I came back from Guatemala with a cold. A sore throat, stuffy nose, cough, congestion, headache, slight fever, and a general sense of icky.

I met a lady in Guatemala. She had a cold too. Or more likely, an infection. Maybe bronchitis. Maybe worse.

I nursed my cold in the comfort of my air conditioned home. I lay in my bed, with clean sheets, and blew my nose on soft clean tissues. Every four hours, I took medicine. I had a glass of juice on my bedside stand, with a bendy straw. I have to have bendy straws when I’m sick.

But as I lay there, I couldn’t stop thinking of her.

Her house was damp and cold. When our group trooped in to visit, we shook out our umbrellas, the cold rain darkening the cement at our feet. Above our heads, sheets of bright blue plastic sagged under the weight of the water.

I couldn’t tell her age. She could have been 60. She could have been 30. I have no idea. Life had lined her face deeply. Her husband was an alcoholic. She couldn’t care for her family.

And she was sick.

Every few minutes, coughs racked her body. She doubled over from the effort, and would demurely lift the hem of her tattered dress to her mouth. She carefully wiped her face with the rough fabric, apologizing after each agonizing spell.

She can’t afford the doctor. She can’t afford medicine. The damp rainy season will only make her sickness worse, her body weaker.

And I couldn’t stop thinking of her.

I have tissues. She has the hem of her skirt.

I have a bed and clean sheets. She has a scratchy blanket she shares with her daughter.

I have medicine at my fingertips. She wonders where her family’s next meal will come from.

I have comfort. She has desperation.

Father, come soon.

I’m a good baker. A really good baker.

Just ask my friends and co-workers. They love me for the cakes, cookies and pies I share with them. I have been told I make pumpkin cream cheese muffins that will change your life.

The other day, I was completely out-baked by a group of Guatemalan girls (and a few boys). It wasn’t even a competition.

They began by making a circle of flour, their hands as quick and experienced as mine were slow and clumsy. There was not a single KitchenAid mixer in sight. I had a bad feeling.

The girls teaching me to bake were part of a baking class at the Compassion student center I was visiting in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala. As part of the class, they make snacks for the nearly 400 students at the center. They also make baked goods they can sell in the community. With that money, they have been able to construct new classrooms at the center.

In other words, these were some serious bakers.

After the flour came butter. They handed me several sticks and mimed pounding it on the table until it was soft. Not a microwave in sight. Next, I creamed it with sugar. With my hands. Did I mention there was no mixer?

Would these skills help these children one day? Would they know how to cook nutritious meals for their families? Or bake goods for a living?

One of my baking friends began cracking eggs into my lumpy butter and sugar mixture. I mixed it into a gloopy pile, and felt sweat forming on my forehead. Another girl pointed to a clump of yolk I had missed.

Next they mimed adding the flour. I swept it inward and it poofed toward me. One grinning girl helped me slip an apron over my head. It was like she knew me.

It was amazing to watch their confidence. How good it must feel to start with flour, sugar and eggs, and end with bread, cinnamon rolls and cookies. It may seem like a small sense of accomplishment. But in poverty, children learn they can’t accomplish anything. Even the accomplishments of dough that rises or cookies that don’t burn mean more than we can imagine.

The sticky dough coated my hands and I mixed and mixed until finally, a ball formed. They showed me how to roll it out.

Then they showed me how to re-roll it out when it all stuck to the table.

Finally, we pressed cookie cutters into the dough, making snowmen, hearts and teddy-bear shapes for snack time.
One girl brushed a smudge of flour off of my cheek. Another led me to the sink to wash my hands.

Never have I been so happy to be out-baked in my entire life!

We walked on a muddy path that wound through cornfields. The stalks reached above our heads on either side as the rain continued its lazy sprinkling.

There is nothing in the world like visiting a Compassion-assisted child’s home. Absolutely nothing. Nothing can prepare you for the sights, the sounds, the smells. Most of all, nothing can prepare you for the beating your heart is about to take. It’s like you got in a fight with the Holy Spirit. And every time, the Holy Spirit leaves you limping and bruised and, thankfully, a better person for the battle.

We arrived at Cesar’s house and ducked inside. Sheets of blue plastic formed a barrier against the rain, but nothing could stop the water and mud we tracked inside. Stools were brought in for us, and several of us sat on the three beds that took up most of the space.

Cesar’s mother welcomed us warmly. I loved hearing the word “Dios” so often as she spoke. But her story was heartbreaking. Her husband had left her. But before he abandoned her, he had beaten her. What must it have been like for Cesar, the youngest in his family, to watch his mother beaten by the man who was supposed to be his role model?

And then Cesar spoke to us. He told us about having to drop out of school this year because there wasn’t enough money. This quiet 15-year-old explained that he would have to begin working in a fabric plant soon.
And then I watched as every person in that room spoke words of encouragement to this brave, beautiful, inspiring young man.

God has a plan for you.

You will succeed.

You can do anything.

You are talented.

We are proud of you.

We love you.

And I watched as tears poured down his face.

He was ready to give up. You could feel it in every fiber of his being.

But somehow, now, I know that he won’t. Don’t ask me how. I just know.

I know because I watched a sponsor envelop Cesar in his arms. I watched that sponsor’s heart break. And in that brokenness, I saw determination.

Cesar and his family knelt while our group circled around him.

We prayed, our words thick with tears.

Their prayers were fervently whispered.

And the rain began to pour, thundering on the roof.

I have never heard a more beautiful sound.

After the last amen, Cesar’s mother rushed into the yard. I watched her grab a stick, and begin poking at the pear tree in their yard.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Pears fell to the ground. She picked them up and brought them to us.

“Muchas gracias,” she said to us.

“Gracias,” we repeated.

She wanted so badly to give us something back.

Little did she know how full our hearts already were.

*This post originally written for the Compassion Blog

She held a basket of strawberries.

She would have perched it on her hip, if she’d had hips. But her body was one of a child, maybe seven or eight. Too thin, too narrow.

To be honest, she wasn’t the best salesman. Instead of hawking her sweet smelling berries, she stood and watched a group of children playing. They rolled and wrestled on the damp ground, their clothes growing muddy and stained. She watched, her own clothes showing no stains that would indicate she ever played in them. She watched, from afar.

Holding her basket of strawberries.

I wonder. One day, when she’s an adult, will the sweet smell of strawberries be a stench to her. Will they draw her back to her childhood?

Will she remember standing in the hot, muggy Guatemalan air? Watching children play while she worked?

Will the smell cause a knot to form in her stomach?

Will she feel sad?

Angry?

Hopeless?

I pray she never as to perch a basket of strawberries on her hip.

I pray that long before her teenage years, someone is able to invest in her.

To send her to school.

To tell her that she deserves something different.

I pray that she will have a childhood filled with games and friends and laughter and playing in the dirt on a warm summer afternoon.

Not baskets of strawberries.