Happy Easter from we who've been redeemed. Thank you Jesus!
Love from the Vanden Bosch's
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
most beautiful people
If People magazine were to ask me, which I know they never will, to give my opinion on the most beautiful people in the world, I've got my top 2 chosen:
Thursday, March 27, 2014
not mostly, not quite a bit...entirely
I remember it too well. The day, in the midst of drudging a heavy burden, when that subconscious thought came before I could stop it, "God I'm scared to trust you."
Immediately it sounded funny. Scared to trust God? If I'm not trusting Him, who am I trusting?
As I worked through this in my mind I realized, in this situation, if I decide to trust God 100% then I have no control. But, because I had no idea what to do in the circumstance, I realized that it was time to trust God 100%. Not 75%. Not 90%. Not 99%. 100%! Completely. Not holding on to anything. Nothing. Giving up everything that I normally try to do in my own strength.
I was scared to do it. Typically, when I let go 75% or 90% there's still that little bit of room left in there for me-- there's a little bit of me still able to do something, to try something in my own strength.
But really, was I scared to trust Him because I thought he'd mess things up? I thought he'd let me down and hurt me? Truthfully? I did think that. I thought, what if things don't turn out how I think they need to and when I want them to, that would be all wrong then and then I'd suffer.
I know! I know! My life is full of seeing God doing amazing things, things we didn't expect. My kid and husband are the obvious big ones.
Just like the Israelites who forgot God fed them manna from heaven or parted the Red sea, I also forget. Of that I am ashamed and embarrassed.
Then again, on Sunday, the Vanden Bosch's ventured out into the Bush of Moz to do an audio Bible distrubution-- to make the Word of God available to those who have never heard it for themselves, for those who can't read (I'm amazed at how the Pastors can hardly read the scriptures in their Mother-tongue-- it's almost painful for me to hear). The Bible distribution went well and was full of hope and encouragement. Then came the time in the service when people come forward to be prayed for. Of course, since we are the white visitors they'd like us to pray for the people. I gravitate to the area of the floor where the women and children are kneeling, I don't feel right to pray with the men. I start asking their names. What is their problem? Each one, something similar, "Corpo. Bessa. Tosse. Capisa", my body, congestion, cough, hot body, in dialect. As I laid my hands on their heads, some full of ringworm and fungus, some were burning up. In my nursing mind I try to start diagnosing. "Malaria, pneumonia, malaria, arthritis, malaria." Then, as I prayed, I was humbled. I was humbled to be there-- to be able to come just with my faith, the little bit that I have at times. I was reminded of the woman who was healed by just touching the edge of Jesus's gown (Mark 5:28-34). Or the time when Jesus said, "Go your faith has healed you." (Luke 17:19)
I was awed by each of these precious one's faith. They had the faith to come forward for healing. What else can they do? They're too far from a hospital. It's not likely that they get to the hospital each time they have a fever or headache. Nor is it realistic for me to bust out my nursing degree and tell them what they need to do. In that moment I knew that no matter what amount of education I had, or what initials I'm able to have behind my name, it wouldn't matter. "Go, your faith has made you well." My faith and theirs was going to make a difference today. Only that.
So, am I scared to trust him? When there's nothing I can do do I still think that holding on to something in my strength is going to make a difference?
I knew this day it didn't. So, humbly I prayed in as much faith as I could muster, that he was going to take care of these sick children. These woman who had pain, he was going to touch. And all the wounds inside that no one was mentioning to me, I prayed to God that he'd deal with those as well. Because, aren't we all broken, aren't we all in need of enough faith to trust him 100%? Not mostly, not quite a bit-- ENTIRELY!
Immediately it sounded funny. Scared to trust God? If I'm not trusting Him, who am I trusting?
As I worked through this in my mind I realized, in this situation, if I decide to trust God 100% then I have no control. But, because I had no idea what to do in the circumstance, I realized that it was time to trust God 100%. Not 75%. Not 90%. Not 99%. 100%! Completely. Not holding on to anything. Nothing. Giving up everything that I normally try to do in my own strength.
I was scared to do it. Typically, when I let go 75% or 90% there's still that little bit of room left in there for me-- there's a little bit of me still able to do something, to try something in my own strength.
