There is something about having a little one in the house at Christmas that makes the season magical again. It has been so much fun this December to celebrate traditions, bake favorite goodies, and sing old carols, because our three year-old daughter Claire is now catching the excitement. She oohed and aahed over each ornament we hung on the tree, examining them carefully with her tiny fingers. She squealed with anticipation when I pulled from the oven the freshly-baked gingerbread men that she had helped with. She belted out "Al Mundo Paz" ("Joy to the World") as she marched an endless procession of dolls past the manger scene to "visit with Baby Jesus." She carefully selected a doll for a little girl in her Sunday school class whose mommy abandoned her when she was an infant; she wrapped it, labeled it with a "C" (from Claire), and proudly placed it beneath the small tree in her room. She is eagerly awaiting Christmas Eve so that we can take it to her. And I've got to admit, I'm probably just as eager for Christmas as she is. I can't wait to eat our traditional big breakfast, read Luke 2, and see her open the gifts we chose for her. Seeing Christmas through a child's eyes has brought back a magic that I'd forgotten existed.

It reminds me of one of the most beautiful blessings of missions, one I never anticipated before arriving on the field. It came to me unexpectedly as I taught a small children's class during our first year in Honduras. Seeing quite a few more children had arrived than usual, I had asked a teen girl to assist me; she sat in the back and helped me quiet the unruly ones. But I noticed that during the story about the three Hebrew children who refused to bow to a graven image, she was listening just as intently as the children were. I explained how the wicked king ordered the men to be thrown into the fiery furnace, and a low gasp spread across the room. They leaned forward in their seats, worry on their faces, as I told how even the men who threw the Hebrews into the furnace were consumed by the flames. "But Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were not burned!" They smiled and nodded, clearly relieved; but their smiles changed to puzzled looks when I told them, "But the king looked up at the men walking around in the fiery furnace, and realized that there were not three, but four men in the flames!" I paused dramatically, waiting for their anticipation to peak before I continued. But not everyone could stand it. The teenage girl shouted out from the back of the room, "Well, who WAS it?"

What an awesome privilege it is to tell someone a Bible story for the first time! Those stories that I had heard over and over since I was a child became new to me again, because I was telling them to people who had never heard them. I had received the unexpected blessing of a second dose child-like wonder for what God can do.

On the mission field, we definitely miss being around seasoned Christians who are mature in their faith; I sometimes ache for the church family and leadership we left in the States. I know that one day we will have people like that in our church here; they have already made leaps and bounds in their walks with the Lord.

But even as we see Christians here grow to maturity, I pray that the Lord will always allow me to have the privilege of working with new Christians as well. There is nothing like leading someone to the Lord and watching them learn in awe of what their Savior can do.

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I grew up in Sunday school,
I memorized the Golden Rule
And how Jesus came to set the sinner free.
I know the story inside out
I can tell you all about
The path that led Him up to Calvary.
But ask me why He loves me
And I don't know what to say.
But I'll never be the same because
He changed my life when He became...

Everything to me.
He's more than a story,
More than words on a page of history.
He's the air that I breathe
The water I thirst for
And the ground beneath my feet.
He's everything, everything to me.

-Chad Cates

Christmas in Honduras! Forget the turkey, piles of presents, snow, and Santa--those are American traditions. Here we have tamales, fireworks, and of course, the usual heat! But there are some things about Christmas that are universal. As I remember the great variety of Christmases I've celebrated, both near and far, one particular memory always comes to mind.

It was Christmas 1997. I was a senior in high school, and we'd just finished our annual Christmas Concert at Raleigh Christian Academy. I'd gone with a group of friends to Miami Subs afterwards. As we finished eating, we realized we still didn't have to be home for a few hours. What should we do?

We discussed a number of pranks on teachers and fellow classmates. But then someone suggested, "Hey, since we're all dressed up, why don't we go Christmas caroling?"

We stopped off at the Dollar Tree to purchase taper candles and matches, then excitedly drove to the first house. We arranged ourselves in front of the porch steps and began to belt out: "Joy to the World!" The family hurried to the door to enjoy our repetoire of familiar carols. This was fun! What a great idea!

We stopped at house after house, some family members, some church friends, to wish them a "Merry Christmas" in song. One of our last stops was Pastor Rabon's house. As we were leaving, our curfew quickly nearing, he commented, "You know, you should go sing for Mr. and Mrs. Thiede."

"Do they still go to our church?" I had not seen them in quite awhile. Don and Audrey Thiede were an elderly couple that had been friends and neighbors of my grandparents for years, but their health had declined greatly; they didn't get out much anymore.

