Forgotten by us, but not by God.

"As a prisoner for the Lord, then, I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received."

I've been sitting on my couch for the past two hours watching people in shiny costumes sing their hearts out, dance with all their might, perform talent after talent, even risking their lives. I've been watching America booing some to tears and cheering others. The goal: one million dollars and a headline act in Vegas. Fame and fortune. These people are giving every ounce of their being to 3 minutes of being on stage, facing the harsh criticisms of their country, all in the hope that they might have what it takes to have a shot at money that will one day be worthless and fame that in light of eternity means absolutely nothing.

Two weeks ago, I was sitting at a dirty dusty table that came as high as the middle of my calf, holding a three year old boy, covered in scabs, caked in dirt, wearing one of the three outfits he owns, who couldn't even utter a sound. My hand rested on his belly which was solid as a rock, big and round, and full of parasites. He didn't know who I was, but he didn't care. He doesn't know who anyone is.

A few days after that, I sat on a bench in a little office, waiting patiently for my turn to try to communicate that we needed transportation somewhere, while a little boy, probably about 9, comes running up to me. He stops as he reaches my knees. He is skinny, a little dirty looking. He holds out his hand expectantly, "Dame un quetzal." "You want a quetzal, hm?", I inquire of him in Spanish. He nods his head. I say, "And what are you going to do with this quetzal?" He replies, "Comida." Well how can I tell this little boy I don't want to support his eating? I asked him if he was sure he was going to buy some good food, not candy. He told me he would buy his dinner. He also got excited when I took his picture and showed it to him. And when I let him hold my camera and take his own picture, he almost left in such excitement that he forgot to get the quetzal from me. I made sure he didn't leave without his quetzales.

I saw people giving every ounce of their entire hungry, diseased bodies, begging for food, begging for water, begging for attention. I saw people who were happy if they were able to get their hands on a little rice or a tortilla. I saw people suffering on the sides of the road, with their hands outstretched, as they watched one person after another person after another just walk by as if they were less than invisible.

And this is only Guatemala. What about Sudan? What about Bangladesh? What about North Korea. If Guatemala is only 3.5 easy hours away and on the same timezone and no one wants to go, what Hope do the people being slaughtered in North Korea have?

Do I have a calling? It's more like a command. And I am not the only one either. Can you claim to be a believer and reject God's word? Is it possible to be saved and refuse to share it with others? Is it possible to be saved and not await with eager expectation the day that Christ will return? Well Christ is not going to return until His church gets off the couch and gets to work.

So after 13 days, easy days at that, my mom and I began to make our trek back to the States. Walking from the taxi into the airport in Honduras at 11pm at night, I found myself silently hoping the little beggar boys would not spot us and run after us begging for a Lempira (1/18th of a dollar). We managed to evade them and make our way safely into the airport and onto the plane and back to the land where we sell our souls for a steady job and comfy home.

I decided that I would make my home, come September 1, in the poorest department of all of Guatemala, Alta Verapaz. The first thing people ask is, "Is it safe." I look them in the eye and can only respond, "Not really." But if I don't go, who will? Aren't the needs the greatest where the people are the poorest? I'm quite positive that because of the love God has for those people, because of the price Christ paid for those people, that if I refuse to go, someone else will steal my priviledge. I'm sure I am not the first person God has asked, and I'm sure I'm not the first person to say 'yes'. But now is my time to go...and oh I can not wait!

September 1, here I come. When I arrive, I will begin searching for a location to develop this home. But I want to clarify one thing before I conclude this blog. This children's home, Casa Gloria, is not a home where the children will just be fed and loved and educated and taught to raise families of their own. This is Casa Gloria, Glory House. This is a home where warriors for Christ are born. There is a tiny little girl who is sleeping in a brothel of Coban right now that God has created to lead multitudes to salvation in Christ Jesus. There is a barefooted boy from the jungle that no one in this world wants, except for his Father, who has planned that his child will one day go back to his village and call for revival in Jesus' name. This is a home where God will receive all glory for all things. God wants to use these forgotten children to change the world.

They're waiting. Let's do something.