Shoeboxes, Tortillas, and Cardboard

Paul, Emily, Katie, and I went to Juarez, Mexico to distribute Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes. If you’ve watched the news, you know that Juarez is not the spot that most sane people would travel to right now. An average of 2 people per day is being killed there, that’s down from 2.5 people last year. I know; how does someone get half murdered, but it’s just an average. The bizarre thing is we felt safe. We had an armed escort, even some SWAT guys with us. God just protected from us from the knowledge of the danger… He did that by keeping us busy and preoccupied.

Another advantage to the busyness of the trip was that we could not immediately process the condition of the children we were giving the boxes to. If we had, we would have all been so overcome with mercy and compassion, that we wouldn’t have been able to accomplish our task. God does things that way sometimes. But now that we are home the images come crashing back.  In a spiritual gifts inventory, I score negative in mercy, but the children of Juarez have yanked out my heart and twisted it a few times.

There are things that are tattooed on my heart and my mind, things I will never forget. Like the two year old boy who walked up the hill to us by himself, no adult in sight. Later we learned, he was “free.” Meaning no parents.  Like the mother with 3 children in a stroller, all 3 sick. Like the absent look in the eyes of an eight year old boy, he looked hollow. Or the frightened look in the eyes of the children of the cardboard city- children so used to living a life without hope that they could not image we could be kind and generous.

Here’s what we did: We flew down from Dallas on Thursday to El Paso and crossed a bridge into another world. The difference is thick and poignant. Trash litters every inch. Beggars line the streets, some carrying small children. Vendors hawk their wares to waiting cars. The smell stings your nose.  The river is dry so it became a shortcut to the Amigo Fiel compound. We bounced along with other vehicles, dust rising up to form a smudge on the skyline. After 15 minutes for unpacking and using the limited facilities, we board a bus to drive an hour away to the gym where we were to distribute the boxes. It doesn’t take long for all of us to be at work, sweating at the hurried pace. Set up 1200 chairs and empty a trailer truck of boxes. Set up 6 equal stacks of boxes. Exhausted but ready for the next day, it’s an hour back to the compound for a meal of the best guacamole ever and chili pie. We fall into bed an hour before the light’s out time for a sleepless night filled with anticipation of tomorrow.

It’s up at 5:30, breakfast at 6 AM, and off we go back to the gym. Paul, Katie, Emily, and I were to check the wrists of every child for their OCC bracelet. No bracelet meant no shoebox. We’re stationed outside to greet the children. Police officers, EMT’s, and secret service fill the street. We learn the mayor of Juarez is coming. School buses begin to arrive. The mayor arrives. They choose Emily and me along with some other blond and fair people to escort the mayor on stage to demonstrate Mexico and the US working together. There are interviews and lots of picture taking. The children love the mayor, they rush to touch him, it’s like he’s a rock star. He gave 5 children a box and told the children to tell us thank you in English. He had them practice. He departed and the program started.

The program is performed by former street children who are now in the Amigo Fiel program. They sing, dance, and do gymnastics. The kids love it. The program ends with a skit, “The Greatest Gift,” describing the greatest gift anyone can receive, Jesus Christ. 100’s of kids raise their hand in response to the invitation to accept Jesus.

Organized madness best describes the distribution. The rows of chairs are closely spaced. We climb over and squeeze thru tiny little spaces to present a box individually to each child. The eyes tell the story. Some children are afraid to open their boxes around the other children, in fear the contents might get taken, so they barely lift the lid and peak inside. Others tear into the boxes, squealing with delight. The distribution part of the program takes almost an hour, but it seems as if time is stalled. Slow motion. Garbled Spanish conversations. Eyes filled with stories. Little glimpses carved into my mind. And then it’s over.

