-from Anne of Green Gables

My last day working at Port Hacking, Atto told me he’d miss being called Sir and to this day if I answer my mom with a “yes” there’s a “yes, what?” that comes quickly on its heels.  But that’s fair, she still says “yes, ma’am” to her mother as well. 

I guess with that upbringing it’s no surprise that I use sirs and ma’ams so often.  It’s a habit that I’m pretty fond of and that I seem to pass on without realizing it.

Today I was teaching like a mad woman.  We were talking about cheeseburgers and picking fights and  treasure maps and pirates and long division and how they all go together.  (If you’re a teacher and want to hear this little math story, let me know.  It’s a gem.  Har-dee-har-har.) 

There was shoutin’ and screamin’ and we were all getting excited.  It was a why I teach sort of moment.

In a last burst of energy I asked with heartfelt fervor, “SOOOO, should you ever ever ever EVER go looking for that quotient treasure without your treasure map, MY FRIENDCITOS???!!!”

And with that same contagious enthusiam all twenty-six of my precious Colombian children shouted out, “No ma’am!”

And my Southern heart nearly burst wide open.

Because if I don’t some folks might die today and that’s just not becoming of a lady, now is it?

A list should suffice as the aforementioned deep, cleansing breath.

• I cannot expect people to value my time as much as I do.
• Manizales weather does NOTHING for my hair.
• It’s fall in Mississippi and I’m not there.
• I should learn to say no more often.
• There is no Sonic Diet Coke in Colombia.
• The Virus o’ Death stole my Spanish.
• I could eat my weight in biscuits today and y’all, that’s a lot of biscuits.

Thank you, bloggy friends, for the diarreah of the mouth that you just allowed me.  Which, I assure you, is so very much better than the diarreah o’ death of last week’s glory.  Although, I did lose eight pounds. 

It’s not the diet of choice, but hey, whatever works.

My eyes wander toward the steep slopes and the houses that are perched there.  Small communities shoved together in a makeshift suburbia.  Houses with concrete walls and floors and corrugated tin roofs.  Clothes are on the lines and I think I can hear them flapping in the mountain breeze. 

Families are scattered about.  Men leaning in doorways, ponchos slung across their shoulders.  Mothers shuffling and sweeping, the worn soles of their shoes making a gentle shhh shhh sound as they move.  Children playing happily with strings and sticks in what is meant to be a yard.

I think that I must have known a place like this existed, but I didn’t know it like I know it now.  I had read about the third world and seen pictures of it and parts of me had cringed at the sight.  But today, in the here and now and for forever, this third world and her people are mine.  Her children are mine. 

Sebastian is one of her children. 

He is nine years old and he likes to run in the afternoons.  He goes to school and helps his mother with making beds and because of Compassion International he feels the burden of poverty just a little less. 

Sponsoring a child through Compassion is easy and it’s life changing.  It changes the way you think, the way you see the world, and the way your heart breaks.  Because once you sponsor a child, your family grows. 

But there’s more than just you.   

Sponsoring a child changes the way children in 25 of the world’s poorest countries live.  It gives them letters and pictures and stories from places that they can’t even imagine.  It gives them health care and education and a chance to feel proud of who they are.  It gives them hope that they can cling to and a Jesus that is tangible. 

You can make the difference to a child.  You can change their world a little and I promise, they’ll change yours just like Sebastian is changing mine.

Is today the day that you extend your family?

Click here to sponsor a child that has been waiting over six months for a sponsor.

I’ve never liked Valentine’s Day, really.

First of all, shouldn’t you be all mushy and romantic everyday? Commercialized holidays shouldn’t tell us when to buy flowers or say nice things, should they? Fair enough, I’m probably just bitter and against relationships altogether.

Generally I wear all black on February 14th, eat chocolate for all three meals, and have ice cream with my mom to end that dreadful day. As Alexander would say, “It is a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day!”

So, when I heard about Love and Friendship Day, a day in September that Colombians celebrate with great fervor — “a holiday that really is all about friendship”— I nearly puked. Do I really have to have two Valentine’s Days? One is enough torture for any woman to stand! Honestly!

And then-

Every day of the week I got a happy from students, parents, and coworkers. We added decorations to the room daily and my desk was covered in chocolates, sweets, a puzzle, a Colombian t-shirt, red paper hearts, even a poster with my name in glitter. I admit it, by Friday I, too, was all about love and friendship. I even wore pink and the lip gloss one of my angels gave me! I went home that afternoon with two dozen roses, a bouquet of daisies, and a newfound appreciation for holidays.

There really is something special about love and friendship, isn’t there?

Friendship keeps us grounded but never discourages us from seeing our dreams taking flight. Friendship assures that we never cry alone or eat pizza in solitude. It provides a sounding board and two arm hugs, fits of laughter, a work out buddy, and an “is he right for me?” radar. It’s throwing a frisbee in the dead of winter and driving in a green van listening to Journey headed for the beach.

Friendship is memories, stories, secrets, and passing books along state lines or oceans. Friendship is saying, “Go! Go! I’ll send you mail.” Friendship is lasting and real and a lifetime full of treasures.

And love.

Love is Momma’s biscuits and her waiting up for me. Love is the sound of Daddy’s tractor and the smell of his barn. Love is watching them ride down the driveway together in an old blue truck on a Sunday afternoon. Love is watching movies with my Sisser and seeing her as a counselor at Camp Lake Stephens. It’s my brother sending “diet coke could kill you” emails.

Love is looking up at your grandmother’s funeral and seeing a crowd that is there because your heart is broken. Love is campers that grow up and still call you their favorite and students that think you’re a rockstar. Love is Mamaw patching my favorite jeans for the 52nd time and making sweet potato pie.

Love is a choice, an action, a sacrifice, a precious, precious gift. Love is my Jesus, a cross, His grace.

My friends, my family, I love you and I think maybe I’ll wear red on February 14th this year.

With the greatest of affection,

Emily

This post was originally written as an email on September 22, 2007.

Walking through my parents’ yard sometimes feels like a scene from A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  There are flowers of every kind that grow in their soil.  Blossoms that are rich in color and invite you to walk among them. 

There are purple cone flowers and daisies and black-eyed susans and lilies of every hue.  Blooms that stretch a bit further with each passing year and seem at home in their recklessness. 

And I love them all.

I am no hopeless romantic.  I am not easily wooed nor taken by surprise.  I am guarded and careful and unashamed by that profession, but hidden in the depths of me is the faintest hint of someday.

And wildflowers shine a light there.

I pondered my own Me Bag for awhile. What three objects represent me? How can you tell a crowd who you are using just three things? I worried myself senseless choosing those objects, but I finally did it.

A running shoe. I am, after all, a runner. In more ways than one.

An index card I use as a bookmark that reads, “Love with action and in truth.” I should do more of that.

A picture of Sisser and me standing by the water. Because if I could be with anyone, anywhere that’d be it.

Now you tell me. What would you put in your Me Bag?

I rarely ever go a day without writing when I’m in Manizales. Life is slow and I don’t have a cell phone that rings. There’s wifi in my apartment and high speed internet at school.

But I’m in Mississippi today. There’s no internet at my parents’ house and no car for me to drive. There are one thousand people that I want to see and one thousand biscuits that I want to eat. There’s a grandmother to visit and gardens to weed and thick, Southern air to breathe. And I am here.

It was a long, emotional trip, but I am here. I am sleeping in that house on a hill in Nowhere, MS.