2020

2017. My word of the year was "compartir." To share. All year I've pretty much felt like I was failing at this. No better at sharing than my 3-year-olds. (Someone seriously needs to put the kibosh on the phrase "terrible twos." Twos are like peaches and cream compared to threes!) Sure, I had bursts of inspiration. And I have gotten better at sharing some things. But I'm still not great. At least not in the way I have been defining "to share." When I look back at the year, the one thing I see the most is how much time I've spent on my knees in prayer. Prayer for family. For my marriage. My kids. Prayer for God's will in my life. Which makes me wonder... What if, in directing me to share this year, God wasn't talking about candy or toys, bags of beans or cute t-shirts, money with those in need or even prayer requests with my friends? What if God wanted me to share... with HIM? In which case spending so

The past few days have been filled with highs and lows. Highs because we’ve had friends in town visiting, and our first holiday party of the year (which of course involved a taco truck!); lows because we had 3 kids scheduled to go home who just kept waiting and waiting for their dad to show up. He said he would be there Friday. All day they waited. Would he come before school? After school? No doubt he would be there by 7 p.m. And then Saturday came. Would he come in the morning? Or wait until “visiting hours” from 3-5. The fish must really be biting if he still wasn’t there by 8.  And then the call came. Late Sunday morning. He said he would come at 5 p.m. Every 15 minutes the kids asked me how much longer. Even throughout the folks visiting, gift giving, taco eating, they waited in anticipation for the real gift – going home for Christmas.  But then another call came in. From the authorities. Who said the girls couldn’t go. The home wasn’t safe for them. Maybe in a few m

Randy and I set off huge fireworks last week with the kids in honor of our one-year anniversary at Sonshine Hacienda . A year ago we were nervous and excited, expectant of all that our time here would bring. It hasn’t been anything like we imagined. The kids, obviously, bring us the most joy. There are 17 here now, but 18 others have come and gone in our time here — 35 opportunities to love and care, to provide a safe and nurturing environment. We’ve seen them arrive, dirty and hungry with intestines full of worms, arms covered in cigarette burns, eyes black and blue. And we’ve seen them leave with new clothes, new shoes, new spirits of hopefulness. They’ve taught us so much about what is important in life. And they’ve stretched our patience to the limits just like any other child. Our teenagers lie and manipulate just like yours do. Our toddlers throw tantrums just like yours do. Our kids get the flu and throw up all over their beds just like yours do. O

This past Saturday we had visitors, who brought a truck-load of gifts for the children. The kids absolutely loved it. We all get a little bogged down by visitors and gifts at Christmas-time, when it’s nearly a daily occurrence. But visitors and presents in September are a special treat! The only problem is: where are we going to put all these new toys? On Saturdays, I’m in charge of devotions for the kids. Knowing that we needed to do something with all these new items, but not wanting to be solely responsible for deciding what stays and what goes, I had them read Exodus 18:13-27 . In Exodus 18, Moses is serving as judge over all the people. From sun-up to sun-down, he is listening to their complaints and ruling according to what he thinks is God’s will. His father-in-law, Jethro, tells him that this is no good. He’ll burn out for sure. Who wouldn’t, listening to people complain all the time? Jethro says, “The work is too heavy for you; you cannot handle it alone.” He

"Mama, no quiero ir. No quiero ir, mama. Mama, no!"  ( Mama, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go, Mama. Mama, no!) Luis looked up at me with his big, brown eyes, pleading to stay home from kindergarten. After several failed attempts, I finally scooped him up and said, "Yo puedo ir con usted."  (I’ll go with you.) He sat calmly on my lap for the entire drive, six other kindergarteners in the back. But as soon as we pulled up to the school he cried again, "Mama, no quiero ir!" "Voy a regresar en dos horas," I said to Luis. And to the others, "Quien quiere ayudar Luis?" ( I’ll be back for you in two hours... Who wants to help Luis?) All six kids surrounded Luis, taking his hands. He continued to cry as he walked to class, looking back at me over his shoulder, mouthing "Mama, no! No quiero ir!" My mama’s heart went out to him, though I knew he had nothing to be afraid of, and I knew he would

I was sitting on the floor playing with 9-month-old Milly when our handyman Pablo walked into the room holding a toilet flapper. Assuming Pablo's task for the day was to repair the flush valve I asked, “Which toilet broke?” He knelt down beside me and replied, “Do you have gasoline?” “Gasoline?” I said. “You mean like an extra gallon?” “Gasoline,” he repeated. “We used to,” I said. Everyone seems to run out of gas in San Felipe, so we are constantly loaning out our gas can. “Ask Randy.” “Randy told me to ask you,” he said. “Me?” I couldn’t fathom why Randy would tell him to ask me for gas, unless he needed gas money and Randy didn’t have any money on him. So I asked, “Do you need money to buy gasoline?” “No,” Pablo said. “Randy said you have gasoline.” “Randy is crazy. I don’t have any gasoline.” Pablo shrugged his shoulders. “I will use a hose and syphon some from the boogie,” he said, referring to the dune buggy with flat tires sitting in

