What I Know About Sara
In June, 2016, I was in Honduras leading our church's first mission trip with Children's Cup to Honduras. We flew into Tegucigalpa and drove almost immediately a few hours out into the beautiful countryside town of Teupasenti, where most families are very poor and the main income is from harvesting coffee. To earn money, men and women leave their families for months at a time to live at work camps up in the mountains on the coffee plantations. Some families bring their children, which means that school attendance is spotty- when you might starve, food trumps phonics every time. But for the most part the work camps are full of men, away from their families, earning money on the plantations. Sometimes they bring the money back home. Sometimes they don't.
As we entered the village and neared the carepoint, two little girls with dusty feet ran out and followed our van. From a safe distance, they watched our group as we were introduced to the staff at the center. One little girl in a denim dress particularly stood out to me. Her hair was dark and her eyes were bright but wary. Soon the school let out and the carepoint was buzzing with shouting, curious children and we were all swept up in the fun of playing with children-- a game of Tag needs no translator. The little ones faded into the crowd.
The next day we returned to the carepoint to help serve lunch and share a message and skits with the kids there. We were barely able to rein in the chaos of serving limited food to children with desperate hunger, trying to make sure the quieter ones in the back got their fair share before we ran out.
After the meal and program, the children scattered to play and I saw the little girl from the day before. The one who had been roaming the village alone while the older children were at school. I asked about her and there was a deep intake of breath. "Yes. Sara. She is here often because she does not have a safe family at home. Her mother is gone. Her father drinks." In my limited Spanish I spoke softly to her and she nestled into my lap. For a five-year-old, she was tiny. No bigger than my own little Tess back home. And in that moment, in a way that I can't fully explain, I felt pain with her and knew that this little girl had been deeply hurt. My heart was broken and knit to hers in that moment and although she already had a sponsor I committed in my soul to pray for her. I gave her stickers and plastic bracelets in a flimsy attempt to communicate to her that she was worth more than she knew, worth loving and protecting and worth way more than she had been shown in the past.
And then, later in June, I came back home to my family.
And Sara still lived with hers.
I went on vacations, and I prayed for her. I went to church and played with my kids and showed pictures of our trip and I prayed for her. We moved, settled back in to school, and I prayed for her. In my busyness, I prayed less and less for her.
In early December, I went out to dinner with some friends. We had so much fun together, laughing and commiserating about holiday preparations. On my way home, I was almost overcome with a deep, deep sadness. I sat in my driveway, "Lord, what is going on all the sudden? Why am I so sad? Am I fighting depression again? Am I about to have a panic attack? Lord Jesus, Help!"
Sara.
I felt her name in my spirit. "Oh, Lord... Sara... Lord, I pray for Sara, pray that she is safe and healing, that you would protect her. I'm sorry, I haven't prayed much for her lately." Inside, I tried to get ready for bed, settle my mind down, but I couldn't stop thinking and the sadness was not gone. I sent a quick email to our contact in Honduras and went to bed.
The next morning, I heard back. Sara's father had gotten word of local police's plans to have her removed from his care. They were gone, off into the mountains. Sara was gone.
Shocked, I texted as many people as I could think of, posted to my FB account. Pray for Sara. She's in danger.
I had hundreds of responses. There was a tidal wave of prayers sent out of behalf of one little girl in Honduras. And I knew God would bring her back. I Googled Adoption in Honduras. (Like you're surprised.) We prayed, and we prayed, and we prayed.
And Sara is still gone.
People still ask me all the time about her. Some of my friends are still praying daily for her. Those people have a special place in my heart, and yet I kind of hate it when they ask me about her because I have to say, I don't know. She's still gone.
So what DO I know about Sara?
I know that she is very, very special and very worthy of love. I know God loves her and sees her as His special creation.
I also know that she is one of many. Like, millions of many. Girls and boys who are not safe, stolen or sold or caught up in evil purposes. I know slavery today claims higher numbers than at any other time in history.