"Yes, they still live over there on Folger Street," Pastor said. "I think they'd really appreciate a visit."

When we got back to the car, we discussed going to their house. "But we need to be home soon!" "Isn't it too late? They probably go to bed really early." Finally, we agreed to make the Thiedes' house our final stop that night.

A few minutes later, we nervously positioned ourselves in front of the front door and began to sing, "O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!" After the first stanza, the door slowly opened, and there stood Mr. and Mrs. Thiede, arm in arm. I almost didn't recognize him. He was pale and thin from sickness. They were both beaming however, and listened eagerly to the familiar carols.

As we finished the last song, someone shyly asked, "Do you have a request?"

Mrs. Thiede replied, "Would you sing 'Silent Night'? That's my husband's favorite."

Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright,
'Round yon virgin, mother and child,
Holy Infant so tender and mild,
Sleep in heavenly peace!
Sleep in heavenly peace!

Mr. and Mrs. Thiede thanked us with tear-filled eyes, and we quietly left. How glad we were that we had stopped by! It was the perfect end to a special night.

The next morning at school, we excitedly told our classmates about our Christmas caroling adventure the night before. Then the bell rang, and we busied ourselves with English Literature. Toward the end of first period, the announcements were read over the intercom: Christmas parties, exams, special events. We began cramming our literature books into our bookbags, ready to head to second period. But the final announcement halted our hasty exit. "Please be in prayer for the family of Mr. Don Thiede, who passed away last night in his sleep. The funeral will be held...."

We looked at each other in shock. He passed away last night? But we just saw him! Our hearts were heavy for Mrs. Audrey, and we wondered how she was doing.

But as I reflected on that night's events, I was so thankful that we had gone to see him. I prayed that on his final night on earth, Mr. Thiede had truly been able to "sleep in heavenly peace" only to open his eyes in the presence of his Savior, the One Who had come as a baby for him.

Christmas at Grandma and Granddaddy Tippett's house was always a special time in our family. After eating a huge meal prepared by my Grandma, we would gather around my Granddaddy's leather recliner while he read the Christmas story from Luke 2.

Then we would begin opening the huge pile of presents under the small Christmas tree by the front window. It was one of those rare times my sister was glad to be the youngest grandchild, because she always opened the first gift. The rest of us grandchildren followed, from youngest to oldest, we girls squealing with excitement over the baby dolls Grandma had chosen for us.



Then we would scurry off to the next room to play with our toys, while the adults opened their presents. The older grandchildren were given the task of counting out all the coins Granddaddy had saved all year, and dividing them into seven piles, a gift to each grandchild.


As I think back to these long-ago Christmases in Raleigh, a face comes to mind. Mr. Robert Strickland, an older gentleman who was a friend of my grandparents, joined us for several of these celebrations. I never questioned his presence at the time, but years later asked my mother, "Was Mr. Strickland related to Grandma? Why was he always there at Christmas?" My grandmother's maiden name was Strickland; I figured he was somehow kin.



"I think maybe he was somehow distantly related," she replied. "Grandma and Granddaddy met him when he started coming to our church; when they realized he had nowhere to go at Christmas, they invited him to join us."

Mr. Strickland was a gruff old man with an abrasive personality that some found hard to tolerate. But he was always welcome at my grandparents' house and we just considered him "one of the family." There were even a few presents for him under the tree.

My grandparents, Elbert and Kathryn Tippett, had set a beautiful example for me of what Christmas is really about. So many times we think Christmas is simply about being with family.

But what about those who have no family to be with during the holidays?

In 2005, Robbie and I spent our first Christmas away from family; we had arrived in Honduras as missionaries early that year. Eager to celebrate, I bought decorations, played Christmas music, and decorated cookies; but with temperatures in the 90s, no parties to go to, and the house empty, it just didn't feel like Christmas. After a simple program at church on Christmas Eve, the Alvarado family invited us and our missionary partners the Goinses to their home. "Are you sure?" we asked them. We didn't want to impose.

The Alvarado Family


"Oh, please come!" they insisted.


As we awkardly sat down in the tiny living room with its concrete floor, we listened to the kids laughing outside the door lighting sparklers and firecrackers, a Honduran Christmas Eve tradition. We were given shredded chicken sandwiches, with apologies that it was a simple fare. "No, this is great!" we insisted. The family squeezed in among us, some perching on the arms of tattered furniture, others choosing to sit on the cold floor. We laughed and chatted easily, with small brown children and the lucky chickens that had escaped the hatchet wandering under our feet.

