strange home with new, strange, white people.

But I have also seen many kids leave. Kids whom I have loved. Kids whom my heart has cried for and been burdened for. Even as I write this, tears are welling up in my eyes.  This reality is heart-breaking.

I still think about those kids. I see their empty desks; I miss their energy in my classes; I miss their hugs. I miss knowing exactly where they are. I miss being a part of their lives. 

Even when I know that a child is going to a better home (with their parents, with a different children's center that can provide for their specific needs, etc.), it doesn't take away the hurt of knowing that I will no longer be able to see them and know for sure that they are okay.

It is the worst part of living here. But it forces me to know that God has a plan and that he will never leave them or forsake them.  That is really the only thing I have when a child leaves -- my faith in my God, who is always loving us, always watching over us.

 For weeks, my Elementary Music students have been learning a song called "God is Watching."  They have been singing it loudly and proudly during Monday Music class, and the lyrics say this:

“God is watching, watching over you.

Twenty-four Seven. Watching over you.

Your life is in His hands, Woah Woah.

He's got great big plans,

'cause He's watching over you.”

I pray that this truth will stay with my students for the rest of their lives -- that no matter where they go, they can remember the time Ms. Bailey taught them that God has a plan, and he is always watching over them.  While it is hard to let go of children that I love, I am so comforted by the fact that here on Earth, they can never go where God is not. 

The Crisis of Time

 

Kevin, a first-grade boy, came up to me after lunch yesterday. He wrapped his little arms around my waist and rested his head on my stomach. As I hugged him back, he looked up at me and asked in his cute, Honduran, first-grader voice:

“Why don't you come visit me more in my casita?”

He has asked me this before. Each time I smile and say that I will come soon. And I try. But time often gets in the way.

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A couple of times a month, I am asked this question:

“Bailey, will you give me piano lessons?”

Every time I hear it my heart sinks. My response is always, “If I had all the time in the world, I would love to give you piano lessons. But unfortunately, I can't.”

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Last night, one of the North-American teachers walked home after a particularly difficult night. He was physically and emotionally exhausted. He had just spent hours with the children at the casitas, helping with some difficult questions and circumstances.

After sharing his heart with those of us who were in the room, he made a comment:

“And if you walk up to the casitas right now, there will be at least 10 kids who are mad at me because I didn't spend enough time with them today. I feel like a one-man band. I can't do it all by myself.”

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I live on the campus of a children's home that currently houses over 100 children. Of those children, 74 are my students. There is not possibly enough time in the week for me to spend quality moments with each child. And as a result, it is easy to feel overwhelmed and overworked.

I feel burdened for the hearts of these kids. I want to spend time with them and to know them each on a deep level. I want to visit each of them in their casitas, but I can't.

It is a crisis of Time.

I get up, I teach, I spend time with kids, I go to dinner, I go to bed. That's about how each day goes.

I think the most rotten thing about Time is having to choose.  

Do I to spend my hour before dinner with the teenage girls or with the younger boys? Do I choose to give English lessons to a woman who eagerly wants to learn, or do I lead a bible study with the teenage girls who are hungry for God's word? Do I spend intentional time today with the girls or with the housemothers or with my fellow teachers?

It seems impossible to choose. But somehow I do.

As I laid in bed last night thinking about the Crisis of Time, a verse came to my mind.

Matthew 9:35-38

“Jesus went through all the towns and villages, teaching in their synagogues, preaching the good news of the kingdom and healing every disease and sickness. When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, 'The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.'”

I am quite sure that Jesus felt like a “one-man band” at times. He was surrounded by sheep with no shepherd – by people who were hungry for truth, but he couldn't possibly see each of them. There wasn't enough time. So he trained workers, and he sent them out. Then his workers trained more workers who trained more workers, and so on.

It is a privilege to be a worker for the Lord here at Good Shepherd Children's Home.

While Time often overwhelms myself and my fellow workers, I am reminded that God is the one who will bring the harvest at its proper time. We are only seed-planters and seed-waterers. God is the seed-grower. 

And I pray for a plentiful harvest.

Real Talk

I love my job. I love my students. I love my kids here at Good Shepherd Children's Home.

