death.

Before I could even finish writing up the events of the sweet little baby's passing, another life was tragically cut short. One of the teenage boys from the bridge was stabbed in the heart last night and died in the grass by the canal.

It's heartbreaking, and I'm so incredibly sad...

I don't really know how write about this at the moment... but I thought I should at least post the entry I had been working on about the little baby's passing.

sunday, june 21

On the morning after the baby's passing, I went back to the park with my parents while Jenn ran around getting the baby's official death certificate and making arrangements at the cemetery.

(I don't know whether it's appropriate or not to post this, but I really want you to see what it was like and understand how almost valueless life can be here... Street child or not, no wake should have to be held in a public bathroom.) Here is a photo that we secretly snapped:

It was a intensely sad scene, and one that I will never forget.

The night before, I contacted Javier, a pastor who works with Nate in the carpentry ministry, and asked if he'd be willing to do a service at the cemetery. He has a heart for street kids and was more than pleased to help out. He brought along his pastor and met us at the baby's wake on Sunday morning.

The parents were very worried about the fact that they had never baptized their little girl. They believed that her soul wouldn't make it up to heaven unless someone performed a baptism. So while Javier was on his way over, I called to see if he'd be willing to baptize the baby and share with the parents. He and his pastor agreed to do a baptism/baby dedication with the holy water that the baby's mom had gotten the night before, and so we gathered in the bathroom with some street kids and missionaries for a simple, makeshift service.

At 12:30, we loaded up 4 cars with a handful of missionaries and some street kids and went to the cemetery. While the cemetery workers placed the little girl's casket in her niche and plastered over the opening, Javier and his pastor shared a wonderful message of hope and good news with the kids from the street. It was an indescribably sad moment, but one that sparked some sincere conversations about Christ among the pastors and the kids.

Two weeks later... and the parents and I went back to leave flowers on their little girls' grave. We also visited another daughter of theirs that's in the same cemetery, and this week we are supposed to visit their third daughter's grave. Three babies from just one couple.

saturday, june 20

This weekend I had to deal with something that I had been hoping to avoid for as long as possible. And honestly, I'm still kind of running on autopilot and really haven't processed the events of this weekend, but here's what happened:

I received a phone call on Saturday afternoon around 3:00 from a street dwelling couple that I've known for about 8 months now. They had been living at a home for couples with their little girl up until about 2 months ago when they returned to the street. I ran into them on Wednesday for the first time since they'd left the home. I bought them diapers for their little girl and dinner, and we took this photo:

Three days later, Saturday afternoon, I was in the middle of the crowded street market with my parents when I got a call from the guy. He was crying, and I could barely make out what he was saying until I heard, "Senorita, please come the morgue, my little girl is dead."

We left immediately, and I dropped my parents off at home and went straight to the morgue. I ran into the young mom first on the sidewalk. She had obviously been crying, and when she saw me, she burst into tears and completely collapsed in my arms. The three of us walked back to the morgue, which was in the back corner of an old, empty, decaying hospital building. It looked like something out of a horror movie... I needed to find the doctor who was waiting to talk to me, so I had to walk right into the morgue, into the middle of a room full of dead bodies, young and old, all mostly uncovered and almost carelessly placed on random tables. The doctor explained to me and to the baby's dad that we needed to go buy all the supplies for a forensic autopsy as well as supplies for the two police officers that were involved with the case.

They showed us to a little, old indigenous woman who had a small, portable metal kiosk on the corner full of sodas, juice, and snacks. We told her that we needed materials for a forensic autopsy and for two police officers, and she pulled out some black, plastic shopping bags and started filling them up with gloves and masks and bottles of this and that for the autopsy.

I paid the woman and brought the supplies to the doctor, who then gave me a police report about the baby's death and sent me off to get it photocopied. Because it was a Saturday afternoon, all the photocopy shops around the morgue were closed, so I had to walk about 6 blocks away to get the document copied.

