The doors of the plane were closing as he hurried down the aisle to find an empty spot in the crowded plane. Michelle and I were attempting a classic “being very busy” stance to protect the sacred middle seat between us when we heard his weathered voice ask if it was available. Michelle quickly moved next to me to allow the gentleman to sit in the aisle seat, explaining that he likely didn’t want to be sandwiched between two talkative women.

“But you are laughing. That is good. I like to hear laughter,” he said as he settled in. He asked a few cursory questions – what was taking us to Nashville, if we were friends, and if we lived in Austin. He then buried himself in a book. His articulate English and heavy accent obscured the roadmap to his heritage. I found myself drawn to each cryptic word on the pages of his paperback, trying to find something that would make the language familiar.

The flight attendant broke the silence between us when she delivered our drinks. She joked about the flight, and Michelle and I laughed again.  He looked at us and smiled. “You laugh a lot. I like laughter. I do not hear it much anymore.”

The conversation moved and danced around topic after topic. He was a retired professor who missed the culture of his college town and the heart of his motherland – and missed even more the feeling of having a place to really call “home.” He spoke of his present “village,” and of the frustration he felt in living in a place he considered too closed and too narrow. He asked question after question about what we did for a living and why we chose the professions we had and why we both chose to walk away from jobs that may have paid more or afforded us greater status.  He wanted to know what would propel anyone to care for the less fortunate, and listened with curiosity as we spoke of Jesus as being that catalyst.

He quietly shared a story of falling in love and following that love to America. He reminisced about returning to school, raising a family, watching love crumble, and seeing new love emerge from the ashes. Everything shared was complex and haunting and beautiful.  The stories wove together like a run-on sentence, never fully beginning or ending but somehow all making sense.  There were bold and strong moments, and then he would look down in silence – his face clouded by memories that couldn’t find words. He looked so weary.

Things shifted, and he talked about history and battles over position and policies. His knowledge was rich, his stories fascinating. He said he enjoyed studying culture, and then said he talked too much.

He looked down, his face again clouded and weary.

I wondered what it would be like to leave family and familiarity to start a new life in a foreign land. I wondered if I would have the strength to pursue new dreams after old ones had died, or try to cling to tiny pieces of comforting heritage in a new world that was blind to them. I wondered what it would be like to invest in thousands of young lives, encouraging them to see beyond the boundaries of culture, while struggling to find belonging in a place that didn’t feel like home. He said he was now writing a book – and I wondered if I could ever be brave enough to believe I had 50,000 words of value to share with anyone. And I wondered more than anything if he felt loved at all.

I unclasped the chain around my neck – the chain that held a key engraved with the word “inspire.” It was a Giving Key, crafted to help the homeless find new life. Someone had given it to me, and it was time for that word to be passed on. The man on the plane – homeless in his own way – reminded me to find courage, to gather strength, to cling to hope.  We put the chain around his neck and thanked him for his story, for inspiring. He touched the key and smiled. For a moment, the weariness lifted.

After we landed, he found us in baggage claim and introduced us to his wife. He thanked us again for the conversation, and hugged me. We thanked her for sharing her husband with us on the journey, and shared the story of the key.

‘Why in the world would he inspire you?” she asked.

My heart ached, and I glanced at the man – the weariness had returned.  Silently, I prayed she would see his inspiration too.

The post The Giving Key. appeared first on Ronne Rock.

But to be perfectly honest, kitchen therapy is not about the food at all.

It’s about what that food represents. And oh, it represents so much. It’s life – but more than just physical life. Food opens a door to conversation, opens heart-spaces that can bring breath to a soul. It’s nourishment through and through.  It’s refreshment for a weary traveler and it’s a welcome home to a stranger.

Or to a new member of the family.

