Pics from my trip

I'm anxious to write more about my trip to Iraq. In the meantime, click here for a slide show of a few pics.

The Older I Get, The Less I Know...

Kadeeja (bottom row in the pink) is a 16-year-old girl who recently had heart surgery in Turkey through the Preemptive Love Coalition. She is currently doing very well.

It's really true that I know less now than I used to. When I was 20, I had all the answers (actually, it was from about age 14 until 34). Now that I'm 40, I just have a lot of questions.

I went to Iraq looking for answers. I came back with more questions. Questions like:

How do I - an unskilled, unrich, individual without any clout or "weight" to throw around - begin to help Iraqi kids who need heart surgery?

How does an organization begin to address the CAUSE of these heart issues in addition to saving the lives of those already affected?

How can I help inside a culture I don't understand?

Why was I born in America where I receive and even expect the best medical care that is almost completely covered by insurance?

How do I care for a person's physical heart (the temporal) in such a way that communicates my care for their spiritual heart (the eternal)?

How do I love someone who is so different from me... how do I avoid seeing them as a "project"... as someone I want to change?

How do I justify helping people halfway around the world when there are others right in my own neighborhood who need help?

Why - in spite of all our efforts and prayers and in opposition to every doctor's prediction - do some kids die? How do I speak hope to these parents who don't yet know the promises of Jesus?

Why can't I just forget about all those kids (because there's really nothing I can do), stay home and watch American Idol twice a week, teach the 5th grade boys' SS class, and just give generously to the Lottie Moon missions offering every year?

Whenever I have these overwhelming questions without definite answers, it takes me a good long while, but eventually, I find my way to John chapter 14. Jesus is talking to his disciples about going to prepare a place for them. He says, "...And you know the way where I am going." Then Thomas has a response that I love: "Lord, we do not know where You are going, how do we know the way?"

I love this because it is TOTALLY the way I would respond. Especially because I am so "directionally challenged", I would panic, thinking there was some map we were supposed to all have that I must've lost or missed out on. I want to know the details... give me directions... when do I turn left, how long do I travel down this road before turning right? I want specifics.

But Christ's response was beautiful. It is, simply: Me. "I am the way, and the truth and the life; no one comes to the Father, but through Me."

Jesus is the answer. To all those questions.

How do I help? Jesus
Why was I born in America? Jesus
How do I love someone different from me? Jesus
Why do some kids die? Jesus

Now, I know that there are times when very specific answers are necessary, but - at least in my life - those specifics don't come until I accept JESUS as the answer first. It is in looking to Him and for Him that the details and the specifics are revealed, or - more often than not - seem to fall into place without any effort or knowledge or great revelation on my part.

For example, in John 13, Jesus says to his disciples, "If I then, the Lord and the Teacher, washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I gave you an example that you also should do as I did to you."

What kind of love, sacrifice and humility does it take to wash someone's feet? Beyond what I know. And yet, I think that's the answer. I am not called to Iraq to save kids' lives. I am not called to Iraq to convert people to Christianity. I am not called to Iraq to "enlighten" them or bring them wisdom or open their eyes to the truth.

I am called to Iraq to wash their feet, and I cannot wash their feet until I love them. And in the process of loving and washing feet, I will receive the amazing blessing of watching the Holy Spirit do His job of changing lives and "enlightening the eyes of their hearts so that they may know the hope of His calling..."

That sounds all spiritual and wise, doesn't it? I might even have you convinced that I know what I'm talking about. Don't be fooled. I don't. I've got a long way to go, and what I really want is for someone to tell me when to turn left and how far to go to get there.

Home

I'm home. Great trip. Can't write now. No sleep for 42 hours. Must get to bed. More later...

Just another day in Iraq

I'm really struggling to find the words to explain today. It's late here (almost 3 am) so this could either be beneficial (as I do consider myself to be a night person) or detrimental (since I can honestly say I'm considerably tired).

But I guess first I have to back up to last night... a young woman and her husband came to dinner. This is the couple who lost their 6 month-old daughter, Honyar, after her heart surgery. The Courtney's know the language here incredibly well, but were so wise to ask their interpreter and friend to also be here - just to be extra careful to get it right.

She is a stranger. She is from another generation. She is from another culture. We have nothing in common, with the exception of one thing.... the pain, the chaos, the desperation, the emptiness of losing a child. I hope that the time we spent together was helpful for her. It was for me.

Maybe later I will be able to write about this night in more depth. Tonight, the words escape me.

It almost seems disrespectful to move on from here, but I cannot sign off without telling you about today.

It began with a trip to the local hospital here. This is a place where the children are often diagnosed, where heart tests are done, but nothing is fixed. There is no surgeon here, no machinery to do what needs to be done. There are 5 kids per room, each waiting for something. For many, that something is simply the right prescription, a few stitches or an antibiotic. But for others, what they are waiting for will never come because they need heart surgery. Heart surgery that is being done routinely in the states and in other parts of the world. But not here.

The cardiologist here is a kind man who works tirelessly, but I am sure he gets discouraged every time he says, "I'm sorry. There is nothing I can do. Your child needs surgery or they will die." He showed us into the "ICU" (admitting that it is this because there are only 3 beds instead of the standard 5 per room, and it is a little bit cleaner than a regular room).

There was only one baby in this room. His mother was holding him, and he was a familiar shade of blue. Even half-way around the world, there was so much that was familiar to me: the mom, alone with her baby, holding him gently and watching between the baby, the monitor and the doctor - her eyes going from one to the other; her supplies set up neatly on the bed, within reach; the puls-ox monitor clipped onto the baby's toe registering heart rate and oxygen saturation levels; the steady blinking and beeping of the monitors; and this I couldn't actually see, but I could feel it: the agony of knowing that your child needs something that you are completely unable to give him, and the total vulnerability and desperation of wanting and needing someone to do something to make it all better.