When I got back, the police officers were there, and explained to me that I needed to take the photocopy to an office on the other side of downtown to pay for/pick up two documents that needed to be filled out during the autopsy. They said that once the autopsy was finished they would release the body to me, at which point I felt a wave of panic because I had no idea what to do with a body or even where to get a casket. I was able to speak with Jenn, a friend who has homes for babies and children who have been abandoned, orphaned, or taken away from their street-dwelling parents and has dealt with the death of babies in the past. She wasn't far away and offered to meet me and help me take care of everything.

We went together to the office to pick up the forms I needed, and Jenn drove us back to the morgue, where a tiny, white casket was waiting for the little baby's body. The mortician had called a friend who owns a store, and the friend sent his 10 year old daughter over to the morgue with the casket. She walked us over the to store to pay, and thankfully, the store owner offered to help us get the baby's official death certificate on Sunday morning through a connection he has with a civil registry.

During all that, the baby's mom had gone off to buy some clothes to bury the baby in. She returned with a onesie and some socks, and we walked into the morgue to dress the baby.

I will never in my entire life be able to forget the sight of the little girl laying on the table with her eyes open and a carelessly stitched-up incision going down and across her chest from the autopsy. I felt faint but had to support and comfort the mom who just crumbled at the sight of her little girl. The mortician took the clothes and started dressing the baby, so I walked outside with the mom so that she wouldn't have to watch.

A few minutes later, the mortician came out with the casket with the little girl inside looking peaceful. He wanted 100Bs. for bathing and dressing the body, and then he handed over the casket. We put it in the back of Jenn's car and drove over to the park where the parents live because we couldn't find any place to take the body for the night.

As soon as we got back, the other kids that live on the street around there, who all seem to be related to the baby's dad, started beating on the baby's mom, accusing her of beating her baby to death. It's no secret that she was abusive as most street moms are, and there is absolutely no excuse for it...it's despicable...but the little girl didn't die from a beating. She had a cough for 3 days and died from some sort of asphyxiation that the mortician didn't seem to think was from murder.

Jenn stayed at the park while I ran into the market with another one of the street girls to buy some flower arrangements and candles. When I got back to the park, the casket had been moved into the entry way of a public bathroom and set up on a table with a few candles. We set a cross of white flowers on the casket and watched as the room filled up with glue-sniffing street kids wanting to pay their respects and pray for the baby. One of the older guys who lives under a nearby bridge led the kids in a series of Hail Marys and prayed for the baby before all the kids settled down to sniff glue and drink chicha.

The baby's mom had gone to find some holy water with which to baptize the baby because the general belief is that the soul won't make it to heaven unless the body has been baptized. When she came back the fighting started up all over again... Kids were attacking the mom, kicking and punching her. She and the dad were fighting with each other and with the other kids. I had to get in between some of the kids a few times and take wrestle away big rocks that they were intending to throw at each other. After about an hour of on-and-off, drug-induced fighting, the mom settled down in the bathroom to sleep, and I went home for the night.

this should not be normal.

Sometimes I wonder just how it is that I ended up here.  I don't remember ever having a moment in life when I chose to live in Bolivia; it just happened. Those who know me well know that if it had been left up to me, I would have never made a decision. God did not give me decision-making skills. I live my life based on what "feels" right, and thankfully, somewhere along the line, the Holy Spirit took control of all that and now runs the show. So somehow I've ended up spending the majority of my days with some of the more despised and feared people in Cochabamba, and I wouldn't change a thing. I love what I do.  

This was all going through my head while I was standing up against a bloodstained curtain in the emergency room this evening, watching a seemingly endless cluster of doctors poke their heads in and out of our cubicle in attempt to steal a glimpse of the wounded street boy laying on the bed.  

This afternoon, the kids were attacked up at the bridge by a group of guys with knives from another, nearby bridge. They called me right away to ask if I could go up there and take one of the boys to the hospital because he had been stabbed pretty deeply in his upper back. I was already in a bus heading that direction, so I ditched my plans and went straight to the bridge. 