Yesterday, kitchen therapy was found in an afternoon snack just for you. No recipe was needed – just a box of crackers, some peanut butter and honey, and a little almond milk lovingly served up by Uncle JimBo while I took pictures for your welcome book. Wow, I really love that word: welcome. I know – we’re not sure exactly how old you’ll be just yet. But we’re thinking peanut butter and crackers have a pretty universal appeal.  When you get here, you can change it up if you’d like. There are a lot of perfect afternoon snacks to be had.

For just a minute, I closed my eyes and imagined you yelling, “mom, I’m home!” as the front door slammed and your backpack dropped to the floor, spilling homework that’s due the next morning. The snack would be ready, along with a huge hug from your mom and talk about what was good and what was hard and what could be learned from a day of being the new kid at a new school in a new neighborhood.  Your mom’s been there before. Your dad understands too. And your Uncle Brad and I remember when our son was that kid. There will be so many more days with so much more good and hard and things to learn. And so many good talks and hugs.

Did you know you have a whole lot of family ready to welcome you home?  There’s your precious mom and dad, some pretty awesome grandparents (including a granddad who can build just about anything), uncles and aunts, and even a pup. And then there is all the bonus family  – a whole bunch of folks adopted in who will get to be your aunties and uncles and cousins. God has been good to knit us all together with His great love.

Your parents have been praying for you for so long now, and are ready to live life with you. You can be in preschool or high school – they don’t mind at all. And if you decide to bring a brother or sister with you, it’s OK too. There’s plenty of room and plenty of love. You’ll always feel safe. Because that’s what love does – it wraps its arms around you and lets you know you’re not alone anymore.

Hurry to your welcome home, sweet one. Your afternoon snack is ready.

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 But the kind of love that God created and demonstrated is a costly one because it involves sacrifice and presence. It’s a love that operates more like a sign language than being spoken outright. ~Bob Goff, Love Does

I’ve been doing a lot of pondering lately about things like love and kindness and what it really means to really be there for others in a world that allows us to “like” and “follow” and “favorite” and “friend” (or “defriend”) people and things with absolutely no true commitment to the meaning behind any of those words. I watch as folks shift allegiance as easily as they shift their feet. I grow concerned that we have come to accept fickle as fashionable.

I’d give anything for it not to be that way. For me. And for you. I long for real “this is good and this is right” examples of faithfulness and friendship to share with my grandkids. So I pray. And I look for reminders of what love should be. I’m thankful that God, being the Creator and Author of love, is kind enough to share. He defines love because He is love. And His love is most beautifully revealed not in lofty words, but in the simplest of acts.

I can give everything away to the needy, get loud and proud about my beliefs, and even die for a cause. I can preach, teach, and live a life of good intentions. But everything is worthless if it’s not fueled by love. So, what does love look like?

Love never gives up, you know. It cares for others before it even thinks to care for itself. It doesn’t wait for a special occasion to show itself. It brightens the day of a little girl with a handmade bracelet just because it knows she’d like it.

Love doesn’t get all bent out of shape because it doesn’t get everything on its wish list. It realizes there’s more in the giving than in the getting. Love isn’t cocky – it doesn’t attract attention to itself. Even though it knows how to handle the ball, it lets rough-and-tumble boys win at soccer and basketball just to hear them cheer.

Love doesn’t force itself on others. It’s not pushy. It finds common ground, like a game of tetherball, to open the door to the smile on the face of the forgotten one.

Love isn’t selfish, it’s not bossy, it doesn’t try to one-up and it doesn’t act holier-than-thou. Love doesn’t pat itself on the back when someone else falls apart or say “I told you so.” Love dances when a life becomes truly alive. It’s not afraid to get messy, and is OK knowing it may never see the fruits of its labor. It’s willing to dig in and do what it necessary – knowing there will soon be food for families it may never meet.

Love hangs in there when all else fails. Love understands its place. Love knows Who created it. Love always finds the best, never pines, is fearless and tireless and endless. Love simply does. (based on 1 Corinthians 13)

Thank you, sweet ACF students, for being a reminder of what real, God-breathed love looks like as you quietly cared for others at Disciple Now. I’m praying for you – and for the rest of us – that Love will fuel our hearts. Because this world needs that love. 

