Dear Hermanos,
Today, (July 6) which is my 23rd birthday, I would like to share with you a story about an amiguito of mine. Let's call him Martin. Last November Martin turned two years old. While most children receive presents and cake and hugs on their birthday, my little friend received an even greater gift. When his father started, once again, to savagely beat his mother, she ran out of the house, down the street, and knocked on the first door she could find. By some miracle of God, that door happened to belong to an office of the DIF, the Mexican government ministry which deals with families. By another miracle, Martin's mother, Marta, was able to convince the police to go after her son, whom she had had to leave behind in the house as she ran. They recovered little Martin and brought him back to his mother. After a day waiting in government offices, Martin and Marta were taken to a place where they could start the process of living again. That place, of course, was the Deborah House.
When I first met Martin, quite frankly I had no idea how to act around him. Here was a two year old boy who didn't seem to know how to talk, how to smile, how to play. He had the look of a child who was simply lost, not physically but emotionally. He clung to his mother, the only person it seemed he could trust. But during the next few months, he started to open up in the most wonderful way. He started to smile and interact and even fight with the other children. However, all in all, I didn't spend much time with him before I left for El Salvador.
The child I see before me today has come so far that he is almost unrecognizable. From the moment I stepped foot in Debora again, he became my special friend. He smiles whenever he sees me and calls out "Baki, Baki, Baki!" (Becky is a bit of a stretch for him to pronounce). He tries to run over my chanclas, or sandals, with his vrrrrm vrrrrms, or cars. He also tries to help me understand things, like when he runs out of milk ("Baki, lashe..... ya"). He still has trouble adjusting to strangers, but for whatever reason, he chose me to be one of the few people that he explains his world to.
A few weeks ago, I took Martin and his mother to another government office so that they could do one of their many tramites. I was looking after him in a place which happened to be close to a mini-stair rail. The edge was made of stone, and so short and wide that many children were hoisting themselves up and sliding down. Martin tried as hard as he could to climb up, but the surface was so smooth that it was impossible, and he slid down again and again, bumping into a stranger who was seated on the edge of the rail itself. I kept telling him, like a cautious baby-sitter, that he couldn't climb up, that it was impossible, that we should go back on the grass. The stranger understood much better than I did. She took her hands and put them underneath his feet so that, with her support, he could inch his way up.
This is how I explain the mercy of God in our lives. During those times when life is too difficult, when we just can't go on, when we feel worthless and afraid, God puts his hand underneath our feet and helps us to rise. And this is what our mission at the Deborah's House should be about: helping to give a lift up to women who have been told so many times that they can't do this or that, that everything is their fault, that they don't deserve to climb out of the pit that they find theirselves in. And, God willing, this is what it will be.
Today, (July 6) which is my 23rd birthday, I would like to share with you a story about an amiguito of mine. Let's call him Martin. Last November Martin turned two years old. While most children receive presents and cake and hugs on their birthday, my little friend received an even greater gift. When his father started, once again, to savagely beat his mother, she ran out of the house, down the street, and knocked on the first door she could find. By some miracle of God, that door happened to belong to an office of the DIF, the Mexican government ministry which deals with families. By another miracle, Martin's mother, Marta, was able to convince the police to go after her son, whom she had had to leave behind in the house as she ran. They recovered little Martin and brought him back to his mother. After a day waiting in government offices, Martin and Marta were taken to a place where they could start the process of living again. That place, of course, was the Deborah House.
When I first met Martin, quite frankly I had no idea how to act around him. Here was a two year old boy who didn't seem to know how to talk, how to smile, how to play. He had the look of a child who was simply lost, not physically but emotionally. He clung to his mother, the only person it seemed he could trust. But during the next few months, he started to open up in the most wonderful way. He started to smile and interact and even fight with the other children. However, all in all, I didn't spend much time with him before I left for El Salvador.
The child I see before me today has come so far that he is almost unrecognizable. From the moment I stepped foot in Debora again, he became my special friend. He smiles whenever he sees me and calls out "Baki, Baki, Baki!" (Becky is a bit of a stretch for him to pronounce). He tries to run over my chanclas, or sandals, with his vrrrrm vrrrrms, or cars. He also tries to help me understand things, like when he runs out of milk ("Baki, lashe..... ya"). He still has trouble adjusting to strangers, but for whatever reason, he chose me to be one of the few people that he explains his world to.
A few weeks ago, I took Martin and his mother to another government office so that they could do one of their many tramites. I was looking after him in a place which happened to be close to a mini-stair rail. The edge was made of stone, and so short and wide that many children were hoisting themselves up and sliding down. Martin tried as hard as he could to climb up, but the surface was so smooth that it was impossible, and he slid down again and again, bumping into a stranger who was seated on the edge of the rail itself. I kept telling him, like a cautious baby-sitter, that he couldn't climb up, that it was impossible, that we should go back on the grass. The stranger understood much better than I did. She took her hands and put them underneath his feet so that, with her support, he could inch his way up.
This is how I explain the mercy of God in our lives. During those times when life is too difficult, when we just can't go on, when we feel worthless and afraid, God puts his hand underneath our feet and helps us to rise. And this is what our mission at the Deborah's House should be about: helping to give a lift up to women who have been told so many times that they can't do this or that, that everything is their fault, that they don't deserve to climb out of the pit that they find theirselves in. And, God willing, this is what it will be.
Baki