When I jumped down into that canal, I saw all the kids circled around one of the boys who was laying on some dirty blankets with a blood soaked shirt and sweatshirt. I've learned that when you see that much blood, you don't think twice, you just go straight to the emergency room. So the boys helped lift him out of the canal and put him in a taxi with me and another one of the guys for company.  

We walked into the emergency room and saw that only 2 of the 10 (or so) exam cubicles were occupied and that about 30 doctors/interns were standing around waiting for something to do. It's no secret that I've been a critic of this hospital, but today I couldn't have been more pleased with the entire experience. We were in and out in less than 2 hours, with stitches and x-rays and all!

But while I was standing against the curtain in the cubicle and wondering how it is that I've ended up here, it dawned on me that nothing about this afternoon was shocking. I didn't even bat an eye that there had been a knife fight among 20-some boys, that one of the guys had been stabbed in the back, or that I had blood stains on my hands from helping a wounded, drug-addicted, sometimes dangerous street kid. It was just another untypical day like all of my untypical days...

And with that realization, my eyes welled up with tears, and I felt another woosh of God's heart for the street kids that almost knocked me over. This should not be normal, and I can never allow myself to get used to this. I don't have words to express my thankfulness for the strength God has given me to just be a part of these kids' lives, but I pray that events like what happened today will shake me and affect me and never become ordinary.  

And the results: The knife didn't puncture his lung or do any major damage.  With some antibiotics and some anti-inflammatory pills, the boy should be just fine.  

And the other guy who came along for company told me how he had managed to get the knife away from one the guys who attacked him. He pulled out a rusty steak knife from the back of his pants, and all I could think about was Tetanus. So I bought yet another bottle of hydrogen peroxide (I probably have 5 at my house) and poured it over his cuts then bandaged them up. These kids must have some kind of abnormal resistance because they're always getting cut on random, filthy objects.

boldly going where no 270s have gone before

Went out to the campo this morning with a couple of the girls to visit their family and see their younger sister and brother's school dances.

On the 270 bus

All bundled up because mornings are freezing now!

Our trip out there was scenic, to say the least.  Thanks to a blockade on the main highway, our determined bus driver zigged and zagged through the countryside to get us to Quillacollo, the next town over from Cochabamba.  What normally is about a 30 minute trip took a good hour and a half because we ran into a few obstacles...

The view out the window

Far from where the bus should be

This little bridge caused most cars to turn around and go back the way they came...

...but not our 270.

Just barely fitting

Locals trying to help the tires stay on the bridge

6 seconds of bus pushing

 

Walking the last little bit of the way to their mom's house

The girls' little sister & brother's school dances

Actually none of these kids are the girls siblings

I think all the mommas were Quechua.  I stood out.

a four-fold franciscan blessing

May God bless you with a restless discomfort about easy answers, half-truths and superficial relationships, so that you may seek truth boldly and love deep within your heart.

May God bless you with holy anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that you may tirelessly work for justice, freedom, and peace among all people.

May God bless you with the gift of tears to shed with those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation, or the loss of all that they cherish, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and transform their pain into joy.

May God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you really CAN make a difference in this world, so that you are able, with God's grace, to do what others claim cannot be done.

And the blessing of God the Supreme Majesty and our Creator, 
Jesus Christ the Incarnate Word who is our brother and Saviour, 
and the Holy Spirit, our Advocate and Guide, 
be with you and remain with you, this day and forevermore.

AMEN

something good

There are good weeks and there are bad weeks.  So far it's only Wednesday, and this week is shaping up to be pretty lousy.  Been thinking, "Seriously, what good can come from all this?"  So I was really encouraged by a short video that Ken put up on his blog.  Ken works with former street kids down in Santa Cruz, and the video he posted is the testimony of one of his boys.  I'm really encouraged to see living, breathing proof that when God gets ahold of these kids' hearts, incredible things happen.  

You can see Ticua's story on Ken's blog here.

llamas!

I pass these furry guys every time I go out to visit one of the homes for street kids...

Momma and baby

Chewing on grass

Grazing on the landscaping at the gas station

They laughed at me for taking these photos, but you never see llamas munching on gas station landscaping back home.