But really, was I scared to trust Him because I thought he'd mess things up? I thought he'd let me down and hurt me? Truthfully? I did think that. I thought, what if things don't turn out how I think they need to and when I want them to, that would be all wrong then and then I'd suffer.
I know! I know! My life is full of seeing God doing amazing things, things we didn't expect. My kid and husband are the obvious big ones.
Just like the Israelites who forgot God fed them manna from heaven or parted the Red sea, I also forget. Of that I am ashamed and embarrassed.
Then again, on Sunday, the Vanden Bosch's ventured out into the Bush of Moz to do an audio Bible distrubution-- to make the Word of God available to those who have never heard it for themselves, for those who can't read (I'm amazed at how the Pastors can hardly read the scriptures in their Mother-tongue-- it's almost painful for me to hear). The Bible distribution went well and was full of hope and encouragement. Then came the time in the service when people come forward to be prayed for. Of course, since we are the white visitors they'd like us to pray for the people. I gravitate to the area of the floor where the women and children are kneeling, I don't feel right to pray with the men. I start asking their names. What is their problem? Each one, something similar, "Corpo. Bessa. Tosse. Capisa", my body, congestion, cough, hot body, in dialect. As I laid my hands on their heads, some full of ringworm and fungus, some were burning up. In my nursing mind I try to start diagnosing. "Malaria, pneumonia, malaria, arthritis, malaria." Then, as I prayed, I was humbled. I was humbled to be there-- to be able to come just with my faith, the little bit that I have at times. I was reminded of the woman who was healed by just touching the edge of Jesus's gown (Mark 5:28-34). Or the time when Jesus said, "Go your faith has healed you." (Luke 17:19)
I was awed by each of these precious one's faith. They had the faith to come forward for healing. What else can they do? They're too far from a hospital. It's not likely that they get to the hospital each time they have a fever or headache. Nor is it realistic for me to bust out my nursing degree and tell them what they need to do. In that moment I knew that no matter what amount of education I had, or what initials I'm able to have behind my name, it wouldn't matter. "Go, your faith has made you well." My faith and theirs was going to make a difference today. Only that.
So, am I scared to trust him? When there's nothing I can do do I still think that holding on to something in my strength is going to make a difference?
I knew this day it didn't. So, humbly I prayed in as much faith as I could muster, that he was going to take care of these sick children. These woman who had pain, he was going to touch. And all the wounds inside that no one was mentioning to me, I prayed to God that he'd deal with those as well. Because, aren't we all broken, aren't we all in need of enough faith to trust him 100%? Not mostly, not quite a bit-- ENTIRELY!
the heart of my man
Of course you keep learning things about a person once you're married, this I didn't need to be told. But on Sunday I realized how lucky I am to be here, learning about my husband. Being here we're able to really be part of each others lives, as a couple and as a family. I'm sure no matter where we were, I'd come home and share and vent about a days work. And, I'm sure I'd ask Chad every day how work was for him, but would I be able to go with him and see him in action? Would I be able to be part of what his passions are? Would our daughter be able to serve along side him to see what he's dedicated his life to?
Many of you have shared in the journey Nede and I have been on for many years now. Now, we've added the journey that God's had Chad on for almost 10 years with Audio Scripture Ministries (ASM). Below I've uploaded a couple of videos about Chad and his work.
This first one is more specific to the work he's done in Mozambique:
Please, if you'd like to hear updates from Chad more specifically regarding his ministry, email me and I'll have him put you on his mailing list.
It's an honor for Nede and me to be able to be a part of Chad's ministry. I look forward to sharing more as we learn and grow with him.
Friday, March 21, 2014
it just looks weird
Last weekend we were all a bit unwell. We didn't leave the house on Sunday. We did pull a book off my shelf that I've had for years, but never read, "Sunday's Best: Messages from today's most outstanding Christian leaders". The first one was by my friend (I wish), Francis Chan. As Chad read aloud to Nede and me it was one of those times I was awed again, awed at the perfection of what I needed to hear right now. At one point I actually said, "Can you skip this part? I'm feeling a bit convicted."
