June 12, 2015—Today we visited Metro Amigo orphanage. Adjacent to the boys juvenile detention center, this government run facility was originally built to be a 72hr transition for children taken into custody of the state before finding a more permanent home.

Some kids have been there their whole lives. Caught in a limbo of uncertainty, temporary has become permanent.

I can barely imagine the thoughts. Feelings. Junk to sort through. Unanswered questions. Rejection? Pain? Happy memories? What ifs. Worry? Isolation and loneliness? 

Family (biologically at least) has become a figment of the imagination. 


Erica in her yellow shirt and braids on one side, holds my hand, her caramel skin caressing my milky white. Her friend in the pink shirt; embarrassed as I tried to teach her a simple grapevine. Sassy little Melanie, the most outgoing of the bunch teaching us boom-snap-clap. Maria who liked to shake her hips. The little boy in the green tank top who answered all my questions about the gospel story. Or the special needs boy who loved to direct us around and play copy cat. The one with the bright brown eyes that reminded Mommy of Joshua. Or the little guy not more than 4 or 5 who danced right out of his tiny crocs. Little Linda with her huge heart and sweet smile. Or the young teenage girl with the short hair, arms crossed and disinterested yet I caught her peeking curiously from behind the pillar. 

 These are a few of the souls known as the fatherless. Each soul has a story. I pray hope over these hearts. 



Hope produces patience.
That we might one day see our Redeemer and Comforter face to face.
That we might one day join a forever family. 
A reminder that this life is temporary. 


From Metro Amigo, we drove to the Trump Tower in Punta Pacifica to help a local ministry with a video shoot. We passed rows and rows of neon lit slot machines in the casino on the way to the elevator. As we danced on the balcony of a 64th floor pent house, the wealth gap was glaring. From an orphanage where the kids put all their shoes in a communal box and pulled out a matching pair the next day to excessive, expensive, flashy, wealth. From meeting kiddos who are the recipients of Operation Christmas Child shoeboxes to seeing chandeliers and sculptures whose worth could fill 100 shoeboxes. The stark contrast was sobering. 



We didn’t meet very many of the residents at Trump Ocean Club but I can imagine the stories are similar. Similar to those of the orphans, actually. 

Hearts that need hope. 
Hearts that need healing. 
Hearts longing for love and affection.

We’re all the same, really. Rich and poor. Young and old. Those who know their earthly parents and those who don’t. We all need Jesus. Without Him, our hearts are dead. 

One day, temporary will become permanent. 
And it won’t matter if we lived in poverty or a pent house. 



May Jesus be our only hope. Our saving grace. Our purpose here on Earth. May He unify us in His everlasting arms. May we not forget the least. May the Church rise up to be the family some never have and may we all use the resources we’ve been given to make the Name of Jesus known.

One thought on “from poverty to pent house

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