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The spirit of every human is like a kite which rises by means of those very forces which seem to oppose its rise; the tie that joins it to earth, the opposing winds of temptation and the load of earth-born affections which it carries with it into the sky. ~ English poet Coventry Patmore (1823-1896)

At 38,000 feet, the world becomes a peaceful wash of color and light. Small things disappear into a great impressionist canvas. I look out the window and long to dance on the clouds. That longing lives deep in my heart – to soar ever-so-gently above the harsh reality of reality and find my home in grace-soaked liberty.

And I know I share that longing with you. No matter our background, no matter our condition. We hunger to hold hands and let His grace consume us in freedom. We know there is a higher place. We believe in the brush of angel wings. We want to fly.

There you are, rising above the Mayan land – your arms like doves. You are printed in the pages of a calendar, but you transport me. You, with sandals falling gently to earth and dog barking a sweet farewell. In silence, I can hear the gentle sound of your flight. Your freedom invites me to be fearless. We are connected.

The kites fly effortlessly in the afternoon sky. The sound of laughter fills the air as you hold the cords that hold the color that dances against the blue.  The kites are more than a fun diversion. They tell a story of our hearts. Though our lives are separated by miles and cultures, we are both orphans. We are both family. We are connected.

The music plays as tiny dancers parade down the flagstone street. You are one of many, holding your mother’s hand as you carefully step in time with all the other little angels. But your wings whisper – they say “if I could, I would…” You wouldn’t let go of that hand as your feet stopped touching the ground – your steps reordered by the newfound beautiful hush.  You would carry that love with you, and share it with me to remind me that I am loved too. We are connected.

In a tiny one-room shanty tucked into an alleyway like lint in a poor man’s pocket, you learn of the surgery that will allow you to see again. You raise your hands to the Heavens as you embrace the God who cares for you tenderly. You feel your soul rise from the depths of the pain and take flight on the wings of the One who offers hope.  Your hope becomes my hope. We are connected.

I pray today to not be fettered, to take the flight of divine freedom, love, and hope. I pray today to hold the hands of those who long to fly too.

I need more wind in my hair. ~ Courtney (best friend and fellow flyer)

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A broken soul is not the absence of beauty, but a cracked and torn soul reeks of the sweet incense it contains. ~C. JoyBell C.

The ravine sits at the end of a dirt road on the outskirts of Chimaltenango. Every day, families come to dig through the mountain of garbage in search of hope. Generations have worked the dump like a farmer works a field. They look for anything that might be transformed into a little money for food and shelter. Vultures try to stake their claim, and feral dogs fight for scraps while hands dig through the stench of refuse. Small children, sun-weathered mothers and silver-haired grandfathers move quietly in the patchwork quilt of someone else’s nothing to find something.

They see with eyes that see the more.

They are fearless in finding value. They redeem broken things, restore shattered things, save things others declare worthless. There is no bird of prey that can keep them away, no beast of the field that can rob them of their purpose.

We breathed in the fragrance of the ravine. It was the incense of grateful prayer of to a most beautiful and powerful God All-Mighty. Because he also digs through the stench of refuse. He sees with eyes that see the more. He redeems broken things, restores shattered things, saves things other declare worthless. Nothing is too hard for him. No one is beyond transformation.

Even the families that for generations have struggled in the ravine can find their value in Him. That incense of grateful prayer sweetly embraces each one through the kindness of a small group of people hungry to feed those who are hungry. Every week, Cesar and Carol and their God-crafted family of orphan girls distribute food, share the Good News, and pray for those who are hurting or lonely. They also spend time teaching the children of the ravine how to read and write. And soon a school will open just a short walk down the dirt road – a school that will most certainly lovingly instruct a future leader of Guatemala.

They invited us in this week – an invitation to be hands and feet in feeding and prayer. But it was more. It was an invitation to be the eyes of the families of the ravine, and to be seen with eyes that see the more. It was an invitation to be the patchwork of the somebody’s nothing, and to be reminded that we each are God’s something. It was an invitation to feel His hands reach fearlessly to redeem, restore and save us. Yes, even us.