It was about being courageous. And how we become less courageous as we grow older-- "God is strong-- am I?" And as he read, of course, I'm convinced. What do I have to fear? I have the Spirit of the living God living in me. My heart gets it when Francis says, "What I'm saying is that we're children of the most powerful being in existence, and it looks weird when we're scared." Of course it does. But why is it so hard?
The whole Bible is about being strong and courageous-- about people doing wild things like sleeping with lions and being in furnaces (no thanks!). And even when we grow up hearing and believing the power of God's perfect protection and provision, it doesn't take long until the world tells us not be believe this foolishness.
A couple nights after reading this we were praying with Nede, I did (in my head) exactly what Francis said, I've believed the lies of the world. I thought, "Oh, when Nede realizes that what she's praying isn't possible." She, with so much hope and confidence, prays regularly, "Lord be with the poor people, help them to know you and trust you. Be with all the people in the world to have a good night of sleep and to know you. Thank you for everything in the whole wide world, we love everyone in the world."
Oh, the lies from the garden that I believe and that I'm ready to teach my child! No! I won't, I don't want to! I want to be the one learning from Nede, not her learning the lies I've believed over my years of falling-- falling further from my child-like faith. Francis says, "There was a confidence that my God will come through." Nede's got it. She's said it to me before, while rubbing my back, "It's okay Mommy, God will help us." And it is true! When did I lose my confidence?
I too want my faith to get stronger, not weaker, as it has been. I don't want to get more timid, I want to be more bold. I don't want Nede to make the transition in her prayers from where she is now, to where I am. I want to pray like Nede. There is a confidence that MY GOD WILL COME THROUGH.
For you have not received a spirit of slavery leading to fear again, but you have received a spirit of adoption as sons by which we cry out, "Abba! Father!" Romans 8:15
I cry out, "Abba! Father!"
It was about being courageous. And how we become less courageous as we grow older-- "God is strong-- am I?" And as he read, of course, I'm convinced. What do I have to fear? I have the Spirit of the living God living in me. My heart gets it when Francis says, "What I'm saying is that we're children of the most powerful being in existence, and it looks weird when we're scared." Of course it does. But why is it so hard?
The whole Bible is about being strong and courageous-- about people doing wild things like sleeping with lions and being in furnaces (no thanks!). And even when we grow up hearing and believing the power of God's perfect protection and provision, it doesn't take long until the world tells us not be believe this foolishness.
A couple nights after reading this we were praying with Nede, I did (in my head) exactly what Francis said, I've believed the lies of the world. I thought, "Oh, when Nede realizes that what she's praying isn't possible." She, with so much hope and confidence, prays regularly, "Lord be with the poor people, help them to know you and trust you. Be with all the people in the world to have a good night of sleep and to know you. Thank you for everything in the whole wide world, we love everyone in the world."
Oh, the lies from the garden that I believe and that I'm ready to teach my child! No! I won't, I don't want to! I want to be the one learning from Nede, not her learning the lies I've believed over my years of falling-- falling further from my child-like faith. Francis says, "There was a confidence that my God will come through." Nede's got it. She's said it to me before, while rubbing my back, "It's okay Mommy, God will help us." And it is true! When did I lose my confidence?
I too want my faith to get stronger, not weaker, as it has been. I don't want to get more timid, I want to be more bold. I don't want Nede to make the transition in her prayers from where she is now, to where I am. I want to pray like Nede. There is a confidence that MY GOD WILL COME THROUGH.
For you have not received a spirit of slavery leading to fear again, but you have received a spirit of adoption as sons by which we cry out, "Abba! Father!" Romans 8:15
I cry out, "Abba! Father!"
Sunday, March 9, 2014
perfect
"Mom, I look like both you and Dad right?"
Quizzical?
"I have brown eyes like you and black hair like Dad, right?"
"Yes. Yes Neds." :)
Quizzical?
"I have brown eyes like you and black hair like Dad, right?"
"Yes. Yes Neds." :)
Monday, February 17, 2014
Monday, February 10, 2014
i will (try) to praise him
It's right there in our wedding vows, "May we always praise Him in all circumstances..." Shoot! I've been remembering that lately and wonder why sometimes it's just so hard! The vows probably should have said, "May we strive to Praise Him..."