While hanging out at Loomis Basin Brewery on a Friday night a few weeks back, a friend of Randy’s daughter said to me: “You guys restore my faith in humanity.” It felt odd. Because to us we aren’t doing anything spectacular. We simply went where God told us to go. And frankly it hasn’t felt like we’re even serving anyone here in Baja these 10 months. More often than not it feels like we're just waiting to be useful.  But it did feel like we were serving when we were at a gas station in Lodi, California, and a woman and her daughter asked us for a dollar so they could get enough gas to get home. We didn’t have a single dollar. But we did have a credit card. So Randy pumped $6 worth of gas for them. They were embarrassed, humbled, and grateful. And it did feel like serving when we arrived in Bishop, California, to discover that hotel after hotel was all full. And finally we landed at a hotel that had one vacancy. As I filled out the paperwork a woman came in be

We took the kids camping for a week. 22 kids. 19 adults. 6 days. 5 nights. It was unlike any other camping trip I’ve ever been on. Were there bugs? Tons. Tarantulas as big as my fist? Yep. Was the air fresh and the freedom to be outside all day exactly what my spirit was craving? Without a doubt. Were the showers filthy and the water cold? Absolutely. Did we question whether the swimming hole was sanitary enough to allow our children to jump in, mouths wide open like children do? You got it. And did we still allow them to jump in anyway? It wouldn’t be camping if we didn’t. But then there were a whole lot of unexpected moments. Our cook brought a huge speaker system, and blasted dance music around the clock. You couldn't even hear the chirping of the locusts or the howling of the coyotes. The camp was situated on a working farm, so every day the buses brought in a load of farm workers with their 5-gallon buckets for a day of picking chili pe

This summer 11 kids have left Sonshine Hacienda. Three new kids joined us. And another one came and left again within a matter of 24 hours. It has been emotionally exhausting. Randy was particularly close to 3-year-old Pamela who left. And I to 12-year-old Brayan. Pamela started and ended each day running into Randy’s arms, batting her eyes for an extra helping of food, throwing her head back when she laughed. She left a huge hole in our family. Brayan and I would talk about whatever was on his mind each evening as we cleaned the dining room. Sometimes that was him wondering what high school would be like in a few years, or whether or not his brother and aunt would come to visit him this weekend, or if he could be involved in sports or other activities outside the casa. He would tell me about the other children’s homes where he had lived, ones that also had American missionaries, ones that allowed video games (we do not), ones that also had trampolines like ours.

Yesterday, Randy and I should have been in California celebrating our grandson's 3rd birthday. But 3 years ago we received that unthinkable phone call. Randy's daughter had gone to the hospital to deliver, a week past her due date, only to discover that C.J. no longer had a heartbeat. Somewhere in Baja, on that very same day, a woman went into labor. She would give birth to a healthy baby boy. C.E. would soon be taken to the children's home where his older sister lived, and later a younger sister would join them. Yesterday, a mama goat and her adopted baby came to live with us. I told C.E. that I had a regalo (present) for his birthday. "Is it Mama A?" he asked, inquiring after his biological mother. With so many kids leaving us over the past week, all the other kids are wondering when it will be their turn. "No, it's not Mama A," I said. "It's Mama Chiva (goat)." "Mama Chee-va," he said, because 3-year-olds repea

When the lady from DIF (child protective services) showed up, I greeted her warmly. "You are bringing us more children," I said, because that is what I'd been told to expect that Friday afternoon. "No," she said. "I came to take your children." Wait... what??? She showed me her paperwork with the names of 4 of our children. They had only been with us for 4 months, but already they were an integral part of our family. I went upstairs to the office to tell our administrator, but when I walked into the room I couldn't speak. The tears started to flow. I kept trying for words that wouldn't come. "What's wrong, Mama Katie?" she prodded. "The lady wants to take our children away," I finally managed. By the time we got downstairs, the staff were already gathering backpacks to fill with clothes and shoes to send home with the children, who were going to live with their grandmother. I had met the grandmother sev

As Mother's Day quickly approaches (Wednesday here in Baja; Sunday in the United States), my social media feeds are filling up with tributes to moms, memes about moms, gushy sentimentality about moms. But one Instagram post in particular jumped out at me this morning. It said: "No one can be a better mom to your children than you." This one stood out to me because it's not the world I live in. The world I live in is one where moms are controlled by addictions and abusive husbands and have been rendered incapable of being the best caregiver for their children. Some of our children were found living on the streets, ten-year-olds caring for four-year-olds, with fetal alcohol syndrome, severe handicaps, sleeping in cars, dirty, bruised, burned, afraid, scared and scarred. Three months ago four siblings were brought to us. They had their first visit with their mother on Friday. After accepting new children, we have a three-month waiting period before they are allowe