What makes a genius? The ability to see. To see what? The butterfly in a caterpillar, the eagle in an egg, the saint in a selfish person, life in death, unity in separation, God in the human and human in God and suffering as the form in which the incomprehensibility of God himself appears. ~Brennan Manning

Thanks to Orphan Outreach for the opportunity to minister to widows, orphans, and the discarded in Guatemala.

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He is our bus driver, charged with the daunting task of getting 23 people from here to there on a daily basis. Though we’ve only known him for two days, he has been our guardian angel in traffic, along winding roads filled with detours due to construction, and through the narrowest of passageways – in reverse, no less. He has hauled more than 1000 pounds of luggage up and down the rooftop storage of our bus, and has patiently endured our schedules (or the seeming lack of them).

But Edgar is more. While the teams busied their hands with projects today, Edgar busied his hands teaching Rosita, a precious orphan who is deaf, to pass a basketball.  He then quietly picked up a paintbrush and transformed the corner of a playroom into a garden. Later, he was found on the soccer field, showing great footwork to kids as he encouraged them to try. He hugged and he smiled and he tended to those around him. Without fanfare.  Without photo opps or “atta boys.”

And none of it was his job. He wasn’t listed on any of the teams. Not one thing was expected. He simply did.

Edgar is a reminder of the kind of Jesus I want to be in this world – hands and feet that move, not because they want to be in a parade, but because they understand the joy of dancing to a heartbeat’s rhythm.

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I first met you in 2007. The room at Orphanage #2 was crowded and stuffy, and there were new shoes everywhere. You waited patiently as each child was seated and given their gift. There were shoes just for you. Shoes you wouldn’t have to share with anyone. You smiled that shy little smile, and the dimple in your chin reminded me of the dimple in my son’s cheek – and on that day, I may have fallen just a little in love with you. The time flew much too quickly, but not before I found out your name.

Andre.

I walked into Orphanage #2 in 2009, and your handsome face greeted me again. Two years later, and you were still there. Some of your friends were gone – a few had traveled to the United States with new families. Our team brought gifts for Sasha, and you watched eagerly to see what her Texas family had shared with her. She would be leaving soon to live in a place you had just visited. As part of the Angels from Abroad program, you had gotten to travel to the Lone Star State with other orphans who were eligible for adoption. You had played on a boat, gone to a baseball game, run and laughed and eaten strange things like tacos. You came back with an album full of pictures and a heart full of hope. You practiced your English words and dreamt of a life an ocean away. We hugged and talked and prayed. And I fell just a little more in love with you.

I saw you again, just a few weeks ago. That smile and that dimple were warm treasures on a snowy day. You remembered I was from Texas, and ran to get your photo album. We looked again at every picture. You said you still wanted a family, and we prayed that God would give you the desire of your heart. The caregiver at Orphanage #2 said adoptions had declined significantly because of media coverage of a few bad situations – and she said with tears in her eyes that she wished there were stories about all the good instead. She worried for the children, like Andre, who were getting older. I wanted so badly in that moment to just say “Andre, you would be a fine Rock – come home with me.” I promised the caregiver I would advocate for you. And I held you tightly before we said our goodbyes – my heart overflowing with love for you.

Andre, I’m sorry.

I’m sorry about political games played by broken people and bad news stories that get in the way of really great news. I’m sorry about policies that forget about the innocents. I’m sorry that you may never get to return to the place you long to live.

And damn it, I’m sorry that you’re not mine.

But my promise holds true to you, Andre. I’ll advocate for you. I’ll tell everyone I know about you. And I’ll pray like crazy that things change for you and the other orphans who long for a forever family.

If you’d like to read a Russian response to the bill banning U.S. adoptions, click here. And if you’d like to add your name to a petition asking for a change of heart, you may read an amazing VERY good story here. 