As I looked around the room, I finally felt that familiar warmth I had been craving. Now it feels like Christmas! This time I was Robert Strickland, an outsider who had been taken in. But Christmas is just not about being with your family. It's about celebrating our Savior's birth. As I gazed on the smiling faces of my Honduran brothers and sisters, I knew the reason we had gathered together. That tiny baby in the manger had come to save us all from our sins. Most of them were celebrating their first Christmas as believers; the joy in our hearts was the same.

And we have seen and do testify that the Father sent the Son to be the Savior of the world. -I John 4:14

A tiny newborn lay discarded among banana peels and milk cartons, struggling for breath inside a plastic bag. His mother had lost her mind and decided to kill the baby boy; she would die days later from loss of blood. His father, an orange peddler, found the infant, and took him to the woman he was currently living with so that she could care for him.



Oscar was raised in a home full of wickedness and sorrow. His father eventually left and set up a shack, squatting on a piece of land near the hospital where he would push a cart to sell oranges each day. Oscar would bike the five miles to visit his father and look for work. He was greatly disturbed by the crime and evil he saw daily: people robbed at gunpoint for cell phones and pocket change, girls beaten and raped, angry quarrels ending in bloodshed. In anger and desperation, he purchased a gun, which he hid in his room while he plotted. He decided to form a posse of teens to rid El Progreso of crime. His plan was to find thieves and gang members and kill them execution-style in order to bring safety back to the city.


One day while he was looking for work, he noticed that an American couple had moved into a house near the hospital. He inquired there about work, and the man hired him to cut the lawn one day. Although he was at first frustrated by the foreigners insistence that he pay attention to detail and leave the yard clean and neat, Oscar soon learned how to pass the “inspections” and was able to earn good pay each week. He got to know Pastor Robbie and his wife Christine; they fed him lunch and made small talk with him when he finished the yard. One day, Pastor Robbie sat down and explained to Oscar that he was a sinner and needed to trust the Lord Jesus Christ to forgive his sin and be his Savior. Oscar listened with interest. He admitted that he did indeed have a sin problem, but was not willing to trust Christ. He already had his own secret plan for justification: become a vigilante. He shook his head and told Pastor Robbie, “No, not for me.”


It took four years for Oscar to finally realize that he was as wicked as those he plotted to kill. After washing the pastor’s truck one morning, he sat down on the front porch with Robbie and talked of his need to trust Christ. He bowed his head and repented of his sins, trusting Christ alone to save him.


Excited to grow in his new faith, Oscar began taking the one-on-one discipleship course with Nathan Massey, his youth pastor. As he began to grow, he realized he needed a place to serve. He joined the church’s set-up crew, now arriving on his bike an hour before each service to arrange chairs, sound equipment, and furniture on the outdoor porch where we hold our services. After the porch is ready for service, he hops on a bus and assists the driver in maintaining order on the route. When he gets back to church, he dons his usher badge and greets people at the door as they arrive.


The baby who once lay dying in a trash heap is now a young man serving the Lord in every way he can. Oscar recently testified in a Wednesday night prayer meeting, “I thought I could change Progreso by violently ridding the city of evildoers; but then I realized the only way to change Progreso is by sharing the good news of Jesus Christ. He is the only One who can truly change a life.”



Are you thankful for what the Lord has given you? Take a tour of what has been Oscar's father's home for the past twenty years:

Oscar enters the land where his father lives as a squatter.



The make-shift shack where he keeps his belongings.








Oscar's dad's kitchen




Oscar's dad's bed

A famous comedian recently interviewed people walking down a busy street, asking them about the best and worst “pick-up lines” they had ever heard. Their answers ranged from the classic, “Your dad must be a thief…because he stole the stars and put them in your eyes,” to the overused, “You must be tired…because you’ve been running through my mind all day,” to the corny, “If I were to rewrite the alphabet, I’d put U and I together.” One favorite was, “Do you know how much a polar bear weighs? …Enough to break the ice! Hi, I’m ____.”


As I laughed at the silly lines and wondered who in the world had ever fallen for one, I thought back to my freshman year at college. Before even arriving on campus, I had heard the standard jokes about going to college to get an MRS degree or “find a man.” I had responded with disdain, “I’m not dating anyone seriously until at least my junior year, maybe my senior year. I’m going to focus on my grades.”