I’ve noticed that more often than not, when we tell kids to “share” we don’t actually mean it. Randy and I have very different communication styles. I am literal; he is general. Por ejemplo (for example), if someone asks “Is that what you mean?” I will answer “si” or “no.” Randy will answer “mas o menos” (more or less). This is too vague for me. I want to mean what I say and say what I mean. The literal definition of sharing is to “give a portion of something to someone else,” or to “enjoy together.” But when we tell our kids to share, isn’t it true that we are more likely to praise them if they give away their toy and go off to play with something else? Isn’t it true that we are more likely to praise them if they give away a bigger portion of the snack they have and settle for the lesser portion? Yet it would still be sharing if they gave away a lesser portion. It would still be sharing if they asked for 5 minutes alone with their toy first before giving th

Easter ("Pascua") in San Felipe is very different than Easter in Santiago. For two years in a row ( 2014 and 2015 ) I was in Spain for Easter. Hundreds of thousands of people flocked to the country for an opportunity to be a part of a two-thousand year-old tradition. They read the local papers for schedules of "Semana Santa" (Holy Week) events. They lined the streets to watch nightly processions go by, from Mary weeping to Jesus carrying his cross. They fasted and waited for the doors of Cathedrals to be opened so they could sit at the altar, touch the feet of the Saints, and receive a blessing. They packed the pews, eager to hear the familiar words of Scripture: He is not here. He is risen! Likewise, hundreds of thousands of people flock to San Felipe every year for Easter. Except they don't call it Easter. They call it Spring Break. They line the beaches to watch nightly processions of 4-wheelers racing across the dunes. They wait in line at the 7-el

When I was growing up, I spent every summer and winter and break that I could with my grandparents in Iowa. Sometimes that meant flying alone, or tagging along with church families who were driving in the same direction. Sometimes it meant family road trips or flights that inevitably got cancelled due to ice storms. There didn't have to be any agenda, other than spending time with my grandparents. This week I got to be on the other side of that. Two of Randy and my granddaughters came to spend their Spring Break with us. They flew into San Diego and then we drove them down to Baja. The past 5 months have been challenging for Randy and me, to say the least. So it was incredible this week to be among family, and to see this calling through their eyes.

Because it is hot nearly year-round in San Felipe, we've had to come up with a new way to "define" the seasons. There is no rainy season, snowy season, tornado season. Instead we define our seasons by which bugs are attacking us. When we first moved into our apartment at the children's home, I noticed that all of our outlets had these "bug magnets" plugged into them. I didn't know if that was reassuring or terrifying. Reassuring that we were actively repelling them. But terrifying that they are enough of a problem to require a force field around us. We have lived here since November, and so far we have been through 3 seasons. We moved here during fly season. So many flies! Inside, outside, there was no avoiding them. I guess it just doesn't get cold enough to kill them off. But if I thought fly season was bad, that was nothing compared to mosquito season, which struck around the middle of February. I started noticing them in the offi

Every Saturday morning I lead devotions for the kids. We use "El Libro Devocional de Maravillas" ("Wonders Devotional Book") to guide us. It includes a Scripture, a short explanation about what the Scripture says, and why it is important to our lives. In addition to the reading, I always try to have a little activity for the kids -- something to help them remember the devotion. Last Saturday's devotion was about the importance of trusting God, so I decided we would do a "trust fall" as our activity. We used to do this at camp every summer when I was growing up. We would have to stand on platforms of various heights and fall straight backwards into the arms of our friends and fellow campers. Terrifying. As I was preparing for the activity on Friday night, 7-year-old Anita walked into the room. I asked her to turn around and fall into my arms. She did without any hesitation. Such trust! I was totally jealous. On Saturday morning, Anita an

Mexicali is the nearest big city to us in Mexico. It is a 2-hour drive (the closest stoplight!), and it is where we pick up our monthly "dispensa" from DIF. DIF (pronounced "Deef") is equivalent to Child Protective Services. They are the ones who bring us children, who work with parents to help them change their lifestyles so that the children can return to a safe and caring environment, who set our rules and regulations, and who check on us to make sure that we are abiding by them. They are also in charge of giving us our monthly "dispensa." The dispensa is our monthly distribution of food. We only receive about $50 a year in financial support from the government for each child who lives with us. To compensate for that, they give us a generous allotment of food each month. Randy and I picked up the dispensa for the first time last week. Our entire backseat was filled to the ceiling with beans, rice, pasta, lentils, dry milk, canned vegetabl