I have been here for 5 months now, and my time for this year is halfway over. That is crazy to me!  As I look back on the past 5 months, I am content. The Lord has grown me and shown me His purpose for me. I feel useful to His Kingdom here at the home and at the school. 

I have had some amazing conversations with some of the girls about their faith, and I have talked with them about some hard questions.  I know that nothing in their hearts will change because of me. I am a Seed-Planter and a Seed-Waterer. God is the Seed-Grower. 

Can I get an amen?

I am content with how the first half of the year has gone.  But I am also evaluating my time and my efforts, and I know that I can do better.

I have been obedient in many of the things God has called me to, but I know that I can be obedient in so much more.

While I am here as a full-time teacher, my ultimate purpose on this earth is not to teach Music and English. It is to teach about the redeeming power of Jesus Christ.  Because I love them and desire the best for their lives here on Earth, I want them to have a great education -- and I hope that I can provide a well-rounded education for them in Music and English classes.  

 But I want more for them.  I want to prepare them for eternity, too.  I want to help them grow in their relationship with their Savior Jesus, because that is what will stick with them long after I am gone.

Yesterday, as I sat outside Casita 3 with some of the teenage girls I love, I started a conversation.

“I will give someone a Coke if you can tell me the Gospel.”

“What?” They asked, smirking.

“Do you know the Gospel?” I asked them. “If you can tell it to me, I will give you a Coke.” I replied.

Each girl promptly began her best attempts to win the contest. Each answer contained truths, but incomplete truths. 

One girl said, “The Gospel is when you tell others about Jesus.” Yes, I replied, but what IS the gospel that you tell them?

“It is that you give your life to God and he saves you.” Yes, but how?

“The Gospel is that Jesus died for us.” Yes! But why did Jesus have to die?

All of their answers were so familiar to me, because I used to be in their shoes. I knew a lot about Jesus and about the Gospel. But I had no clue how to present it to someone else. 

Once we had established that none of the girls could give me a complete presentation of the gospel, I asked them another question – still offering a Coke to whomever could tell me the answer.

The Question: Why did Jesus have to die?

(This is a question that I didn't understand for a long time, so I wanted to know if they understood.)

“To save us!” Yes, but why did he have to die to do that?

“God said he had to die.” Yes, but why? What was the purpose?

“So we could go to heaven.” Ok, but why did Jesus have to die for us to go to heaven?

Oh, how I sympathized with them! I could feel their curiosity growing as they searched their brains for an answer. Finally, on Yolanda's umpteenth try, she said:

“Well, in the ancient times, the Israelites had to kill lambs to wash their sins away. But now we don't have to do that, because Jesus came.”

She came the closest to a full answer, so I gave her a high five and told her she'd won the Coke.

Then I told the girls the Gospel.

We are sinners. Every one of us. There is no one that can say “I have never sinned.”

(Actually, one of the girls tried to tell me that she never sins. I promptly reminded her that she had lied to me just that morning.)

We lie; We treat others badly – whether in deed or in heart; We are prideful, we are selfish, we are rude. So often we want nothing to do with God. Because we are sinners.

And our sin deserves death.  (As I tried to quote Romans 6:23 “The wages of sin is death” to them in my imperfect Spanish, I accidentally said, “The glue of sin is death.” That gave us all a laugh. Then I moved on.)

Something has to die for our sin – something has to pay the penalty, and it should be us! The Israelites had to kill animals for their sins, yes. But it still wasn't enough. They were counted righteous by their faith.

But here's what happened. God sent Jesus, His son. Wholly God and wholly man, all at the same time. He never sinned, but he gave his life as the final sacrifice for all of us sinners so that whoever believes in him and puts their faith in him will have eternal life. We get to wear His righteousness, so that God looks at us on Judgement day and sees His Son.

Jesus died. For you, for me.

Then guess what? He rose to freaking life again! Why? Because he is God – and he lives for us, Interceding on our behalf before our Father in heaven. What a Savior.

I am leading a Bible Study on Friday with the older girls to answer their questions about the Gospel and to help make it more clear to them. I see myself in their confusion. I grew up being told about Jesus, and so did they. But like most of them, the Gospel didn't become real and personal until I was in high school and college. God used some special people during that time of my life to speak God's Word into my heart, and I pray that I can bring some of that clarity into their lives.  This is discipleship.