I know that she's not alone, that even if I can't see it, all those prayers offered in faith will raise up heavenly armies to protect her, and if God doesn't choose to bring her back to Teupasenti then He will send someone to her.
And so, I keep praying, and I keep working.
For Sara.
For all of the Sara's.
As we entered the village and neared the carepoint, two little girls with dusty feet ran out and followed our van. From a safe distance, they watched our group as we were introduced to the staff at the center. One little girl in a denim dress particularly stood out to me. Her hair was dark and her eyes were bright but wary. Soon the school let out and the carepoint was buzzing with shouting, curious children and we were all swept up in the fun of playing with children-- a game of Tag needs no translator. The little ones faded into the crowd.
The next day we returned to the carepoint to help serve lunch and share a message and skits with the kids there. We were barely able to rein in the chaos of serving limited food to children with desperate hunger, trying to make sure the quieter ones in the back got their fair share before we ran out.
After the meal and program, the children scattered to play and I saw the little girl from the day before. The one who had been roaming the village alone while the older children were at school. I asked about her and there was a deep intake of breath. "Yes. Sara. She is here often because she does not have a safe family at home. Her mother is gone. Her father drinks." In my limited Spanish I spoke softly to her and she nestled into my lap. For a five-year-old, she was tiny. No bigger than my own little Tess back home. And in that moment, in a way that I can't fully explain, I felt pain with her and knew that this little girl had been deeply hurt. My heart was broken and knit to hers in that moment and although she already had a sponsor I committed in my soul to pray for her. I gave her stickers and plastic bracelets in a flimsy attempt to communicate to her that she was worth more than she knew, worth loving and protecting and worth way more than she had been shown in the past.
And then, later in June, I came back home to my family.
And Sara still lived with hers.
I went on vacations, and I prayed for her. I went to church and played with my kids and showed pictures of our trip and I prayed for her. We moved, settled back in to school, and I prayed for her. In my busyness, I prayed less and less for her.
In early December, I went out to dinner with some friends. We had so much fun together, laughing and commiserating about holiday preparations. On my way home, I was almost overcome with a deep, deep sadness. I sat in my driveway, "Lord, what is going on all the sudden? Why am I so sad? Am I fighting depression again? Am I about to have a panic attack? Lord Jesus, Help!"
Sara.
I felt her name in my spirit. "Oh, Lord... Sara... Lord, I pray for Sara, pray that she is safe and healing, that you would protect her. I'm sorry, I haven't prayed much for her lately." Inside, I tried to get ready for bed, settle my mind down, but I couldn't stop thinking and the sadness was not gone. I sent a quick email to our contact in Honduras and went to bed.
The next morning, I heard back. Sara's father had gotten word of local police's plans to have her removed from his care. They were gone, off into the mountains. Sara was gone.
Shocked, I texted as many people as I could think of, posted to my FB account. Pray for Sara. She's in danger.
I had hundreds of responses. There was a tidal wave of prayers sent out of behalf of one little girl in Honduras. And I knew God would bring her back. I Googled Adoption in Honduras. (Like you're surprised.) We prayed, and we prayed, and we prayed.
And Sara is still gone.
People still ask me all the time about her. Some of my friends are still praying daily for her. Those people have a special place in my heart, and yet I kind of hate it when they ask me about her because I have to say, I don't know. She's still gone.
So what DO I know about Sara?
I know that she is very, very special and very worthy of love. I know God loves her and sees her as His special creation.
I also know that she is one of many. Like, millions of many. Girls and boys who are not safe, stolen or sold or caught up in evil purposes. I know slavery today claims higher numbers than at any other time in history.
I know that she's not alone, that even if I can't see it, all those prayers offered in faith will raise up heavenly armies to protect her, and if God doesn't choose to bring her back to Teupasenti then He will send someone to her.
And so, I keep praying, and I keep working.
For Sara.
For all of the Sara's.
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