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Olga, a reserved woman who knew first-hand the pain of being alone, after losing both her mother and her husband, didn’t know how she would transform the rubble into a home. But she had faith.

Today, Kalozhitsy orphanage is home to 39 children, with 11 more beds ready – just in case. Olga never begged for money. Instead, she found friends with a heart for her orphans. Rather, friends found her.  Ministries and churches were told about her plight. Visitors came from near and far to see the building and hear her vision. And bit by bit, room by room, a home was born – everything done through donations.

“Originally, there were just a few open areas that were safe. We squeezed everyone into the rooms. We were OK.” Now the three-story schoolhouse has separate areas for girls, boys, and little ones. Older children sleep in smaller bedrooms for privacy. There are places to read, do homework, and play. With the small stipend she does receive from the government, she built a shelter outside the orphanage, so the children are protected from the heavy snows in the winter or from sun and rain in the summer.

“Children used to run away – they were afraid to live here. But now, no one runs away. This is a safe place.” Because Kalohitsy is a small rural village, there are no restrictions on the age of the orphans being cared for. “We’ve had small infants – everyone on staff takes turns holding the babies so they feel loved.”

Again, Kalozhitsy is the last orphanage to be opened in the Leningrad region. In fact, of the 30 orphanages originally opened, only 14 remain today. One by one, the Russian government is closing orphanages in rural areas, and moving those orphans to other places. Putin has declared that the country will transition to a foster care system.  In some parts of the country, training programs similar to the United States are being started. But the program has far to go, and thus far, only young children are being selected through kinship traditional foster care families. Olga says half of her younger children will go into foster care at some point. Only one child a year is adopted internationally. Orphans in their teens struggle to find their place.

Many of Olga’s teenage girls will age out of the orphanage and get pregnant. “They don’t fall into prostitution – they just want a family. They have a high view that they can be successful, that their life can be different.” But without training, without education, and without job opportunities, the risk for those girls is high.

In the same way Olga transformed a building, she has a heart to transform the lives of the teens.  She is encouraged by the Orphan Outreach Graduate Program, and knows her children will thrive in it. And she has watched Irina in Tikhvin, and wants to build transitional housing too. The young mothers already visit her to receive food, baby care, and advice. She wants to now have a place for orphans who have aged out to come and stay while they get their feet on the ground and prepare to move to a larger city. “There is little opportunity for jobs here. The orphans need to get to St Petersburg. I have to help them.”

I pray for Olga, the transformer, that she will continue to find favor as she offers hope in her tiny village. And I pray for the heart of every sweet child there, that they will catch the fire of that hope and become transformers in Russia.

If you’d like to meet Olga and the children of Kahozhitsy, get to know the people of Orphan Outreach. You can be a transformer too.

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Perhaps that new life will look like Anatoly. A dapper man with soulful eyes and a moustached smile that appears often, even when he is struggling to find the good in a conversation, the director of the orphanage in Nikolsky is a protector. The large wealthy city just outside St Petersburg has had an orphanage for years. The original one was located near the city center, and was a picture of chaos and disrepair when government officials determined the building could be used for better purposes. A new orphanage was built a few miles away – tucked away, as most orphanages are, in a residential area. The imposing three-story structure dwarfed the community around it – but was built so shoddily that steel reinforcements had to be retrofit into the walls themselves to keep the building from collapsing. Ninety-seven warnings were posted by safety officials against the orphanage before it was opened, but they were ignored and it was opened anyway. The children moved from the old to the new orphanage – a place with inadequate heat and unfinished rooms. With the help of partner ministries and churches – including Orphan Outreach – all but one of the issues has been resolved. Inspectors have decided the windows at the basement level are too small. Construction plans are being made, but there is grave concern for the building so poorly made in the first place.

Anatoly said the children were treated more like pets when he arrived a few years ago to become director. They didn’t understand their value as humans, and acted out in rage and aggression. Running away was common, violence was common. These were the misfits, the shattered souls. He says his purpose is to help them understand their true worth. And he believes it is great.