Sometimes I'm just too tired to praise him. Lame. Sometimes I can think of a few things to praise him for and a whole lot larger list of things that I'm not feeling like praising him for. Seriously!
Or, I get the itch to judge what's praise worthy and then I'm in a real mess, focusing on the injustice, noticing the negative, fixating on my molding home with no electricity. Sometimes it's just hard. And I'm missing it.
The mere fact that I'm writing this would tell most that I'm talking myself into praising him.
It's that internal battle again, the day I need to go back to my good friend Ann Voskamps blog (ok, well, I don't know her yet but I wish I did http://www.aholyexperience.com/) and start counting gifts again. Counting the small blessings and praising him...
Like the opportunity I to live in a beautiful, foreign land...
Yes, I have much to praise him for. I am reminded. We will strive.
Sometimes I'm just too tired to praise him. Lame. Sometimes I can think of a few things to praise him for and a whole lot larger list of things that I'm not feeling like praising him for. Seriously!
Or, I get the itch to judge what's praise worthy and then I'm in a real mess, focusing on the injustice, noticing the negative, fixating on my molding home with no electricity. Sometimes it's just hard. And I'm missing it.
The mere fact that I'm writing this would tell most that I'm talking myself into praising him.
It's that internal battle again, the day I need to go back to my good friend Ann Voskamps blog (ok, well, I don't know her yet but I wish I did http://www.aholyexperience.com/) and start counting gifts again. Counting the small blessings and praising him...
Like the opportunity I to live in a beautiful, foreign land...
And to know a creator that gave us this to enjoy...
And to enjoy the rain that falls, rushing waters washing away the soil except for that which is under the weight of a small stone whose foundation is strong-- a reminder of how I want to be built on solid ground...
And a child who can imagine she's a giant in this "village" left as wash-away from the rain...
And through these stalagmite type formations I'm reminded how small I am and how big He is...
And to have loads of family (and friends) both near and far who love us, pray for us, support us...
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
speaking to my heart
On my way to the clinic today I heard this song again, the first time in ages.
It's all around me,
It's speaking to my heart.
Monday, January 27, 2014
I'll call her Courage
There's a little girl that comes to the clinic. I'll call her Courage because that's what she is to me. She's 7 years old. Ill. HIV +. Lacking spunk and vitality. She comes every week with her mom. When she walks into the clinic my heart aches. I could hardly stand to see her walk, no bounce in her step because she's being robbed from her childhood by the most disgusting disease I have ever seen. Her legs are swollen with fluid, causing her to limp. Some days her face is ballooned up, full of fluid. Even her forearms have been puffy with fluid retention. One day I heard her talk. Once. When she saw some bread that she thought would quench the hunger inside of her.
I hadn't seen her smile. Not at all. Until...
The day when I had her in my chair and I pulled out a dress to give her. Nede had been going through her clothes and had found a beautiful white, red and black dress that she was no longer wearing. She said, "Mom, can I give this dress to someone who needs it?" Immediately I thought of Courage. Then Nede started asking me some question about her. I told her that she was about her age and she was sick with a disease, her legs hurt and she couldn't run and play like most 7 year olds should. Nede thought it was a great idea to give Courage the dress.
So, on Thursday when Courage came to the clinic she sat at my desk. She was unwell. Very unwell. As usual her mother had taken her to the hospital-- doing all she could. The treatment? Amoxicillian-- an antibiotic for a chest infection. And Tylenol. Again, I wanted to scream. Yell and scream. This little one, struggling to breath, coughing, gaining weight due to fluid retention alone, not because of added nutritional support. She needs a diuretic, a water pill. Her little heart is failing her so she's not excreting fluid as she should.
I never went to medical school so I don't really know what's wrong with her but I do know she has a heart and/or kidney condition. She needs a diagnosis and treatment. I can't make that diagnosis. I don't have the skill. Neither does anyone in our area. And if we did have the diagnosis, would we have the treatment available? Unlikely.
What kills me the most is my 5 years of working as a hospice nurse, knowing and believing in a philosophy that says you don't have to suffer. Death is difficult enough, I believe that one should not, and is not meant to suffer through the dying process.
