She reaches for my hand and smiles. I reach for hers and I force a smile back, force myself to look truly joyful. I want her to know joy here. I want to know joy here.

At 26 years old Betty is the beautiful mother of a 3 year old little boy. She weighs 69 pounds and battles AIDS, tuberculosis and all the complications that come with the two. We know the drill. She reaches out her hand and it reminds me so much of a hand I held once, of a woman I loved hard, of a friend who became a family member.

I fight the tears and I force a smile. After all, she might live. She could live, and right now, I know she needs me to believe that she will. How do you keep believing that when the last time you were wrong? When the time before that, and the time before that you were wrong? I sit down on the side of my couch that is now her bed and I ask her about her family. A hot feeling surges up in the back of my throat as I feel my heart start to put up a wall. I know better. I should know better.

After all, my job is to believe with out wavering. His job is everything else.

Just then a having an issue of blood for twelve years came up behind Him and touched the edge of His cloak. She said to herself, “If only I touch His cloak, I will be healed.” Jesus turned and saw her. “Take heart, daughter, “ He said, “Your faith has healed you. And the woman was healed from that moment. (Matthew 9:20-22)

I resonate deeply with this woman. I can see her, reaching out for his hem. I can feel the strain, that desperate reaching, longing just to touch Him, just even the very edge. A longing for only Him.

I am the woman with the issue of blood. Except I am the woman with the issue of doubt. I am the woman with the issue of sin, with the issue of flesh, with the issue of forgetfulness. I am a woman who wants to snap my arms shut and protect, fold my arms tight around this chest to guard my heart that is still so raw and exposed from being broken. I want to gather these children to myself and shelter them from the ugly hurt of this world.

But I can’t fold my arms and simultaneously reach out for my Savior. I reach for Him and I have no choice but to fling my arms wide again. I reach for Betty’s hand and I know, just like that woman, I must seek Him. I must know Him. “If only I touch His cloak…”

And do you know what? He isn’t out of reach. I stretch out my arm and I realize that He is right here, just two steps in front of me, clearing the way. The sweet promises of Isaiah flood my mind, “His robe filled the temple.” I reach and I feel that His hem is wide, enough for me and for you and today and tomorrow. Enough to fill and enough to overflow.

Some time last week in the too-early hours of the morning, I asked God why He allowed me to believe so strongly that Katherine would live when she wasn’t actually going to. I can usually get a pretty good sense for those things. It is hard for me to think that My Father saw me in my hope, He knew I was believing, and He simultaneously knew the ending. I think He answered that He gave me the grace to believe that she would live so that in her final days she would feel hope and high spirits all around her, so that she would feel that she was fought for and that she was worth the fight. She was worth it.

Its His message to us on the cross and it is His message to the woman with the issue of blood as He stoops down to look into her eyes, to speak to her, to meet her need: “You are worth it.” And I want it to be my message to these hurting that He brings into our lives: You, you are worth it. We are for you. He is for you.

I want my life to be found in chasing after Him and I want my arms to be filled, not just reaching for, but gathering in the hem of Jesus. His robe fills the temple. His glory fills the earth. I want my arms to be filled with gathering His grace, His love, His goodness. I want to follow Him wherever He is going and be so full of Him that He is overflowing out of my arms, out of my very life. Even when it means reaching out my hand with a smile to a situation that might hurt, will hurt.  He gave me the grace to hope. And so I am asking that He would give more grace, again, even if it is harder to grasp this time. Grace to feel joy and grace to hope for life and grace to fight hard, because people are worth the fight. Grace to have arms so filled with Him that they have to remain open, and that He spills out.

I look at Betty and my joy is real. We open our arms to her because she is worth it.

And I wanted you to know today, that you are worth it. He fought for you. You reach, and He bends, He cups your face in His hands and He says, “Take heart. Be healed. I am for you.” I pray we would know deeply His love for us. I pray that we would fight for His love in this world because we know. Keep reaching, friend, He’s right here. His hem is wide. Let's fill our arms with gathering it.

Thank you for praying for Betty with us. I will post more frequent updates here: https://twitter.com/katieinuganda 

 I can’t believe that it has been over a month now since I patted my sweet friend’s head as I said goodnight to her small frame on my couch. I can’t believe it has been over a month since I sat behind her in the hospital bed holding her body in the only position that was comfortable in those final hours.

And truth be told, in the late night hours alone with the Father on the cold, hard floor of my bathroom, I have beat my fists against the smooth tile and against my strong Father’s chest and I have sobbed it until the words won’t come, “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

We fought so hard.

It is her little boy’s sixth birthday. We had talked for weeks about the party we would have, with a cake, but that was when they still lived here, when his mother still lived. Instead, I drive across the bridge to where he is now being raised by his aunt and a kind neighbor. We bring the cake. We sing Happy Birthday and he is ok and the kids have fun and are happy. And as we drive away and all smile and wave, I cry.