Clean up and 30 minutes later, we are repeating the process. More stories. More moments with children that are more valuable than time itself. The children leave. We pick up the trash, it’s a disgusting job, but we are still in the zone with the children so we barely notice. Steaming hot burritos arrive from the compound. And then we are off to The Blue House. The Blue House is a refuge for discarded children. Street kids. Some have parents, but it seems disrespectful to all parents to call them as such; alcoholics, drug addicts, and criminals are their parents. These are the kids no one loves or wants, but God. They spend as much time as possible at The Blue House, receiving a hot meal a day, help with homework, a daily Bible study, and a safe place to play. These children are blessed. Amigo Fiel pays for all of these children to go to school (after 5^th grade, tuition of $600/year is needed). The Blue House cannot rescue all the disposable children in Juarez. The plan is to build more Blue Houses across the city. The children of The Blue House owned our hearts. No one wanted to leave; as exhausted and dirty as we were, no one wanted to leave. After a supper of pork tacos and guacamole and salsa, we play cards pretending to be unaffected by the day. Our hearts were on overload, in need of a release.

Saturday morning and we do it all again. The mayor came. This time, I talked with his assistant Clara. She shared her vision for more centers for children across the city. Her passion for helping children was obvious. We exchanged emails as she left begging me to share with Americans the conditions the children of Juarez call home.

After a lunch of jalapeño and turkey sandwiches, we head into the mountains to the cardboard city. The conditions of the city are sparkling compared to the cardboard city. Its acres and acres of homes made of cardboard, wooden pallets, and concrete. Sewage zigzags across the dirt roads. There’s no running water, people walk miles to fill filthy buckets with water. Power lines are tapped into illegally and run exposed across streets. Mangy dogs strolled the streets. The smell. As the bus drives through with our police escort, people begin to run after us. They do not know why we are there; they just see us as hope.

We park at a church with a worship service in progress. As the children gather, we hand out bracelets. We rush to keep from any child being left out. After the program begins, we cannot give out any more bracelets. There are strict rules to be followed to prevent the misallocation of boxes.

These children are different than the ones in the city. These children have eyes glassy from fever, open sores, coughs, snotty noses, and rashes. As I put on bracelets, I wonder how many of these children will not survive to next year. It’s a morbid thought, but a realistic one. The children and parents watch the program with fascination. Hands are raised indicating a desire to accept Christ.

We begin the process of handing out the boxes. Many of the children physically cringed and sunk back at the touch of an adult, but their fear was overridden by a desire to receive a box. These children hugged their boxes to them and guarded them. They ran away to hide their new possessions. Mothers ask for the empty cardboard boxes and act as if they have received a great prize when they receive them. Within an hour we were left alone. Standing on a hill overlooking the community, we see the children reach their homes and open their boxes to examine what’s inside.

A woman with 3 children comes asking for boxes. No more boxes can be given out, the program is over. My heart breaks at the injustice of it until I learn the children have already received a box. The mother is trying to score more free gifts. We pack up and leave. There’s a lot of silence on the bus, until we pass a concrete house with a pig resting on the roof. There’s just something funny about a pig on a roof. The stories begin. And as we share the stories, we realize there had been a few moments of danger. 4 teenage boys were approaching us with bats and a crossbow, but SWAT team members had appeared immediately and dealt with the situation. God has protected us.

After a quick trip to the market, it’s back to the compound. At the market one of men was recognized from being on television with the mayor. He used this “fame” to share the Gospel. I found an elderly woman selling her cheap wares and gave her a Bible. I told her it was not for sale but a free gift. She hugged it to her and promised she’d read it from cover to cover.

Sunday morning, we packed up in record time and headed back to the border. As we sat in the line of cars waiting to cross into El Paso, Paul noticed a man in a little blue car reading one of the books, “The Greatest Gift” we had given out to the children. It was an affirmation of why we went. We will never know the impact that the 44 of us had on Juarez, but it was as if God was saying to us, “you did what I asked of you, now let Me work.” Our job is to continue to pray for the harvest to be great.

Prayer works. So does cash. Amigo Fiel needs money to continue to offer a place of refuge for discarded children and to pay the school tuition for these children. Prayerfully consider how you can become a part of what God is doing in the midst of drug-war infested Juarez.

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