Speaking in English (the mother could not understand) the cardiologist said, "This baby needs heart surgery, but there is no way to do it here. We are waiting for him to die."

And I just stood there. Staring. Staring at this mother, wanting to tell her it would be OK, wanting to make it better, wanting to fulfill that little bit of hope she still had for a miracle.

But I didn't speak a word of her language and even if I did, I had nothing to say. Nothing. I had no hope for her. I didn't even offer her a hug. I simply turned and walked away. What can I do for her anyway?... I'm not a pediatric heart surgeon. And her son is one of many... too many.

So I left. I walked away from the monitors and the beeping and blinking. I walked away from the medical supplies and the nurses. I walked away from the waiting and the desperation.

I left that mother to be alone and to wait for her baby to die.

In Iraq

I am here and finally awake!! We arrived to the house about 4 am on Friday morning and then slept until 2pm. We spent the rest of the day at a party with about 30 other workers (mostly Americans) who live here and in surrounding cities.

Today has been my first real exposure to the Kurdish life. We spent the morning at the local market and then went to a Kurdish restaurant for lunch. Even for a picky eater like me, it was good! I had chicken and beef kabob and rice and beans and some kind of spinach sauce, which I claimed tasted like salsa, but no one else agreed! I think it actually just LOOKED like salsa, but when you're ten thousand miles away from Ninfa's, the power of suggestion can work wonders!

Tonight, we are having a Kurdish family for dinner. This family's 6-month old daughter went to Turkey for heart surgery, but she past away after the surgery. This was just a couple of months ago.

I don't know what tomorrow will hold. Hopefully, the chance to meet more Kurdish families and more time to spend with my American friends here. It is amazing to see how they have adapted to life here, learned the language and respect the culture, and it is wonderful to see how their local friends and neighbors respect and love them, knowing it is the love of Jesus that brings them here.

Speaking the powerful name of Christ over this city...

Thanks for praying...

Almost There...

Well, I'm not in Iraq yet, but I am enjoying our 24 hour layover in Istanbul. We arrived in the Ataturk Airport last night around midnight, and spent the rest of the night at the Side Hotel (pronounce See-day). After 8 hours sleep and a hot shower, I was a new woman!

One amazing blessing of this trip is hooking up with our friends, the Branhams. They live in Instanbul, but I wasn't sure if I would be able to see them. After a phone call, a bus ride and a short walk, I am now in their dining room after eating a delicious dinner that Joni prepared. It is so good to be able to hug their necks, see their children and spend time in their home. There is just something about knowing their surroundings and experiencing their life that will make me feel more "connected" to them when I return home.

I am really enjoying Istanbul. It seems that each time I come, I realize how much I really love this city. It's crowded, loud and stinky, but in a good way :-)

We leave tonight for Iraq at midnight (4 pm Texas time). It's a short 4-hour plane ride, which will be a breeze compared to what we've done so far!

This is a dark place, but God is powerful. Here, I am constantly reminded of the enemy's deception: the call to prayer heard throughout the city 5 times a day, women who cover their heads and/or their entire faces, and mosques with minurets so tall they can be seen for miles. But our God reigns and even this city belongs to Him!!

Thank you for praying...

Pants, a Passport and Peanut Butter

What does one pack when going to Iraq?

That's been on my mind for a couple of weeks now. Well, let me tell you that I've narrowed it down to a few important things:

1) Comfortable (and culturally appropriate) pants. I've managed to find some comfortable ones, but culturally appropriate? To be honest, I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I'm guessing it's a heck of a lot less tight and an amazing amount more high-wasted than anything you can find in this country.

2) Passport. This is a given. I've made copies for all my luggage and left a copy here at home. I've emailed a scanned copy to my friends in Iraq. I've memorized my passport number. I'm stopping short of having it tatooed to my arm.

3) Peanut Butter. I don't know what the food will be like in Iraq, much less on the plane. With the amount I've packed, I can survive on peanut butter and water for about 8 1/2 days.

So, in a matter of hours, I'm off! Thanks for praying. I don't really know what to ask you to pray specifically, because this trip is so much an unknown. But, in a way, that's been great. It has given me (forced me, actually) the opportunity to depend on Him and watch His agenda unfold....

Helping the Grieving, Part 2

There are some things that we are born knowing. Men, for example, emerge from the womb with the knowledge of how to shoot a gun. Women know from birth how to find shoes on sale.

Other things have to be learned. Walking beside a grieving friend is, at least for most of us, one of those things.

"Leigh's Grief Rule #2" is one I actually learned from Jack: DON'T DENY ME MY GRIEF. In other words, don't try to make me feel better. If I'm crying, let me cry. If I'm mad, get mad with me. Don't panic that I'm losing my faith if I cuss or get hacked off at God.

Let me put plainly into words something that you already know: there's nothing you can say in those moments that will make the hurt go away. In fact, there's probably very little you can say that I haven't heard already. In those moments when I lose it, all I need is an understanding ear and a gentle hug. Don't try to fix it.

Now, I'm NOT saying that there isn't room for thoughtful words (case in point, my last post). "Rule #2" applies specifically to those "moments" when I'm suddenly overcome with grief because of a memory, a song, or for no apparent reason at all. During those times, I need to feel the freedom to emote, to vent, to have a "good cry." How does a good friend help in that process? By simply physically being there, listening, and being OK with silence.

In fact, something you say to me (or my answer to your questions) might actually make me cry. Don't feel bad. Don't think you need to apologize. You didn't make me sad. I'm already sad. You just allowed me the opportunity to express it.