I didn’t want the story to end this way.

I wrote the ending in my head and it was the ending where my friend gets better, becomes strong and healthy, and is able to move out with her children. It was the ending where they get to sign their names on the bottom of our table to be remembered as friends who lived here and fellowshipped with us and we would all cry happy tears as we served them their last meal before they headed out to their new life healthy and whole. In the ending I wrote, I didn’t have to look 4 children under the age of ten in the eyes and tell them that their mother died in the night as I bounce their baby sister on my knee to keep her quiet. In my ending I didn’t spend every hour of 5 consecutive days fighting and fighting and fighting for a mother to get well and end up clinging to my best friend as we lower a body into a casket.

But His voice comes strong, steady, clear, “Child, this is not the end.”

And behold, some men were bringing on a bed a man who was paralyzed and they were seeking to bring him before Jesus, but finding no way to bring him in because of the crowd, they went up on the roof and let him down with his bed through the tiles into the midst before Jesus. And when He saw their faith He said, “Man, your sins are forgiven you.”

First, He forgave their sins. First, He secured the eternal. Because really, what is a few more years of walking in comparison to an eternity of worship and sins all forgiven?

Death is not the end. Then end was when He hung on a cross and rose from a tomb and I asked for life, and Life is what He gave. Better, glorious, eternal Life. In those final hours, I held my friend’s head, and I watched her chest heave as her soul first laid eyes on His face and I could nearly feel His breath on mine. And no, I do not know His ways, but I know Him. I know Him. And I do not just lay my friends before Jesus for physical healing but that they might know Him too, that they might be saved. And Katherine, she knows Him.

We fought so hard. And still we won. He won.

This week I take a two-month-old baby to the doctor to confirm that he has a terminal skin condition that causes burn-like blisters to cover his entire body and will ultimately lead to his death. There is no treatment. I wrap and dress the wounds because I know how. Because keeping them clean will prevent infection and anemia from blood loss and prolong his life. But I recognize that prolonging his life will ultimately prolong his suffering.

I take a grandfather from our community in for a check-up. Cancer. It is everywhere. They give him a few months, weeks maybe. We try to make him comfortable, and keep him company. We tell stories of a Father who would send a Son, the only sacrifice that could absolve all this sin, the only blood that could wash us snow white. But part of me still wants to fight. Still wants to research, still wants to explore other options, still will not believe that this is it.

There is something so sacred about the fight for life. I believe that God wants us to fight. There is a focus that comes from being so close to death, a clarity, a purpose. My heart that still fought for Katherine and believed for her healing even when my mind knew there were no more options cries out that this can’t be it, this cannot be the end, there must be something else.

This is the audacity of hope.

We fight and we wait and a watching world says, “Why hope for life in a world of death?” And we know the answer. My heart is right. This isn’t it, this is not the end, and there is something else. His life is better.

Our fight is not for this life, our fight is for eternity. 

We wanted to let you know that our friend went to be with her Maker. We wanted to thank you for praying. And we wanted to encourage you that the fight on this side of heaven is not over yet. But we look at the pain and the suffering all around us and strange as it is, our hope only grows. We know Him and so we lift our heads to the Life-Giver and say, “We rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. More than that, we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, character produces hope, and our hope does not disappoint us because God’s love has been poured out into our hearts by the Holy Spirit.”

Here’s to hope, friends, a hope that does not disappoint. Keep fighting for the Gospel, keep fighting for Life, because He has already won.

Some people get presents under their Christmas tree.

Me? I get a family of 5. 4 children under 8 and their mother sleep on the couches and on mattresses laid out on the living room floor.

It's 5:30 am and I find a place to squeeze in between the pile of children and blankets and attempt to have some "quiet time" by the light of the Christmas tree. I am distracted. Her kids all have a cough and they breathe heavily and toss and turn all around me. Her chest heaves and a small moan escapes her lips. The rain pounds loudly on the tin roof and we need this rain so I try to be thankful for it. I dream for her future. I dream that she'll live. I fleetingly wonder if there are relative who will raise this brood of young ones if she doesn't.

I wonder what their future will hold. I wonder what this day will hold. I watch their chests move up and down and hear my precious ones begin to stir in the other room, and I wonder if I can so it again today, the 17 children and the sick and the broken and those who will come for dinner and just all of these lives with all of their needs. The house is all a-twinkle, and I remind myself of all God's promises fulfilled in a baby and breathe it deep, Grace.

And I am so thankful that Jesus meets us in these squished places. In the stretched places. In-the-squeezed-between-the-tree-and-the-kids moments, in the desperate-for-quiet-on-the-bathroom-floor-because-everywhere-else-is-full moments.