I had decided that since I felt the Lord was calling me to the mission field, I would only date someone who also was called. That ought to narrow it down a bit, I thought. And I definitely won’t date much for a couple of years; I’m here to learn! My major would be Spanish Education. I wanted to learn the art of teaching in order to help in my future ministry. Studying Spanish would help improve my language skills; I had already had two years in high school and had worked in a Spanish ministry back home, but I wanted to become more fluent. I chose English for my minor because not only did I love grammar and literature, I also knew that English teachers can get into just about any country. I decided to take as many hours as I could handle in order to graduate early. Yes, the plan was to study hard and not date!


The plan went out the window exactly two days after I arrived on campus. I went to lunch with my best friend Summer and her brother Kevin, who brought along his roommate, Robbie Ellis from Kentucky. We all chatted easily, but when lunch was over, the upperclassman with the big brown eyes suddenly caught my attention. Summer asked Robbie what he wanted to do when he graduated. “I’m going to Peru to be a missionary,” he responded without hesitation. Hmmm, I thought. That’s interesting.


“Do you speak Spanish?” I asked him.


“No. But you’re going to teach me!” he declared with a twinkle in his eye.


I felt my face burn, and I quickly changed the subject. But the deal was sealed. This country boy from Kentucky had called his shot. It was the best pick-up line I’d ever heard; and although I didn’t let on, it had worked like a charm.


After a few months, I realized how much I looked forward to lunch with a group of friends every day, because that’s when I’d see Robbie. He would walk me to my box to check mail afterwards, and we would talk about our day. We were “just friends,” but it was becoming clear that there was more to it.


Every week during college, my dad would write me a letter and close with a list of “Do’s and Don’ts,” his fatherly advice for the week. One week, when I received the letter, Robbie said, “What’s on the list this week?” I had finished reading the main body of the letter, so without glancing at the list I said, “Here, you read them out loud.” He read through the “Do’s” and then chuckled when he got to the list of “Don’ts.”


“What is it?” I asked. There in black and white was Don’t #3: “Don’t get stuck on Robbie like a band-aid. Date around.” Oops.


“Well, I guess I wasn’t supposed to let you read the list this week!” I said with an embarrassed laugh.


Later that night, I was still cringing, thinking of Robbie reading that particular piece of candid advice. I pulled a 3x5 card out of my desk drawer and wrote him a quick note to send with that evening’s campus mail.


“Dear Robbie,
It’s too late.
Christine”


I then found a band-aid, attached it with great flair, and sent the note, giggling and briefly wondering if it was too forward of me. Almost as soon as I got back to my room, I began to feel sick to my stomach. I shouldn’t have said that! That’s way too bold! How can I get it back? I wondered what on earth had possessed me to write such a message. It was very uncharacteristic of me to express my feelings that openly to him. I had been very tight-lipped up until this point. I watched the clock and imagined him getting my note, shock on his face. He would be appalled by my candid confession and wonder why in the world he had ever considered me ladylike.
I was so busy worrying that I almost didn’t hear the mail slip under the door. I was surprised to see a small envelope with my name on it. The last mail I'll ever get from Robbie Ellis, to be sure. He had written it hours before getting mine...






That Robbie Ellis sure knows how to call his shots! Eleven years, thousands of miles, and many Spanish tutoring sessions later, I’m still stuck on him like a Band-aid and having the time of my life!

As I reflect on Veteran's Day this week and my heart fills with gratitude for those who have paid a high price for my freedom, I also consider my little girl's future. Claire was born in Honduras and has dual citizenship. She is what is known as a "third culture kid," a term used to refer to children who grow up in a country other than the one on their passports. Many times, these children fail to develop a sense of belonging to either country; the mix of cultures and traditions forms a "third culture" in the child. Even as adults, these children may not completely identify with any one culture; they can truly become men and women "without a country." Today I want to relate my thoughts and feelings concerning our choice to allow our daughter to grow up in a third-world nation and how our choice may affect her level of patriotism.

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After we had our daughter Claire in 2006, I had a recurring nightmare. We were back in the States at a basketball game at my old high school. Claire was 5 or 6 years old and was seated in the bleachers next to me. When we rose in unison and placed our hands over our hearts to sing the national anthem, Claire stared at me blankly. She didn’t even know to put her hand over her heart, let alone how to sing the words to “The Star-Spangled Banner.” My face burned with shame and disappointment. I had forgotten to teach my daughter how to be patriotic.


I was determined this dream would never become a reality. Even before Little Claire could sing along, I began teaching her patriotic songs and pointing out the American flag. She began calling it the “Grand Ol’ Flag” because of one of her favorite songs. Every time we passed one, we would put our hands over our hearts and sing together. It wasn’t long before she became giddy with excitement whenever she saw the stars and stripes.