What could I do for Courage? Well, I told her about my daughter. I told her that she had this dress that she wanted to give to her. I showed her a picture of Nede on my camera. I said, "My family and I are thinking about you. We're going to be praying for you. My daughter is about your age and she would love to play with you. How about next week when you come on Thursday I'll bring my daughter here with me so you can meet her?"
Upon hearing those words it was the closest thing I had ever seen on Courage's face that approached upon a sparkle and little bit of zeal, a bit of joy.
"Would you like to meet my daughter?"
Indeed.
So, the following Thursday after missing work at the clinic all week because Chad and I had both been in bed with malaria, we made a plan to go to the clinic to see Courage. Nede would soon be returning to school and not be able to come with me to the clinic. Nede brought a stuffed giraffe along with 3 strawberry candies to share with her friend that she had been praying for. We waited at the clinic for sometime but Courage and her mother never showed up. We stayed in the area so we could quickly run back if Courage and her mom arrived. They never did.
Up until this point Courage's mom had been quite dependable about going to the hospital when we asked her to. She typically would return to us with medicines and paperwork so we would know what the treatment plan was for Courage. Days passed, still no Courage.
I had a sinking feeling each day that slipped by. Again, I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go looking for Courage but, I myself not feeling well, didn't go. Another one of the nurses did-- she checked 2 hospitals to see if Courage had been admitted. No.
I asked our colleague to try to check in on her, she promised to get her mother's phone number. I felt like I was doing what I could but really it was nothing and in the deepest part of my heart I knew it wasn't enough. I felt convicted.
And then Friday, when I was again unwell and laying on my bed I got the message. A small girl had been sent to our colleagues house at 5am to bring the news. On Saturday, January 18, Courage had died.
I wept. I cried and cried for this little one. I wanted to remain in my fetal position because I was so angry. I was maddened that a child had to die like this. Not just die but likely suffer in the process. Nede didn't get to give her her giraffe or give her a hug.
I hoped Nede wouldn't ask about her.
Fat chance. Nede's in tune. Nede's heart is one of compassion. She asked, shortly after coming home from school, she asked, "Mommy, did Courage come to the clinic today?"
"Lord Jesus help me to know how to talk to my little girl about this!" I crumbled to the floor, wrapped her in my arms as she said, "What Mommy, what? What is it?"
"Nede, Courage died last week."
Silence. Aching. Pain so deep I wanted to run to my happy place of dancing in a field of daisies, forgetting about HIV and children dying.
Then Nede, in her sweetest voice of deepest concern said, "Mommy, I wish I could have met Courage and been able to help her before she died, then maybe she could have been healthy."
"Oh, sweet girl, you did all that you could, you prayed for her and you opened your heart up and loved her. You did all you could and I'm so proud of you and now it hurts badly, doesn't it?"
"Mommy, do you think she wore her dress?"
"I'm sure she did Love! I'm sure she was so happy when she did!"
Throughout the weekend we had several tears for Courage. My heart is sore again. Through God's grace I'm not a broken mess all the time, if I were I wouldn't make it here very long. For some reason this one embedded herself into the deepest chamber of my heart and I, along with Nede, am grieving the injustice. Thankfully I take comfort, and shared with Nede, that I believe Courage is dancing in that field of daisies, with her red, white and black dress on, holding Jesus's hand, smiling and laughing with more vitality than she ever felt on this earth. She finally gets to be a child and isn't sick. This brings me much peace.
But...
I ache that she got there through deep suffering.
I hadn't seen her smile. Not at all. Until...
The day when I had her in my chair and I pulled out a dress to give her. Nede had been going through her clothes and had found a beautiful white, red and black dress that she was no longer wearing. She said, "Mom, can I give this dress to someone who needs it?" Immediately I thought of Courage. Then Nede started asking me some question about her. I told her that she was about her age and she was sick with a disease, her legs hurt and she couldn't run and play like most 7 year olds should. Nede thought it was a great idea to give Courage the dress.
So, on Thursday when Courage came to the clinic she sat at my desk. She was unwell. Very unwell. As usual her mother had taken her to the hospital-- doing all she could. The treatment? Amoxicillian-- an antibiotic for a chest infection. And Tylenol. Again, I wanted to scream. Yell and scream. This little one, struggling to breath, coughing, gaining weight due to fluid retention alone, not because of added nutritional support. She needs a diuretic, a water pill. Her little heart is failing her so she's not excreting fluid as she should.