I read Luke. I think of Bethlehem and how it had no room, and I think of how His parents squeezed between the animals to place Him in a feeding trough. The shepherds gazed in wonder but Mary held all this wonder in the silence of her heart. I bet she dreamed of His future. I bet it was muddy and loud in there, but the sky was all a-twinkle with the light of that star, the heavens bursting with joy at God's promises all fulfilled, Grace.

I look around and know: this is what He came for. The King of the universe who created all things, even life itself, clothed in splendor, took off His royal robes, laid aside His crown and squeezed all of the fullness of God into the womb of a woman and then into swaddling clothes in a manger.

He calls my name right here and how I long to recognize Him here, right here.

The squished places and the stretched places, the moments that are loud and messy and uncertain, this is what He came for. The heartaches and the doubt and the wounds that our sin carves deep, that's why He is here. And all this life hanging in the dark of the morning, isn't this why we wait, why we celebrate? Isn't this why we light up the candles and the tree and the house and say with all the longing in our hearts, "Come, Lord Jesus"?

Come, Lord Jesus.

This morning in the dark, in the rain, in whatever mess or squished place or heartache you find yourself in, all God's promises are Yes and Amen, and we can rejoice in thanksgiving! The Savior is here with us, Grace.

His promise is Yes to you, friends. "Yes, I have come, and Yes, I am coming. Yes, I am with you always, even to the very end of the age."

I pray that you'll recognize His handprints all over your day today.

Merry Christmas.

The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me,

because the Lord has anointed me 

to bring good news to the poor;

he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

to proclaim liberty to the captives,

and the opening of the prison to those who are bound;

to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor

and the day of vengeance of our God;

to comfort all who mourn.

To grant to those who mourn in Zion - 

to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes,

the oil of gladness instead of mourning;

the garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair, 

that they may be called oaks of righteousness,

the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified.

They shall build up the ancient ruins;

they shall raise up the former devastations;

they shall repair cities,

the devastations of many generations.

Strangers shall stand and tend your flocks'

foreigners shall be your plowmen and your vinedressers,

but you shall be called priests of the Lord;

they shall speak of you as the ministers of our God;

you shall eat the wealth of nations,

and in their glory you shall boast.

Instead of shame, there shall be a double portion;

instead of dishonor they shall rejoice in their lot;

therefore in their land they shall possess a double portions;

they shall have everlasting joy.

For I the Lord love justice;

I hate robbery and iniquity;

I will faithfully give them their recompense,

and I will make an everlasting covenant with them.

Their offspring shall be known among the nations,

and their descendants in the midst of the peoples;

al who see them shall acknowledge them,

that they are an offspring the Lord has blessed.

I will greatly rejoice in the Lord;

mys soul shall exult in my God,

for he has clothed me with garments of salvation;

He has covered me in the robe of righteousness.

as a bridegroom decks himself like a priest with a beautiful headdress,

and as a brie adorns herself with jewels.

For as the earth brings forth its sprouts.

and as a garden causes what is sown in ti to sprout up,

so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise

to sprout up before all nations.

Isaiah 61

Oh, how He has loved us! Merry Christmas, from our family to yours!

"So these are your treatment options..." I choke back a sob and let my voice trail off. How do I present a 30 year old mother of 5 with the fact that we've already done all we can do? "...I will support you, whatever you choose." I turn so she doesn't see me blink back the tears.

"For me, I would like to choose life." The words are steady, certain. "My children are still so young. I would like to live."

I choke with all the times I have taken this breath in my lungs for granted. The tears burn hot but I try not to let them fall. Not yet. Its not over yet. Yes, dear friend, oh yes, how I want you to live.

There are days we stare death in the face around here. Sometimes the right diet and medication just isn't enough and the heart pumps too hard and the chest heaves for breath and we see it coming. Other times we blink and a life is gone. Sometimes friends cling tightly to life and are given a miraculous second chance. Other times they cling to my hand as I whisper that Jesus is right on the other side and they slip away to be with Him. I feel it coming, but I don't want to. I watch her smile at her children and I can't help but hope. I know the God who works miracles, the One who calls things that are not as though they were. I know Him, and I can't help but ask it, "Oh Lord, might she live?"

I think of a few men carrying their paralyzed friend on a mat, desperate to lay him at the feet of Jesus. I think of how cumbersome it must have been to try to get him up on that roof, how difficult it must have been to remove the tiles so they could lower him down through the ceiling to the Lord, into the middle of the crowd, right in front of Jesus (Luke 5:17-25). I think I know the desperation they must have felt, the urgency to get him there. I remember that because of the faith of the men, Jesus forgave their friend's sin, and for His glory alone, He healed that man's legs as well, told him to get up and walk.