Helping the children understand their worth translates into changed behavior. And that has a benefit for all involved. Anatoly and directors like him are personally fined when children skip school or misbehave. And the recommendation from Education Ministry experts is that children who run away need to removed from the orphanage and hospitalized for psychological evaluation. Poor behavior equates to likely mental issues. Anatoly is troubled by the concept. “I will work for the children. I will fight for their rights.” And he has done just that – for he is a protector.

Currently, 57 children live in the home. Anatoly says that, by the end of December, 7 more will arrive. He can accommodate up to 90 kids, ranging in age from 5-18. With more than half of the orphanages in Russia closing down as Putin pushes aggressively toward a foster care model for his country, those orphanages which remain must accommodate larger and larger numbers of children.

Anatoly is careful to speak about the emerging foster care program, as it is showing promise for younger children. But his face falls as he talks about his teens – the largest population in his orphanage. “The children come from bad living conditions, bad family situations. It takes time to bring them up and make them feel at home here. Some are fortunate to go to foster care as part of kinship programs – but there is only interest in the young ones. Often they are returned to the orphanage as teens, when the family finds managing them difficult. Then the child has suffered rejection two times. Or sometimes even more.”

He speaks of a young teen who has recently returned to the orphanage for a second time after being placed in two kinship programs. She is embracing the familiarity of the orphanage, and she runs to the security of Anatoly’s waiting arms when she sees him. Like most of the orphans, she calls him Papa. She is one of 12 teens returned this year alone. “We do our best to teach them how to deal with anger, how to forgive, how to rise above. They have to learn to live in a society in which bad things happen. “ With the Avenger’s help, they will do just that.

Of all the items on his list of needs, he cites one as being even more important than the basement windows. He wants his teens to go to Christian summer camp. This year, only 5 were allowed to go due to space constraints. His hope is that 25-30 will be able to go next summer. “Russia offers state camps for teens, but they are expensive and not good for orphans. But Christian camps  – they are different. When the children return from camp, they come back changed. Their behaviors change. Their attitudes change. Their hearts are changed. I wish every orphan could go to Christian camp.”

Anatoly’s passion as a father and grandfather show through in his care for his children at Nikolsky. His eyes fill with tears as he speaks. “We try to care for them. The statistics aren’t good for orphans. Without good support, they get involved in dangerous things. We want our children to live a good life. We try to help them get in better tech schools and universities, and we care for them when they are away. I have to court when our children take the wrong path. I see first hand the fruit of their choices. I want them to be good adults.”

Anatoly, I wish you were my Papa. I know my life would be protected and lifted high under your care. Thank you for loving well.

If you’d like to serve the children of Nikolsky, get to know the folks at Orphan Outreach. 

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When she arrived at the orphanage eight years ago, Irina found a prison. Children ran away to escape the conditions. The building was in ill repair, and care was minimal. Her love for children became a promise to those kids. “Stay with me and I promise to care for you no matter what.” What has transpired is nothing short of a miracle in this country that so harshly devalues the discarded.

Irina found others who, like her, believed God had a better plan for the children. She and a small team set to repair the physical damage to the orphanage. They found partners, like Orphan Outreach and the Baptist Church of Tikhvin, who believed in their cause. As government funding continued to shrink, they found favor in their stewardship. One by one, rooms were refurbished. Floors were strengthened, bathrooms were updated and made safe, bedding was provided to each child. She took every ruble donated and stretched it to five. Volunteers came to offer mentorship for the children. And orphans who aged out were not kicked out – they were cared for and given a place of refuge.

Today, none of the 53 children think about running away. Of the 24 girls and 29 boys aged 4-18, only 13 are biological orphans. The others are social orphans – removed from family members due to abuse, neglect, or illness. The children beam when showing off their special place to live. Artwork is displayed on shelves and walls, and in the sewing room, everyone learns how to create patterns, sew, crochet, embroider, and tat lace. The kids love reading and laughter and Justin Beiber.  Irina knows it’s because of the promise kept to them. “We don’t call this place an orphanage. It is a home for children. And no one works here – we all come to serve.”