I never went to medical school so I don't really know what's wrong with her but I do know she has a heart and/or kidney condition. She needs a diagnosis and treatment. I can't make that diagnosis. I don't have the skill. Neither does anyone in our area. And if we did have the diagnosis, would we have the treatment available? Unlikely.
What kills me the most is my 5 years of working as a hospice nurse, knowing and believing in a philosophy that says you don't have to suffer. Death is difficult enough, I believe that one should not, and is not meant to suffer through the dying process.
What could I do for Courage? Well, I told her about my daughter. I told her that she had this dress that she wanted to give to her. I showed her a picture of Nede on my camera. I said, "My family and I are thinking about you. We're going to be praying for you. My daughter is about your age and she would love to play with you. How about next week when you come on Thursday I'll bring my daughter here with me so you can meet her?"
Upon hearing those words it was the closest thing I had ever seen on Courage's face that approached upon a sparkle and little bit of zeal, a bit of joy.
"Would you like to meet my daughter?"
Indeed.
So, the following Thursday after missing work at the clinic all week because Chad and I had both been in bed with malaria, we made a plan to go to the clinic to see Courage. Nede would soon be returning to school and not be able to come with me to the clinic. Nede brought a stuffed giraffe along with 3 strawberry candies to share with her friend that she had been praying for. We waited at the clinic for sometime but Courage and her mother never showed up. We stayed in the area so we could quickly run back if Courage and her mom arrived. They never did.
Up until this point Courage's mom had been quite dependable about going to the hospital when we asked her to. She typically would return to us with medicines and paperwork so we would know what the treatment plan was for Courage. Days passed, still no Courage.
I had a sinking feeling each day that slipped by. Again, I didn't know what to do. I wanted to go looking for Courage but, I myself not feeling well, didn't go. Another one of the nurses did-- she checked 2 hospitals to see if Courage had been admitted. No.
I asked our colleague to try to check in on her, she promised to get her mother's phone number. I felt like I was doing what I could but really it was nothing and in the deepest part of my heart I knew it wasn't enough. I felt convicted.
And then Friday, when I was again unwell and laying on my bed I got the message. A small girl had been sent to our colleagues house at 5am to bring the news. On Saturday, January 18, Courage had died.
I wept. I cried and cried for this little one. I wanted to remain in my fetal position because I was so angry. I was maddened that a child had to die like this. Not just die but likely suffer in the process. Nede didn't get to give her her giraffe or give her a hug.
I hoped Nede wouldn't ask about her.
Fat chance. Nede's in tune. Nede's heart is one of compassion. She asked, shortly after coming home from school, she asked, "Mommy, did Courage come to the clinic today?"
"Lord Jesus help me to know how to talk to my little girl about this!" I crumbled to the floor, wrapped her in my arms as she said, "What Mommy, what? What is it?"
"Nede, Courage died last week."
Silence. Aching. Pain so deep I wanted to run to my happy place of dancing in a field of daisies, forgetting about HIV and children dying.
Then Nede, in her sweetest voice of deepest concern said, "Mommy, I wish I could have met Courage and been able to help her before she died, then maybe she could have been healthy."
"Oh, sweet girl, you did all that you could, you prayed for her and you opened your heart up and loved her. You did all you could and I'm so proud of you and now it hurts badly, doesn't it?"
"Mommy, do you think she wore her dress?"
"I'm sure she did Love! I'm sure she was so happy when she did!"
Throughout the weekend we had several tears for Courage. My heart is sore again. Through God's grace I'm not a broken mess all the time, if I were I wouldn't make it here very long. For some reason this one embedded herself into the deepest chamber of my heart and I, along with Nede, am grieving the injustice. Thankfully I take comfort, and shared with Nede, that I believe Courage is dancing in that field of daisies, with her red, white and black dress on, holding Jesus's hand, smiling and laughing with more vitality than she ever felt on this earth. She finally gets to be a child and isn't sick. This brings me much peace.
But...
I ache that she got there through deep suffering.
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