I know this God.

And I, too, want to choose life.

And even when I have seen one too many die of this horrible, life-sucking disease we call AIDS, I want to choose to fight. And even when temptation and despair is overwhelming, I want to choose hope. And even when man's sin and depravity threaten to be all consuming, I want to choose the victory that is in Christ Jesus.

I want to choose Life.

I know the prognosis. I read the reports and the chest x-rays and the liver panel and I knew the doctor's speech before he gave it, that the antiretrovirals meant to save her life were tearing her stomach apart and that 80 pounds is just too small for a woman of five and a half feet. I know what the world says.

But she would like to live. And I know the Life-Giver.

I want to show her. I want to show her how we hope against hope, believe against all the impossible that He who died to give us life is making all things beautiful and perfect. I want to show her the One who is Life and how we know that His ways are better and higher and that He is working all things for our good, but still we can ask for a miracle; we beg for it.

I clasp her hand and I close my eyes and tonight I want to bring her into the middle of the crowd, right in front of Jesus. I tuck them all in and I hand her a glass of milk with her medicine and we watch her children's chests rise and fall with sleep on these mattresses all over the floor as hers heaves hard for each breath.

I know the Life-Giver. So tonight I lower my friend Katherine through the roof. I beg on her behalf, on the behalf of her children that she might know Him more and that for His glory alone He might heal her, call her to get up and walk.

Would you join me?

Happy Thanksgiving from our family to yours!!

http://amazimaministries.blogspot.com/2012/11/happy-thanksgiving.html

I watch the tears roll down her cheeks and am devastated for her. I know she must be crying because of the pain of her burns or because of the pain in her heart at the thought of her husband pushing her into the fire. I place my hand on her shoulder and my eyes beckon her to share.

“My stomach is hurting,” she says, and that’s not what I was expecting, “This is the first time I have eaten this week.”

It’s Thursday.

I pray because I don’t know what else to do.  Sure, I can feed this woman lunch but after a week of an empty stomach that may just hurt more than it helps, and I can’t do much to change her situation, to relieve her of her abusive husband or her job picking scrap metal out of the garbage heap. I can feed her now but she goes home to 3 starving children and a future that seems utterly hopeless. We pray.

I get a middle of the night text from a dear friend who has been more of an encouragement to me than she will ever know. Her mom’s biopsy results have come back and the tumor on her brain is cancerous. I can barely choke out words to say that my heart is so heavy for her, that we will carry this burden with them in prayer. I am blown away by her strength and feel completely un-encouraging. We pray.

The hurt doesn’t stop. A teenager needs his leg amputated because an infection that could have been preventable is now out of control. A 4-year-old’s arm is permanently damaged because his mom didn’t have enough money to have it casted when he broke it a few months ago. My friend carries the unborn child of her late husband but confides in me that she would rather not. 5 children in our program watch their mother fight HIV which is rapidly sucking the life right out of her. Another friend threatens to abandon her children (again) because she just can’t make enough money to make ends meet and she would rather be apart from them than watch them suffer.

We move them into that little house in the back and we ask for miracles.

13 hearts are growing into women under my roof and need more and more of Mom, more and more of His truth. I sit, erase the to-do list from my mind and will myself to be present, to be available. The gate opens again and again and the phone rings and all these people, they just want to know that they are not alone in their hurt, just want to be heard.

So many hearts to tend.

Who is God on the days when love just doesn’t feel like enough?

I have been reading through the book of Revelation. I’ll be honest, even after reading several commentaries and looking up lots of Greek words, there are parts of it that I just can’t quite wrap my mind around. I think this is ok. How marvelous to serve a God who is so much more magnificent than I can even comprehend! What I have noticed though is that through all of it, a few things remain constant regardless of tribulation and destruction.

God is on the throne. All the angels and all elders and all the saints and all the believers are gathered at His feet. And they can’t stop worshiping Him. They can’t stop worshiping Him. Forever.

And so this week life is hard and it is heavy. Because I love so many and I want them to know Him and I want Him to heal them. I want the hurt to be over, but I know that one day, it will be. And in the mean time I just ask it, I beg it, that we would be people who cannot stop worshiping the Lamb who is worthy. That through the hard and the struggle and the moments that just seem so hopeless we would cling to the hope that He’s already won and our only response would be adoration and praise.

Eyes on Him.

Because when our love is not enough, His was. His is.

After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes with palm branches in their hands, and crying out with a loud voice, “Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!” And the angels were standing around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures, and they fell on their faces before the throne and worshiped God saying, “Amen! Blessing and glory and wisdom and thanksgiving and honor and power and might be to our God forever and ever! Amen.” –Revelation 5:9-12