In the common area on the first floor of the children’s home, a wall is dotted with beautiful faces.  The little team shares the stories of each child with such careful detail. “She is now in her second year of medical school…he is in design school…she was adopted and we love her new family… she lives in St Petersburg and just had her first baby…” In Tikhvin, there are no real orphans. Every child has been adopted into this home of love, and no child is forgotten.

A new promise has been made – this time to those orphans who leave the home to go to vocational school or college (every child living there has aspirations of continued education). Irina and her team have promised the graduates they will have a place to always call home, a place where they can rest and live life as an adult as they get their footing. Construction is well under way for a transitional home with a living room, kitchen, and apartments for men, women, and even young moms. In a perfect world, a second social worker would be hired to run the program. But $500 a month is more than Irina can afford right now, and her staff are willing to do whatever it takes to make sure the transition program is well-run. “We do this because of our love for the kids. All our strength comes from the Lord. There are days we grow weary, but He helps us. And when we see the graduates do well, we know our work is not in vain.”

I pray for the stories yet to be shared on the wall dotted with beautiful faces. And I’m thankful for promise keepers like Irina.

If you’d like to know how you can partner with Irina and the Tikhvin chldren’s home, get to know the folks at Orphan Outreach.

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There is the robin egg blue of the Church on the Spilt Blood. Tiny mosaics paint every inch of the cathedral with story. Thousands of hands now anonymous washed the walls with color before the floors were washed with blood in war.

There are the red carnations ever present on the World War II memorial, a silent song to a country that has been reborn and reborn and reborn and still hungers to be reborn.

There are the rainbows in folded paper and paint and scraps of fabric in the orphanages. Small hands with big imaginations design beauty seen by eyes that will likely never see beyond the walls of their government institutions.

And there is green. It’s not painted on a wall or written into a book. Green is the color of a life disregarded. Green is the color of a life that could have been rescued. But instead, just a few short years ago, it became the color of ridicule – comedic relief for naïve fools.

We first saw her, a girl no more than 16 sitting in a corner of the lobby bar – her eyes darting nervously. She had on a short, tight green dress with thigh-high black boots. She looked disheveled and tired, and her smoky eye makeup was smudged. Someone said they had seen her the day before, in the same outfit.  With a quick conversation on a cell phone, she was gone. She appeared again from time to time, always looking – and always disappearing. As we sat in the lobby to send messages of hope back to friends and family in the United States, proudly sharing our stories of how we had provided humanitarian aid to poor orphans and how we had cared for those thrown away by society, we scoffed at the young girl in the green dress.

We knew what she was doing.
We called her a whore.
In our self-righteousness, we condemned her.

That was then.

We know better now.

We understand that of 10 girls aging out of orphanages in Russia, 8 will turn to prostitution as a way to fill their bellies and have a place to sleep, or will be caught in the vile web of human trafficking. We know those darting eyes are crying for help. We know that the green dress is a uniform of shame and pain. We’ve seen the vans filled with green dresses going to hotel after hotel to tend to the dark needs of visiting businessmen. We know that outward appearance rarely tells the story. We’ve witnessed what happens when uncompromising love is lavished on a hungry soul. We’ve seen miracles.

If only we knew then what we know now.

In the steel grey of St Petersburg, I pray no more girls will ever have to wear the green dress of disregard. I pray for those called to the rescue and redemption of girls with darting eyes. I pray for “you are worthy” to be engraved on the hearts of the discarded. And I pray for the “we” – that we will know better.

And to you, precious one in the green dress, I apologize. I pray you were rescued.

I’m thankful for ministries like Love146, A21, and Abolition International, that work daily to give innocents a safe life. And I have seen first-hand the fruit of Orphan Outreach’s Graduate program in St Petersburg, Russia. Lives are being transformed. The future is being redefined.

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