He wants them to know that they are not alone in this life. And, so a man named Mohamed Bzeek takes them in. He opens his arms to terminally ill children who are part of LA County’s foster care system. Bzeek knows that the children are going to die, but he brings them into his home, anyway, and loves them like they’re his own.
I read about Mohamed Bzeek in a recent article within the Los Angeles Times. Reporter Hailey Branson-Potts shares the story with compassion and dignity. The fact that Bzeek, a Libyan-born Muslim, takes these children in when no one else will is pure example of living love out loud. This, in itself, is enough for me to write a response to. Only, it is how Bzeek values these children that is the focus of my thoughts.
“Love thy neighbour as thyself.” Matthew 22:39
I didn’t take to the streets of America on Saturday, for the Women’s March. Please understand that I am a strong advocate for women — a believer in our unique capacity to heal much of what is hurting in this world. A very large percentage of my work is focused on inspiring women to realize the vastness of their potential.
I’m also in full support of free speech and the right to demonstrate peacefully. This freedom is not one shared by all governments. In other words, it’s a gift. Still, I chose not to walk…at least not on the streets. I walked, instead, in the garden around my home. I wanted not to be with the masses, but to be only with the Messiah — to take in his presence in what feels like very uncertain times.
Do you remember all the time that you spent playing when you were a kid? Gosh, take me back in time and I can see my nine-year old self playing outside with my dog, Rascal. He was a beagle, and as cute as they come! I can also remember riding my bike with my friends and taking in an exciting game of kickball. If I stay with these memories long enough, I even hear the distinct sounds of my laughter while at play.
When I played, it seemed that any heaviness from school or family life just sort of melted away. I felt lighter and, yes, a good bit happier.
Whenever you feel unloved, unimportant or insecure, remember to whom you belong. ~Ephesians 2: 19-22
I love this scripture from Ephesians 2. For me, it says it all.
Like so many other dear souls out there in the world, I have felt unloved, unimportant and insecure. On more times in my life than I’d like to count, I have felt lost and unseen. It’s lonely, right? It hurts, doesn’t it? Perhaps, even more so during the holidays.
My soul magnifies the Lord. ~Luke 1:46b
How do you feel about the holidays? For many people, their feelings can offer up a mixed bag of emotions.
On one end, there is excitement and anticipation everywhere—then turn around—and stress and anxiety can appear out of nowhere.
For many people, the holiday season is the most difficult time on the calendar. Perhaps, they don’t feel special, loved, included, or valued. Perhaps, they feel forgotten — as if they are mysteries in the eyes of the world — and this time of year serves as a reminder of their deepest pain.
Joy. Three little letters that have one huge impact on our lives. With it, we’re over-the-moon in love with life. Without it, we’re lost — as if we’re separated and alone somewhere out in space.
Joy is one of the most sought after feelings in the human experience. It’s also perceived as being one of the most elusive.
Nothing feels as good as joy. Nothing hurts as deep as being joyless.
It’s what you do in the dark that puts you in the light.
These words ran through my head at some 34,000 feet in the air. The date was October 22, and I was on my way to New Delhi, India. The inside of the plane was dark while passengers around me were deep in sleep. Somehow, the darkness kept me awake, as I pondered on the light.
This would be my first trip to India. I sensed an excitement within me. I was ready to explore this new part of the world and, quite possibly, a new part of myself.
I am a mother of three amazing kids. Their ages are: fourteen, twelve, and six. Two boys and one little girl; each delivered into my life in different ways. My eldest son was delivered “biologically,” his younger brother was delivered out of Russia, and my youngest — the girl — was delivered out of Ethiopia.
It is true — the method by which each of my children was delivered differs from the other. Yet, each delivery lives inside of me still, and the memories remain fresh in my mind as if they happened only minutes ago.
I beg you take courage; the brave soul can mend even disaster. ~Catherine the Great
I found an old journal this evening. It was once my closest friend, as it held my deepest secrets between its lines.
I’d forgotten about this journal, but tonight I opened it up. It seemed the perfect time. I’ve been nursing a cold, and so I poured myself a warm cup of tea and began thumbing through the pages of my past.
She was a miracle.
The second that I saw her, I knew.
Wrapped up in layers upon layers of clothing that kept secret her malnourished body.
She was tiny, yet she was mighty.
A survivor, a fighter at only ten-months of age.
Holding her in Ethiopia, I could feel the power of her story — the power in the meaning of her name: Let Her Be Greater.