One of Claire’s favorite things to tell people is that she is special because she has two flags: the Grand Ol’ Flag, and the Honduran flag. It occurred to me one day that I should spend as much time talking about the Honduran flag as I do the American flag; she is, after all, a citizen of both countries. I want her to love and respect both nations. Robbie and I must be careful to not criticize or demean the culture in front of our Honduran daughter. If we have a critical spirit of Honduran ways, Claire will sense our distaste. It’s easy for missionaries to find fault with a foreign culture; many times our thinking patterns and customs are drastically different. But we never want to communicate a spirit of American superiority to our daughter. After all, she is just as Honduran as she is American.



But then, I’ve also known missionaries who have gone to the other extreme. One teenage missionary kid I met could barely speak English because her parents had neglected to speak it at home. Others show disdain for the United States. “That’s not my country,” they declare. “I only go there to visit.”



One of my biggest prayer requests for my family is that God would give us wisdom as we strive to teach our daughter a love for both of her countries. I pray that tears will one day fill her eyes as she sees a fallen soldier laid to rest. I pray that she’ll listen with interest as the President gives the State of the Union Address. I pray she’ll sense a deep obligation to vote in every election, even when she must do so by absentee ballot. I pray she'll stay informed of current events, forming opinions with a discerning mind and a biblical worldview. I pray her heart will swell with pride when she visits the grave of her great-grandfather who served in the Navy for 32 years. But I know that none of this will happen unless we her parents consciously work to instill patriotism in her heart. Claire doesn't have to be "a girl without a country." May God help me to instill in her a passionate love for both the United States of America and Honduras.



Do you have ideas for practical ways to teach patriotism to children? I would love to hear your ideas and family traditions and share them with other missionaries! Please post a comment to contribute.



Team Honduras 2009 Fourth of July Celebration

A little girl I had never seen shyly approached me after Sunday morning class and extended her paper for me to see. She was about 6 years old with big eyes and dark hair full of corkscrew curls. I ooed and aahed over her picture and started to hand it back, but she shook her head. “For me? Oh, thank you!” I hugged her and told her goodbye.

After the buses had left, I tidied up my class and prepared to leave. When I walked out to the porch where the adults meet, I was surprised to see the small girl waiting on the bleachers. “Nayeli, did you miss your bus?” She nodded and looked a little embarrassed. But her expression changed to excitement when I motioned her toward our truck. “Okay, we’ll take you home.”

We figured out whom Nayeli had come with—her grandmother, who had been attending our church for some time. “Do you live with your grandmother, Nayeli?” She nodded solemnly. “Where does your mother live?”

“En los Estados Unidos,” she answered, hanging her head. In the United States—she must have gone to work there.

“Your daddy, too?” She nodded again.

“When did they leave?”

“El año pasado.” Last year. And there would be no hope of seeing them again anytime soon. Those who go mojados (illegally) don’t come back to visit, for fear of not being able to re-enter. This little six year-old was basically an orphan. And even worse, her parents had left her by choice.

When dropped her off at her grandmother’s house, no one came out to meet us. I wondered if she’d even been missed. She smiled and promised to return the next Sunday, and we waved goodbye.

As I glanced down at the picture she’d drawn, my eyes filled with tears. “For the most beautiful teacher who is so beautiful.”

My heart hurt for the little girl who missed her mommy so much. I wondered if anyone took time to read her stories, or teach her to make tortillas, or brush her hair after her bath.

There are so many children that come to our church every week who are just like Nayeli. They arrive in tattered dirty clothing that they’ve clearly outgrown. Some have lice or parasites. They eagerly wolf down the cookies I hand out, and I realize that this is probably their breakfast. Just this past Sunday, I cleaned and bandaged an oozing burn that looked days old, on the leg of a little three year-old girl. But much worse than their physical condition, their little hearts are hurting for love and affection. Sometimes I can hardly sleep at night for thinking about them. I’d take them all home with me if I could.

But one thought brings hope to my heart. In 2011, Team Honduras plans to begin a children’s home for little girls like Nayeli. Mark and Amy Coats, a couple from North Carolina are currently in training and are raising support to come and direct this home. They will become parents to little boys and girls who have none. These children will be fed, clothed, and educated. Most importantly, they will learn of the Heavenly Father Who loved them enough to send His Son to die for them. These forgotten children may be the pastors and teachers who take the gospel throughout Honduras one day.

So we are praying and working to see this dream come true.